“I would never forget a woman like you.”
A pang of wistfulness hit Harriet squarely in the heart. Every woman wanted to hear those words. Every woman wanted to feel special, to be thought of as unique. It was a pity then, that common logic forced her to argue. “But you did forget me. And when you leave, you will forget me again.”
The words stung as she said them, but she refused to betray herself.
This was a most inappropriate conversation. They really shouldn’t be talking about such things as kisses even though the memory of their previous embrace still had the power to send an illicit shiver through her body.
Harriet blinked. Good heavens, what was wrong with her that she was thinking about kisses from a strange man? Well…not that strange. He was, in a way, her fiancé.
Wasn’t he?
He lifted a finger to her cheek and brushed a line from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, his touch sending a fury of tremors through her. “I remember that your lips were my first contact with consciousness after I was wounded.”
Piffle. The man had a memory like a trap.
“But the circumstances of our other kisses…” He shook his head. “We can do better. Much, much better.”
Harriet was suddenly certain they could. She found herself unable to move when he stepped closer, placing his hand on the fence at her hip. He had her boxed in, trapped against the railing, his arms to either side, his hips even with hers.
She should protest, she supposed. But why? She rather enjoyed the feel of him surrounding her. She looked into his eyes and almost sighed. They were so blue that Harriet could only stare. It was sinful to see a man with such long lashes. She thought about her own brown lashes and had to repress a sigh of envy. Drat the man, making her feel as if she was inadequate in some way.
She shook herself mentally. “Look, Captain—”
“Call me John. I am your fiancé, after all.”
“Yes, but I—”
“I want to hear my name from your lips.” He stood so close his knees brushed her skirts. “In fact, I demand it.”
“Demand?”
His eyes glinted. “Call. Me. John.”
She could see that he was going to be difficult. “Oh, very well. Have it your way. Though why it would matter—”
“Perhaps the sound of my name on your lips will refresh this damnable memory of mine.”
“You shouldn’t curse.”
“Sorry. Must be my time at sea. I daresay I know quite a few more curse words, just by dint of being a sailor.”
She never thought she’d hate the word “logic,” but it was truly beginning to grate on her nerves. “Oh, very well,” she said, sighing. “Jo—”
Chase kissed her. He would never be sure afterward if it was her audacity in continuing the farce, his irritation in being so maneuvered, or simply the sight of her perfect lips making the most delicious “j” of his entire life. Whatever it was that sent him over the edge, he recklessly plunged forward, capturing her to him with a force that echoed his exploded control.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Resistance perhaps. Or outright anger. But what he got was something entirely different. She stiffened, but only for a second, and then something happened. She responded. Only not in a genteel, careful way as one would expect from such a starchy paragon of virtue, but in a hot, hands-clutching way that aroused Chase more thoroughly than any kiss he’d ever received.
Still, as heated as it was, it wasn’t a particularly good kiss. It was inept and strangely endearing. He pulled back and said in a low voice, “Easy, sweetheart. Not like that.”
She stiffened, her face flooding with color. “What do you mean ‘not like that’?”
“Apparently I’ve been remiss in my duties as your fiancé.”
“Duties? Kissing me is a duty?”
“Not at all. I enjoy kissing you. And you, my little wren, love every moment. Or you did until I suggested there was a better way to do it.”
She opened her mouth as if to berate him, then stopped, rampant curiosity on her face. “What other way is there?”
He pulled her toward him, then cupped her chin and tilted her face to his. “First, don’t hold your lips so tightly together.”
She eyed him for a long, serious moment. He could almost hear the rumble of her weighty thoughts. Finally, she said, “I suppose one kiss wouldn’t hurt.”
He bent and softly placed his lips on hers. She stood stock-still beneath his touch, the heat from her lips warming his, the scent of lemons and hay drifting over him. She was as sweet as a summer breeze, as seductive as a harvest moon. And she didn’t realize it at all.
Chase brushed his lips over hers, nipping at her soft, plump lips. Again and again, he tasted and teased, each time opening her lips a little more. She remained where she was, face upturned, eyes closed. Chase captured her mouth beneath his, sliding his tongue across her bottom lip.
She started and almost pulled back, but he held her and did it again, tasting her more deeply, more intimately. This time, something changed. She melted beneath his touch, opened herself to him naturally as she threw her arms about his neck and pressed her slender body to his.
Chase’s body reacted instantly, tightening with a flood of passion. Her mouth opened beneath his, and to his delight, her tongue touched his.
By God, but for all her purity she was as hot as any fancy piece—more so because her reaction was as natural as breathing. It was as if her quiet, pale demeanor hid a pulsing heart that beat so wildly that none would ever credit it.
He could not turn away. Indeed, his hands gripped her arms beneath the edge of her sleeves, his fingers splayed over her heated skin. She moaned into his mouth, the sound so erotic that he pressed against her, rubbing his hips across hers.
Somewhere far away, Max barked in abandon, the sound penetrating Chase’s heated thoughts. If he didn’t have a care, he might lift her skirts and take her there, in front of God and country.
Breathing erratically, he broke the kiss and lifted his head, catching Harriet’s bemused gaze. Sometime or another, both of them had lost their hats. Harriet’s hair had come unpinned, and long thick strands hung down her back and to either side of her face, softening the angular corners.
It was curious, but with her hair loosened, she looked more vibrant, more sensual. Without realizing that he did so, Chase touched her hair, the silken strands clinging to his hands.
She caught at his fingers and pulled his hand so that she could see his palm, her gaze widening. “Your poor hands! Why didn’t you say something?”
He looked at his blistered palms and shrugged. “They are better today.”
“They are bleeding!” She turned and marched toward the wagon.
“It’s nothing, really,” he said, following her. “They don’t even hurt that—”
“Do you know what could happen if this got infected?” She reached under the seat of the wagon to pull out a small box. “Hold out your hands. Both of them.”
Chase did as instructed, a little amused at how determined she seemed to be.
Harriet opened the box and took out a small vial. “This should do the trick.” She uncorked the vial and a strong whiff of something indescribable hit Chase.
He took an involuntary step back but she was too quick. She caught him and poured an oily substance into his hand. Then she capped the vial. “Rub that in.”
His nose curled of its own accord. “You have to be jesting—”
“Rub it in.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It will make your blisters heal faster.”
“But it smells atrocious.”
She dropped the vial back in the box and replaced it under the seat. “Captain Frakenham, I—”
“John.”
She turned to face him, hands on hips. “John, then. It is very important that you don’t get an infection. Rub that in.”
Holding his hands at arm’s length, he briefly rubbed his hands tog
ether, then bent to wipe them on the grass. It hurt, but he’d have done much worse to get rid of the nasty stuff. “That is the most vile-smelling stuff.”
“Yes, it is. You should have seen poor Derrick when he slid out of the loft and scraped his entire back nearly raw. Mother practically bathed him in it.”
Chase lifted one of his hands and then rapidly held it away. “Bloody hell! This smells worse than the potion my mother gave me when I was twelve.” He grinned at the memory. “I pretended to have a fever so that I wouldn’t have to take a bath.”
The words hung in the air between them.
Chase closed his eyes. He’d just given himself up. In one lousy unguarded moment, he’d lost the game.
He sighed, then opened his eyes.
Harriet stood stiff and immobile, regarding him with a frosty rage. “Who are you?”
Chapter 17
A short courtship is the way of it. If you let things drone on and on, then you’ll have spent all your topics of conversation before the wedding day and will have nothing more to say. Marry within two months of proposing, then you’ll still have something left to talk about at the breakfast table.
Mr. Lembert Standish to his friend and mentor, Edmund Valmont as the two stood outside of Hell’s Door, a fashionable gaming establishment
Harriet didn’t know whether to slap the stranger for his audacity or crow with triumph at his slip of the tongue. Her mind swirled with emotions—shock, exuberance at being right, confusion at the realization that he’d knowingly misled them—misled her. Her brow lowered at that. The man had lied.
And she was not about to give the jackanapes any quarter. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well?”
He removed his hat and raked his hair from his eyes, then yanked his hand away and stared at it as if disgusted. “Bloody hell, now my hair will smell like—”
“Oh piffle! I don’t care what your hair smells like. Who are you?”
He replaced the hat, the brim shading his eyes. “It doesn’t really mat—”
“Your name, sir.”
His brow lowered as if he might challenge her. Harriet waited, eyes narrowed. If he thought to withhold such information now, he was sadly mistaken.
She wasn’t sure what she’d do if he refused, but there would be hell to pay, make no doubt.
Some of her thoughts must have shown on her face, for he exploded into a sigh. “You’re determined about this, aren’t you?”
“I deserve to know what manner of man we’ve been housing.”
“Yes. I suppose you do at that. Very well. My name is Chase St. John.”
Harriet’s finger itched, right at the band of that silly stuck ring. She absently rubbed it. He said the name as if it should mean something. Harriet tried to remember if there were any St. Johns about, but none came to mind. “I don’t know of your family. Where exactly do they live?”
“We have homes in London, Herefordshire, Yorkshire, Devonshire, Strat—”
She laughed then. Of course the man who stood before her, smelling of sheep ointment and wearing her brother’s old clothes, had houses in all those places. “So many homes! Goodness, how do you manage to keep them all up?”
He shrugged as if he had never really considered the question. “Servants, I suppose.”
Her amusement faded before his casual shrug. “You suppose?” He was serious. She swallowed. “How many servants do you have?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“I just haven’t thought about it.” He leaned against the wagon, neatly crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “Servants just…are.”
Harriet thought of her own servants, four in all, and of the way she’d struggled to find just one more set of hands for the shearing. Yet here before her stood a man who had so many servants, he wasn’t really sure of the number.
The thought rankled. “They just are. How very nice for you. So you’re chock-full of houses and servants. I daresay you’re also related to the King.”
“As a matter of fact, we are.”
Of course they were. Harriet’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t just wealthy, he was one of the wealthy. The man was not of her world, never had been, and never would be.
Harriet knew many things about life. She’d been on her own far too long not to have garnered a few bits of wisdom here and there. Her laughing, smiling father, who teased and joked and never seemed at a loss, had left his family with mounds of debt and nothing else. All from trying to be what he was not.
Harriet would never make that mistake. “How long have you known your true identity?”
He sighed, and rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know how that’s pertinent to—”
“How long?”
“I’ve always known.”
Her irritation threatened to blossom into something more. All of her suspicions had been true. “May I ask why you’ve lied to my family?”
His gaze hardened. “From the moment I awoke, your mother was there, telling me I was Captain Frakenham. Who lied to whom?”
She lifted her chin. “That may be. But why did you go along with it?”
“Why not? It seemed as if you needed a Captain Frakenham, and I, quite frankly, had nothing better to do.”
She couldn’t answer that. They had needed a Captain Frakenham and, as much as she hated to admit it, he’d become quite adept at his part. “I find it difficult to believe anything you say, considering the charade you’ve perpetrated.”
“Speaking of charades,” he retorted easily, “there is no Captain Frakenham, is there?”
For a mad moment, she briefly considered continuing the lies. But there was no help for it—he would divine the truth sooner or later. “Oh very well. I suppose you deserve to know. Mother made up the captain.”
The lout didn’t even have the decency to look surprised. “To protect your interests at the bank.”
“Once Mr. Gower arrived, there was no gainsaying the bank. We are so close to coming about. All we have to do is sell the wool, and we’re done with them. We just needed two more—”
“—weeks. I know.” He tilted his head to one side, and he regarded her through his remarkable blue eyes. “I suppose it all comes down to this: you and I have lied to each other since the first day we met.”
In that moment, it was as if the magic of their one, solitary dance, the passion of the few kisses they’d shared, the warmth of companionship that had been steadily growing, suddenly dissipated like the morning mist.
He was right—they had deceived one another from their first meeting. It was not a propitious way to begin a relationship.
Not, of course, that she wanted a relationship with such a pompous jackstraw, it was just that she was only now beginning to realize how much she enjoyed him and his kisses.
In fact, just thinking of that last kiss, when his tongue had touched hers ever so suggestively—she shivered, then caught herself, somewhat shocked at how hard her heart was racing.
“Why were you willing to assume Captain Frakenham’s identity? You even agreed to work here, in the fields.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I was on my way out of the country when I was attacked. I thought that if I became Captain Frakenham while recuperating, not only would it assist you, but it would also stop the local gossips from tattling to the world about my real identity.”
“Why would that matter?”
“Because my brothers would not look kindly on my leaving the country without notifying them.”
She raised her brows. “Surely you had more reason than that?”
“No. They would try to talk me out of it, but—” He stopped, a bleak expression resting on his face. “I’ve caused enough havoc in their lives as it is. In order to make things right, I must leave.”
Harriet suddenly realized that she’d seen that desolate expression before, that it visited him often, even beneath his usual blithe smile. The expression caught at her heart, for
she didn’t think she’d ever seen so much pain on one face. “Make things right?” Her voice softened. “What did you do that was so wrong?”
He shook his head, his expression shuttered once again. “You don’t need to know more.”
But she did. “You were right in thinking that your real identity would have been gossiped about far and wide. Sticklye-By-The-River is a small village and everyone knows everyone else’s business far more than they should.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said dryly, no doubt thinking of the parade of visitors who came every evening to meet the “captain.”
“And since we’re located on the post road, everything that happens here is heard for miles around.” She tilted her head to one side, regarding him steadily. “I can’t imagine there are many crimes that are so severe that would require you to leave the country to make amends.”
Hard white lines appeared down both sides of his mouth. “I will not tell you more.”
That was certainly blunt. “Perhaps you owe a great deal of money?”
He didn’t answer.
“Or mayhap a woman is involved…”
“No.” His gaze became flint bright. “I’m not going to answer any more questions, so don’t ask.”
He was being rather rude, but then so was she, prying into his personal business. “Where were you going?”
“Away. Perhaps to Italy.”
She tsked. “You don’t seem to have a very specific strategy, which means you would have failed. If you wish to accomplish something, then you need a plan of action.”
He let his breath out in a hiss. “Look, Harriet. I had a plan of action—to get out of the country as quickly and quietly as possible. That was all the plan I needed.”
She gestured around them. “Does this look like Italy to you?”
“I was waylaid by thieves or I would be there now.”
“I can see why you stayed at first—your injuries. But later? Mr. St. John, why are you here now?” She didn’t know what she was looking for—what she wanted to hear. But for some reason, she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.
How to Treat a Lady Page 18
