The Persuasive Love of a Libertine

by Jane Lark

  “Oh, Emily.”

  Harry had always played with her. Teasing her. Now she was properly playing with him. This was not a parlour game. This was the game of a libertine.

  She pushed down on to him so that he was deep inside her, and rocked her hips and then… “Oh.” The expression came from her mouth as the stream, the river, washed over her again, sweeping her up in its strong current.

  “Get off me.” Harry growled as his grip on her hips and bottom lifted her, trying to push her aside. She tumbled off him, falling to lie beside him as he reached for the handkerchief he had left on the ground.

  With one hand, he pressed the handkerchief over himself as his other arm lifted above his head, and he groaned with a sound of relief, his eyes shutting.

  Emily looked up at the sky as the air circulated about her exposed skin. The sunshine warmed her breast and her legs too. Then she remembered. “My parents, Harry.” She sat up immediately and began righting her bodice.

  ~

  Blood.

  Horror hit at Harry with a hard punch.

  There was blood on the handkerchief where he had wiped himself. It could only have come from her, and it was not an insignificant amount. He’d torn her body when he’d entered her, when she had screamed. That sound had cut him to the core.

  He looked at her. She was securing the buttons of her bodice.

  “Emily, stand up for me a moment and lift your skirt and petticoats. I’ll wipe you clean.”

  She gave him an odd look, but she did stand. When he looked up at her, the sunlight shone through her light brown hair burnishing it with an auburn hue. She lifted her skirt and as he suspected, there was blood on her thighs. If there had been a stream close he would have rinsed out the handkerchief, but without one he could do nothing more than fold and refold it as he sought to wipe the smears of blood away.

  When he’d done all he could, his kissed one of her soft thighs, then drew away, putting the soiled handkerchief into his trouser pocket before reaching for her underwear. “Here, put on your drawers.”

  His hands shook as he secured the buttons of his trousers. Laying with a woman had not made him shake since his first time, when he had been little more than a boy. But it had been her first time. He took a breath trying to get hold of his thoughts and the emotion rattling around inside him.

  It was the blood.

  He had never imagined that there would be blood.

  He stood then leant and picked up his morning coat. He put it on as she brushed the creases from her skirt.

  “Turn about.” She had ears of barley in her hair; he had seen them as she bent down. He gently removed them trying not to make her hair look too untidy.

  “How is it?” Her eyes looked to his, as if whatever he said, it would put everything right.

  Whores did not look at the men they had lain with like that. There was reliance and attachment in Emily’s eyes now. “Your hair looks fine.”

  Her gaze lifted. “Yours does not.” Her hands rose and her fingers slid into his hair, combing it back. “It looks less chaotic now.”

  “Thank you.” He bent and picked his riding coat up off the ground, then folded it and set it across his arm. It would be dusty, and perhaps have blood on it.

  “Go on.” He lifted his hand and encouraged her to walk back the way they had come, then glanced down at the back of her dress. The blood had not seeped through to her skirt, although it was on her petticoats. Her maid would know something had occurred today.

  There was her shawl and his gloves to be retrieved, as they walked back, and his hat. Then they walked on along the edge of the barley.

  His free hand gently touched the curve of her back as they walked, while his other hand held his riding coat on his arm. “When may I speak with your father? When will he be home?”

  She glanced at him. “Why do you wish to speak to him?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Why do you think?”

  “Oh, no. No, Harry.” She stopped walking and faced him. The look that had been in her eyes for the first moments after they had finished the deed had gone. Her eyes now bore a harsh refusal. “We are not getting married. I will not marry you. I have not changed my mind.”

  “But, Emily, we have—”

  “And you have with other women.” She turned away from him and continued walking.

  He did not understand. What was happening here? “Emily.” His voice became harsh. “I told you that I love you.”

  She looked back over her shoulder. “I heard. Thank you.”

  Thank you… That was not what a woman was supposed to say to a declaration. But she had said she did not care. She had loved Peter. Yet she had not lain with Peter.

  Bloody hell, Harry had run at every fence and where had it left him. He’d fallen.

  Harry caught hold of her elbow and stopped her again. “What is this about?” He’d been confused and frustrated before their illicit deed, but now…

  She bit her lip for a moment, then she smiled. “I wished to know what it would be like.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not sure I will ever trust a man again and if I never marry…”

  “You cannot play games like that.”

  “You and Peter do, and Drew did.”

  His mouth opened, but he was muted. Peter… Was this still about Peter? She was taking her revenge that belonged to his friend out on him? “I know Peter hurt you, but I am not him.”

  “He did not hurt me, he embarrassed me, and I should have known that he would. I knew his reputation. Just as I know yours. I will not marry you. I would be a fool to marry anyone like you.”

  Damn. He’d carried his reputation proudly like a banner in the past. But now… She had made it dishonourable. He searched for a retort, but he could not find one. What reason did she have to believe in him, or accept him? She had no reason to trust or care for a self-confessed libertine.

  She pulled her arm free, turned, and began walking again. He followed, still unsure what to say. She did not want him to say anything. Or anything of any importance.

  She was wary; Drew had said in his letter. Harry damned well should have been wary. She had been playing with him in a vindictive way.

  But it did not change how he felt about her. Yet it did change how he would behave with her.

  He caught up, clasped her elbow again and walked beside her, along the narrow grass path. It ran along next to a stone wall that marked the end of other peoples’ gardens. “If you are truly refusing me, Emily, then I will leave tomorrow and return to town.” She looked at him. He lifted his eyebrows. If she meant what she’d said she would be willing to let him go without complaint.

  She looked ahead and pulled her arm free.

  She truly did not care. She had let him take her innocence and she did not give a damn. Timid Emily. Peter had hurt her more than he knew.

  In that moment, Harry had a renewed desire to travel to Peter’s estate and slam a fist into his stomach, and then his pretty face.

  It was clear that now had not been the time to win her, she was not ready to forget Peter.

  “There is the gate into our garden.” She pointed ahead at a cast iron gate that was set into the wall.

  He would leave.

  But before she could walk ahead to the gate, his hand gripped her arm once more and he stopped her, leaning forward.

  Her palm rested on his chest over his morning coat. “People can see from the upstairs windows, Harry.”

  “I do not care.” His mouth pressed down onto hers, and his tongue reached into her mouth. She responded, despite her fear of being seen. Perhaps she realised this was his goodbye kiss. He broke it.

  “If you need me, Emily, or you change your mind about marrying me, you have my address in London on the letter I sent you.”

  She blushed as she nodded, then she turned away and opened the gate. He held it while she passed through, then he followed and shut the gate behind them.

  When he turned, she
was already halfway across the kitchen garden.

  He followed.

  At the end of the path, she ran down a few steps, descending below ground level. When he reached the steps, he found a door that opened into a flagstone corridor.

  Emily was at the end of the corridor. She looked back. “I am going up to my room for a moment; you may go on to the parlour.”

  He lifted his arms, opening his hands. “Where?”

  “There.” She pointed at the second door on the left of the corridor.

  He turned to it as she ran farther along the hall. The door led to a staircase which led to the hall, where he discovered the butler. He swallowed and knew that his skin had turned pink. “We returned via the garden gate. Are Mr and Mrs Smithfield home?”

  “They are, Mr Webster. Shall I let them know you have returned.”

  Damn. He had hoped to make his escape. He had obviously kept Emily far too long, and by now, they probably knew.

  “Mr Webster.”

  Harry turned. Her father stood at the door of the parlour.

  “I wish to speak to you.”

  Lord, he was in for it now, but if Emily did not want to marry him, he would not allow her to be forced.

  Harry nodded.

  “We may talk in the dining room.”

  Harry followed Smithfield. The butler shut the door after they walked in.

  As soon as the door shut, Smithfield turned. “What are your intentions towards my daughter?”

  Two hours ago, he would have answered differently. “I have no intent.”

  Smithfield looked shocked. “I have been finding out about you, Mr Webster. Your income is five hundred a year, and yet you have debts all over London. I believe you are gathering them here too. You live by the name of your brother, when you and he are estranged, and you live far beyond your means.”

  So what…

  He said nothing. He knew everything Smithfield was telling him. He juggled his debts with small payments from the five hundred a year. Yes. That was his life.

  “If you have designs upon my daughter, you must give up that thought. You are not suitable and you are not welcome at my house. I do not know what it is you have been doing here, but it is at an end. Please leave.”

  Harry faced Smithfield, his riding coat, probably stained with Emily’s blood, hanging over his arm.

  A childish voice screamed within him, with the brittle pitch of rejection. A voice he hated hearing.

  He was not good enough other than for what he had been good at with whores. Emily considered him worthless of anything more, and her father too. Harry said nothing, but nodded, then turned away, opened the door, and walked out into the hall.

  He did not argue because what reason had he to do so.

  No. He would leave and return to London, and carry on with the life he knew and understood.

  “Harry!”

  He looked up. Emily was walking downstairs. She had tidied her hair.

  “Goodbye,” he barked the word, angrier than he had thought he was.

  He had never been embarrassed by himself, by who he was, never. He refused to take the blame. He had not been to blame. Things had been done to him… He’d been used… And he… He refused to recall it, or retell it.

  They had made him ashamed.

  He’d been hurt.

  He was not Peter, neither titled nor wealthy, but in morals he was better than his friend. He had been prepared to give everything up for Emily, including his heart.

  The butler opened the door. Harry walked out and did not look back.

  Part Seven

  Curse Emily and curse all women. They could all go to hell. Harry wanted nothing more to do with them.

  All he wished to do was get back to London, lose his thoughts in a game of cards, and drink himself into oblivion. He hoped he could find Mark.

  Without that distraction, his mind grumbled on. He lifted his hand and tipped the brim of his hat down at the front so that it entirely covered his eyes. His arms then crossed tightly over his chest. The post carriage was stopping again. This thing was bloody slow. But needs’ must.

  Mark would laugh at Harry’s predicament.

  He’d been unable to obtain more credit. The inn had refused to trust his word that the money would be sent, and so they had denied him a vehicle or a horse. So here he was, travelling post for God’s sake, squeezed into a carriage with commoners.

  This whole bloody excursion had been misjudged on his part.

  Emily had rejected him, and her father had rejected him.

  He hated to be rejected.

  But before Emily had turned him away…

  He could not believe she had let him do that to her and then refused to marry him, and she had known she would not marry him before she had done it.

  His riding coat, with the bloody handkerchief in its pocket was in his trunk, on the roof. The knowledge of it clasped about his heart.

  He did not understand respectable women. He wished to be back in London in a place, and amongst people, who made sense to him.

  Love… He had told her that he loved her and she had not given a damn. What value had love?

  The carriage turned sharply, beneath the arch of another inn, and the noise from outside became a racket of iron-rimmed wheels and iron-clad horses’ hooves on the stone cobbles. When the carriage halted, the other passengers climbed out, to take a rest or because it was the end of their journey. Harry remained in the carriage occupying the corner he’d claimed. He kept his hat down so people would think him asleep.

  Love… It had been cursed for him. He had blindly followed Drew and Peter, thinking himself worth such a prize as happiness. But he did not have their titles, or Peter’s wealth. He was not the same as them. Happy ever after was not a thing for him.

  Mark was going to laugh his head off.

  Harry would get drunk.

  How could Emily have let him do that when she did not care for him and had no intent to marry him?

  ~

  Emily sat up and clutched her knees through the sheets. She had spent her night in restless movement and sat up like this three or four times with agitation. What had she done? Something wonderful and awful.

  She had lain with Harry. In a field! She had lain with Harry! She and Harry.

  She laid down again, on her back, looking up into the darkness, her arms flat on top of the sheets. She could not believe she had done it. Looking back, it was something she might have dreamt. It had not been intended. It had just happened.

  But it had happened.

  “Ah.” The air sucked into her lungs in a rush, as though her mouth would utter words. She said nothing.

  Who had she been today?

  She longed to tell someone, to speak with her only real friend, Mary. She had done something beautiful and stupid. So stupid. He had left the house angry with her. He had wanted to marry her.

  Those were the words that kept repeating in her head. That he had wished to marry her—along with the knowledge of his hands on her and his body lying over hers.

  Harry.

  Smiling, happy Harry.

  She had always liked him but she could not think of him as a suitor—he was too like Peter.

  Her eyes closed. She longed to sleep. To escape the noise in her mind. So many words and feelings. She could relive every moment of their time in the field.

  She sat up and gripped her knees. She would have to write to Mary. She had to talk to Mary. Mary would help her understand.

  That was what Emily needed. Help—to understand this.

  What did she do now?

  She had been the user. She had taken and not been used. She had felt in control and as though she was taking something she had a right to.

  But Harry…

  His face in the moment before he’d left was something she would remember for as long as she lived.

  She rocked backwards and forwards, her mind seeking a path that it did not find. It was searching for an answer, when there
was no answer. What had happened had happened, but nothing would change. There was nothing to change. She would not accept Harry because she did not want to become the person who had been used again, and one day, if she accepted Harry, that would happen.

  Part Eight

  “A letter for you my love.”

  Andrew tossed the envelope across the table so it landed lightly beside Mary’s plate of toast.

  “Who is it from?” Mary said before picking it up.

  “I would guess from Emily.”

  Mary’s heart skipped. There had always been a measure of guilt in her relationship with Emily because their friendship had begun when Mary needed someone to lie for her, so she might escape with Andrew. Emily had fallen into a lot of trouble for that one favour.

  “From your friend?” Caro, Mary’s sister-in-law, asked.

  Poor Caro, she was such a solitary woman, she had no friends beyond Mary and Andrew.

  Mary smiled at her as she opened the letter. “Yes.” Then she looked down.

  Dearest Mary,

  You will think me silly I know, but I have done something so unlike me. I cannot tell you in a letter what it is. May I come to stay? Do you think? I would love to see you.

  I told you Harry was staying here, in Devizes, near us. But he has gone now and I am feeling lonely. May I come? I long to talk to you.

  Your friend,

  Emily

  “What does it say?” Andrew asked. “How is Harry’s courtship progressing?”

  Mary looked up. “It is not. He has left Devizes. But Emily is asking if she might come to stay with us. May I invite her?”

  Andrew smiled, his benevolent smile which said, I love you. “Yes, of course.”

  “It is nice that she feels able to visit, after what happened with Lord Brooke,” Caro commented.

  “It is. At one point she said she would not, so I suppose this means she is recovering from her embarrassment,” Mary answered. She wished that Caro could recover too. Then she looked at Andrew. “Do you know where Harry is?”