He had no wish to disrupt a pleasant outing with a discussion of Lady Forth and her various attributes. Perhaps Lady Harriet’s question was merely rhetorical. But no, she was eyeing him expectantly.
“Come now, sir,” she prodded. “In the spirit of our agreement I call upon you to enlighten me. It is not a trivial matter for me, I assure you.” He thought her voice wobbled slightly.
“She is beautiful, I suppose —” he began.
“Let us not even debate that,” Lady Harriet interjected. “Pray, do not be evasive, my lord. This is a woman I have spent much time contemplating, and you are the only person to whom I have acknowledged that very lowering fact. She gave Freddy something I could not, and I have no notion what it is. I only know that it makes me feel less of a woman, somehow.”
Freddy had been out of his blasted mind, Elias thought grimly. “Her beauty is on the surface only,” he said. “Like a mirror. Each man sees in her a reflection of his own worth.”
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
This discussion was deuced awkward. “I suspect she thrives on constant adoration,” he said. “Many beautiful women do.”
“Yes, but if beauty is the measure of one’s worth, one must always need to be beautiful,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said. “And that fact must be affirmed again and again. Each man who succumbs to her charms affirms her power anew.”
“But what does the man gain?”
Elias shifted uncomfortably. “Aside from the obvious?”
“’Tis not obvious to me, sir,” she said. “What does he gain?”
“His opinion of himself must only be enhanced by the fact that she chooses him as the one on whom she bestows her, er, favors.”
An appealing blush spread over her features. “Yes, I see. She is his conquest and he is hers.” She hesitated. “It is something of a mercenary transaction, is it not?”
“Of that there can be little doubt.”
“I do not understand why Freddy needed to have his opinion of himself enhanced by Caroline Forth. Or by any of the others.”
“Nor do I,” Elias said. Not when he’d had Harriet Worthington in his bed.
“Have you never thought to marry?”
That surprised him. “Once,” he said. “Fortunately, circumstances intervened.”
She eyed him curiously, and Elias was relieved when she did not pursue that further. “Marriage is difficult,” she said, her expression wistful. “I was certainly not good at it. And while I do not admire Caroline, I sometimes wish I could be like her a little. If only I could have —”
“Damnation!”
She eyed him in surprise. “My lord?”
“There is naught for you to envy,” he growled. “You have no need to borrow from Lady Forth’s bag of tricks.” He held out the primrose. “See this flower? It grows wild in the field on its own. Yet I defy anyone to improve upon it.”
She reached for it, but Elias deftly swept it out of her reach and instead tucked the bloom into the tangles in her hair. Then he discovered his fingers had no wish to retreat. They lingered to ensnare a curl, and as he brushed it back from her face, his fingertip grazed her cheek.
Elias heard her quick intake of breath, saw her eyes widen. Their gazes locked. The primrose in her hair beckoned him.
He had no choice but to kiss her.
As his mouth met hers, her lips parted on a little gasp — the perfect invitation, whether or not she intended it as such. He kissed her lightly, just the merest touch, which nevertheless set his blood afire. As he brushed her lips — once, then again — he felt her answering shiver and discovered he would not be satisfied with a chaste, fleeting kiss. Her lips were soft, full, and inviting. They begged to be ravaged.
Elias caught himself before that thought could blossom. It would be folly to venture down that road. But just as he marshaled his discipline to sever their connection, she reached up and placed her fingertips lightly on the top of his shoulders. Standing nearly on her toes, she returned his kiss in rather greater measure, her mouth pressing against his with unmistakable enthusiasm.
Instantly, his arms went around her. His senses awash in the intoxicating perfume of primrose and desire, Elias deepened the kiss beyond anything he had contemplated only moments before. Her lips, made for plundering, readily yielded.
It was not enough.
Elias’s restless, seeking hands moved to her arms, savoring the silky smoothness of her bare skin, sliding down them and then upward again until those tiny sleeves barred further exploration. His fingers threaded through her hair, burying themselves in the thick tangles, savoring their disarray. But that was not enough, either. So he caught her about the waist and drew her hard against him.
She did not resist. Instead, she leaned into him, pliant and willing, as if their bodies were joined by more than the simple connection of their lips and his rude embrace.
No good could come of this, he realized. It was excessively unwise. But his brain had ceded authority to another part of his anatomy. He kissed her urgently, violently, his lips demanding her secrets. She did not pull away, and it might not have registered if she had, for by now his body burned with need.
Her hands clutched the edges of his coat as Elias trailed kisses down the smooth expanse of her neck to the base of her throat, where the skin was pale, translucent, almost virginal. Shamelessly, his hand snaked up her side and, after a moment’s hesitation — not enough to count, really — found the soft, perfect roundness of her breast.
When she answered with a low moan, Elias’s knees nearly buckled.
He lifted her off her feet, raising her up to his full height, holding her against the length of his body without a shred of space between them. Her lithe form was as light as gossamer, and it fit perfectly against his. The scent of primrose banished whatever caution he might have salvaged. It was hers, her essence. He wanted — needed — to possess her. Here. Now. To lie with her amid the wildflowers and see her hair fanning out from her flushed face, her eyes reflecting the glory of her passion.
They were a heartbeat away.
She opened her eyes to look at him, and Elias saw the heat there. But there was something else in that blue gaze — shock, bewilderment, and perhaps uncertainty.
Good God. What was he thinking? Mustering what was left of his control, Elias eased his grip on her, suffering sweet torture as her body slid down the length of his before he set her firmly on her feet. Then he released her.
For a long moment their gazes held. She looked as dazed as he felt.
“Well,” she said at last. “I, that is — Oh, my.”
Elias thought her voice was not quite steady. Her cheeks were flushed — was that from desire or embarrassment? Her lips trembled, but whether with longing or confusion he could not tell.
The primrose was still in her hair. Its scent would ever after be hers, exotic and free. Her breasts rose rapidly with her breathing, and a sheen of perspiration clung to her skin. Her lips were swollen from his kisses.
Elias took it all in and knew, suddenly, that there were worse things than failing to win back his shares, than enduring Lady Harriet’s salons, than denying himself this delicious passion.
What was worse than all of that was the knowledge that he might, if he were not very careful, lose his heart.
Silently, and more shaken than he could ever admit, he took her hand and led her back to the curricle.
She said not a word as he handed her in, then climbed in beside her. Elias turned the vehicle around, toward London. Regret followed them all the way back.
CHAPTER TEN
Such a thing had never happened to Harriet. Though she had known the intimacies of married life, her wildest dreams could not have imagined anything like the drive with Lord Westwood yesterday afternoon. His passion. Her boldness.
Harriet was quite aware she had breached all bounds of polite behavior. And with Lord Westwood, of all people, the very man who had sought to dictate her
guest list. The very man to whom she clung so tightly as to leave no doubt about the ease of his conquest. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world when he kissed her. Then she brazenly returned that kiss, inviting so very much more.
She had not foreseen that his kiss would leave her weak in the knees. Most assuredly, she had not expected to find herself breathless and locked in an intimate embrace that eloquently revealed Lord Westwood’s burgeoning enthusiasm for the task.
“Too much cream,” Celestial declared.
Harriet stared at her blankly.
“Too much cream in the filling. It won’t hold together.” Celestial’s look said she knew exactly why Harriet’s mind was wandering. Lord Westwood had created quite a stir in the household when he had taken her off with him in such an abrupt fashion.
His return had been much less conspicuous. When Horace opened the front door, she and Lord Westwood had stood there in a strange, still silence. The earl had turned and left without a word. Harriet had walked blindly to her room, not looking back. She had not appeared for supper. Sleep had not come for many hours.
“Now, Celestial,” Harriet admonished wearily, “I know whether a filling will come together or no. It only wants beating. It is supposed to be rich.”
Celestial shrugged. “Rich is one thing. Killing a man with wretched excess is another.”
Harriet stiffened. “Is there something you wish to say, Celestial?”
“Only that it’s clear that something happened between you and Lord Westwood. I’ve never seen you concoct such a decadent thing. The man inspired you, I’m guessing.” Celestial shot her a knowing gaze.
Harriet flushed. “That is enough. It is time to work. We have dozens of these to make.”
The inspiration for the little puff pastries had come to her overnight. Her restless sleep had brought dreams filled with a churning fire that licked at her insides and sparked wild fantasies. In one of them, she had been in the kitchen, creating decadent dishes for Lord Westwood’s pleasure. As he watched her pile layer after layer of brittle pastry and soft filling, his turbulent gaze hinted of savage appetites. Harriet had awakened trembling, thinking his hands were caressing her.
And though it had only been a dream, what he aroused within her was no dream. Harriet had spent most of her waking hours since yesterday trying to understand what had happened between them. She did not have an answer, but she did have her Napoleons.
That is what she had decided to call them, for they had all the qualities of a coddled tyrant: rich and hard on the surface, pandering to greed and lust within. It was a tricky pastry, with layers of dough interspersed with butter held at just the right temperature to create the brittle “leaves” that helped it stand up to the decadent cream filling, itself thick enough to insist on its own reckoning. It was a pastry that promised the world — and delivered it in the lusty cream designed to make a man greedy for more.
Harriet wanted Lord Westwood to like her Napoleons, for he, too, could be rigid and inflexible on the outside, yet his lips had been soft as silk on hers. They had spawned strange forces within her, made her bold and brazen.
To be sure, she had wanted to learn about desire. But this overwhelming need he had awakened within her bore no resemblance to what she had experienced with Freddy. It had swamped her, left her shaken and helpless, unable to deny the startling fact that she had wanted Lord Westwood more than she had ever desired her own husband. And the feeling lingered still.
Rather than showing her how to guard against desire, Lord Westwood had opened the door into a world she had not known existed. And yet, her own body had somehow known, betraying her with its wanton need. The afternoon had ended strangely, in silence, as if neither of them knew what to make of it.
For although their betrothal was a sham, something between them was not a sham, something tantalizing and dangerous, something that wished — nay, demanded — to be pursued. She had waded into the swirling waters of that world, and Lord Westwood had played the gentleman and returned her to safety.
But what about the next time? Would there be a next time? Did she wish there to be?
Yes. Dear Lord, yes.
Monica was right, Harriet realized. She was ignorant of the world. She had been married, but Freddy’s kisses had never affected her the way Lord Westwood’s had. Poor Freddy! She had given him so little.
Her salon was tonight. Part of her could not wait until Lord Westwood arrived. The rest of her was filled with uncertainty and wished for the end of this strange masquerade. For the first time she wondered whether this course she had set them on was wise — and whether she would be able to end it. Thank goodness for the document they had both signed that would severe their connection.
A few hours later, Heavenly stood over Harriet like a martinet. “Sit still! I will never get these combs in. I wish I knew what was going on around here. Strange comings and goings. Ain’t seemly.”
“For the seventh time, Heavenly, there is naught to tell,” Harriet said. “We drove out to the country and drove back. The scenery was lovely.”
“Hmmph. Things aren’t right in this household,” she grumbled. “With Celestial and Horace smelling of April and May and you making a fool of yourself over that lord —”
“Celestial and Horace?” Harriet was astonished. “Do you mean —”
For an answer, Heavenly sighed heavily.
“Celestial is entitled to her own life,” Harriet said gently. “I know you must wish for her happiness.”
“What about my happiness? If she leaves, I’m all alone.”
“Why should she leave? She and Horace can remain in my employ.”
Heavenly shook her head. “Won’t be the same. Already, she hardly confides in me anymore. All she wants is to be with Horace.”
She dabbed at her eyes, then regarded Harriet critically. “You look beautiful tonight, Miss Harriet. If that earl isn’t nice to you, I’ll come after him with my knitting needles. Oh, I almost forgot. This came. A gentleman’s gentleman it was who brought it, from the looks of him. A dapper sort.”
The image of Lord Westwood dodging Heavenly’s knitting needles almost made Harriet laugh — until she saw the note Heavenly thrust at her.
Dearest Lady Harriet,
You have been constantly in my thoughts since last we conversed. Perhaps I ought not to speak of this, since you are betrothed to another, but I long to spend a private moment in your presence so that I can persuade you of my feelings. Please grant me that small request tonight. I remain truly yours, etc.
Oliver Hunt
Dear heavens! Mr. Hunt had never led her to believe he possessed any fondness for her, much less such strong feelings. Perhaps she should not have taken that warmth in his eyes so lightly. But with all the turmoil between her and Lord Westwood, Harriet had no wish to speak to Mr. Hunt privately about his feelings, whatever they might be.
Her carefully planned salon suddenly appeared to be a disaster in the making.
***
Warily, Elias crossed the threshold of Lady Harriet’s townhouse. As the butler took his hat, something flickered in the man’s eyes. Elias caught another odd look from one of the other servants. As if they were taking his measure, trying to figure out the pieces to a puzzle. Well, no more so than he.
Lady Harriet stood to the rear of the entrance, positioned to greet her guests. Seeing him, she flushed and quickly looked away.
Elias recognized the same uncertainty within himself. Like a green youth, he found himself gauging her reaction, trying to read in those blushes the truth of her thoughts.
The awkwardness, he suspected, would continue until they put it to rest, either by pretending nothing untoward had happened between them — or by becoming lovers in earnest. That last was a prospect with a myriad of complications, and he refused to entertain it. Retrieving his shares did not include succumbing to lust for the woman who was spending down his company’s worth. Oh, perhaps they would dance around the edges of it — there was
that bargain between them, after all. They certainly had gone a long way toward fulfilling its terms yesterday. More than he bargained for.
There was the rub. Lady Harriet wished to learn about desire, but it was he who had learned something — that Lady Harriet Worthington had more passion in the tip of her finger than any woman he had known. He had been within a whisker of losing all control.
And now what? He could scarcely keep his distance. Their agreement called for him to stay at her side, playing the dutiful fiancé. They could pretend that yesterday hadn’t occurred, which was about as likely as wishing down the sun. Even now, Elias could not take his eyes from her.
Still, lust was manageable, as long as one was forearmed. Love, of course, was something else. That had brought him nothing but a very public heartache and lifelong distrust of the thing poets penned odes to. He had not expected to feel unbridled lust for Lady Harriet, and while that was disturbing, it could have been far worse. Thank God, his heart was whole.
As he reached her side, he caught the faint scent of wildflowers. It stirred his blood, instantly recalled him to that meadow yesterday. Her emerald silk gown brought out the fire in her hair, and he imagined himself removing the combs, entangling his fingers in that auburn mass once more. Perhaps she would rise on tiptoes to kiss him again, and he would lose himself in that kiss, in the feel of her body against his.
When she turned to him, however, the smile pasted on her lips was as remote as an iceberg.
Clearly she had made her choice — to pretend that yesterday had not happened. Elias decided to follow along and see where that led. Denial, after all, could run both ways.
As Elias took his place in the receiving line beside her, a resonant baritone voice brought him up short.
“Lady Harriet,” the man said, bowing deeply.
It was that fool Hunt, fawning over her hand as if it were the Holy Grail. He brought it to his lips, lingering over it — excessively, Elias thought.
“M-Mr. Hunt,” she stammered.
Elias frowned. What in Hunt’s greeting had made her lose her composure?
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