The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  He picked up the hat, pulled out the cards and counted. “It’s a tie.”

  Harriet didn’t think she believed him.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Harriet didn’t. Would they arm wrestle or sack race for the privilege of picking a position?

  “For the next round, we throw two cards at a time. I’ve played going up to four cards, but it’s very nearly impossible.”

  Harriet had had enough trouble with one card, but this game had been fun, more fun than she expected in her anxiety to get the evening started to its natural conclusion. The boys would have loved it. Despite the late hour, she wasn’t even tired.

  And then it hit her. She hadn’t napped this afternoon, had not yawned once in the department store as she’d been trying on the ready-made dresses under that saleswoman’s baleful glare. Maybe she’d been too excited to fall into her usual lethargy. Her head had been relatively clear, even with Thomas and all he represented so close at hand.

  How very odd.

  She had slept her afternoons away for months, often waking with a headache and feeling distinctly unrefreshed. Maybe this sudden change of status was good for her.

  A mistress had to be awake. Be clever and charming. Harriet was not sure about the last two, but she was now as alert as she had ever been.

  And determined to win this game. Who knew what kind of wicked pictures were in that book? She was not going to permit herself to be turned into some kind of human pretzel.

  Cards flew and fluttered. Harriet’s arm was tired, but all her other senses were heightened. She had been keeping track, and Thomas’s aim was atrocious. It was almost as if he were trying to lose.

  And then she smiled. Of course he was. Ever the consummate gentleman, he was giving her the choice. Her heart squeezed just a little. Harriet liked him so much already. If she wasn’t careful, her heart might do more than squeeze, and then where would she be at the end of the week?

  She sent her last two red cards aloft, and Thomas followed suit with his blues. All four landed far from the handsome top hat.

  “I’ll count this time,” Harriet said, beating him to pick up the hat. She didn’t really need to—a modest sea of red told her she had won.

  Now what to do? The leather book fairly bristled on the side table.

  Thomas’s dark eyes flashed. “Go ahead—it won’t bite. And I want to assure you that it is the most . . . um . . . conventional book I have on the subject of carnal relations. In deference to your, uh, maidenly sensibilities. I’ll just leave the room for a few minutes, shall I? Brush my teeth again or something.” Before she could stop him, he was gone, the book looming even larger.

  Well, he’d said it was the best of the lot. How bad could it be? Harriet exchanged the hat in her lap for the book and took a deep breath.

  Some of the illustrations were in black-and-white. Quite a few were in vibrant, almost virulent color. Harriet blinked.

  The participants were not ordinary Englishmen and -women. There were a great many cushions and no sign of any bed in most of the drawings. The males were dressed—before they weren’t—in turbans and elaborate Oriental robes, and sported truly impressive facial hair. Their mustaches and beards were so sharply pointed they looked like they might do damage to bare skin or poke their lovers’ eyes out. The best thing that could be said about their ladies was that they appeared very docile and flexible.

  Oh dear.

  Harriet’s palms and fingers were so damp she had trouble turning the pages, which was just as well. None of activities things looked remotely possible between two proper Britons. Or two improper ones. She slammed the book shut.

  Thomas must have been waiting right outside the door. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Harriet stood, dropping the book to her chair with a thud.

  Chapter 21

  Harriet began to pull the ribbon of her filmy robe.

  “Let me,” Thomas said. He was good with his hands, and knew how to do that much. He’d been tying and untying things for decades.

  Or he thought he was good with his hands. The ribbon was knotted. The more he tugged on one end, the tighter it got.

  “Blast. Have you a pair of scissors?”

  Harriet was aghast. “Scissors? You’ll ruin it!” She clutched at her throat to fend him away.

  “I’ll buy you a new robe,” Thomas said with impatience.

  “You cannot keep buying me new clothes! Thurston will object.”

  “Damn Thurston to hell and back. I can spend my own money the way I want to. The man is always nagging me over something. He thinks he’s my father.” Damn it. Why were they discussing his bloody man of business at a time like this?

  Thurston would object. The man was going to fall into a dead faint when Thomas arranged for Harriet’s payment at the end of seven days.

  Blast again. Five days now, and he was no closer to seeing her magnificent body than when she was only his secretary.

  Stop, Thomas. Think. Coming at her with scissors and cutting off her peignoir was no way to start an affair.

  And there was that business about her keeping herself covered. He had planned to circumvent his way around that somehow but hadn’t quite worked out the details.

  “Come here.”

  She took a step forward, still gripping the recalcitrant ribbon.

  “Just a little closer. Don’t worry—your robe is safe.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she took the remaining steps. Thomas gazed down. Her cheeks were rosy, her loose hair a thing of burnished beauty. Beneath her thick lenses, she peered solemnly into his eyes, as if waiting for some kind of punishment.

  This would never do.

  He cradled her damaged cheek. “We needn’t do anything tonight if you don’t want to.”

  “I said I was ready!”

  “As ready as Joan of Arc being led to the stake. She may have welcomed martyrdom, but I don’t want that in my mistress. I think we should forget about the book. Forget about everything.”

  She looked uncertain. “Everything? You mean we aren’t going to . . .”

  He shook his head.

  “But why? We only have five nights left after this, you know. It’s January first already.”

  Trust Harriet to obey the letter of the contract.

  “I’m aware. I would like to kiss you good night, though. On the bed.”

  “That’s all? Don’t you think we ought to just do it?”

  Just do it. Get it over with. Harriet needed to adjust her attitude. By the time Thomas was finished with her, he hoped she’d be begging for more.

  Oh, who was he kidding? He was scared witless himself. But he had kissed her before. Very satisfactorily, too, if he did say so himself.

  Until she’d hit him.

  He took her hand and propelled her to the bed. “Lie down, Harriet. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Comfortable? Ha,” she muttered, but she arranged her body so that not an extra inch of skin was showing. The hands on her stomach were just missing a sheaf of lilies.

  She did not look especially kissable, but Thomas was not deterred. He checked to see that his robe was still securely fastened over the silk pajama pants he wore. His hand encountered more than the belt, but he ignored his throbbing need.

  Good Lord. Throbbing need. He was a character out of some romance novel. How could he be hard after playing a children’s party game and brushing his teeth? It seemed he was.

  He lay down next to her and stared at the ceiling. With a sideways glance, he saw that Harriet’s eyes were shut. Unnecessary then for her to wear her spectacles, so he plucked them off her freckled nose and put them on the bedside table.

  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  Harriet nodded, puckering her lips.

  Instead Thomas threaded his fingers through her lovely loose hair and exposed the spot underneath her right ear. Just there. Yes.

  She jumped a mile, then settled as he drew her soft skin
into his mouth, nipping ever so gently. He could feel her pulse against his lips, hear the breath she’d been holding expel. He nibbled a bit, partaking delicious traces of rose-scented soap and Harriet herself. She smelled like a garden in high summer. Thomas worked his way down to her collarbone and licked clear across it.

  “Thomas!” Harriet hissed.

  “Shh. Relax.”

  He himself was enjoying this exploration. He’d admired Harriet’s long neck for a week at least, what he could see of it above her starched collars. Her upper chest was delightful as well, her honeyed flesh showing so beautifully this evening over her dark red and silver dress. She’d looked absolutely magnificent.

  Like a lady, not a secretary.

  Not that secretaries couldn’t be ladies. Thomas considered himself a modern man—he was democratic. Why, he even believed in women’s suffrage, which put him at odds with most of his peers.

  But at the moment, she trembled and sighed like a mistress, and Thomas grew bolder. He bypassed the gremlin knot and parted the fabric of the delicate robe. There was an equally delicate nightgown under it, with a thousand tiny fabric-covered buttons over Harriet’s chest. All right, just five buttons, but Thomas was beyond being capable of undoing them.

  He could detect the shadow of her nipples through the fabric, see the curve of her bountiful breasts. He cupped one and suckled through the translucent silk.

  “Thomas!”

  He liked hearing her cry his name. He tugged, his tongue circling, his hand caressing. She grew harder and fuller under his attentions and he felt a bit triumphant. His rolling thumb replaced his kiss as he lifted his head and moved up. Her lips were now parted, her eyes unfocused, and not just because she was not wearing her glasses.

  He wanted to devour her, but it was imperative he move slowly. Like the gentleman he wished he wasn’t.

  A slow brush of his lips against hers. Tentative. Teasing. He drew away and felt her rise ever so slightly toward him to recapture him. Silly girl. He was already hers. Thomas kissed her injured cheek with the barest of pressure, then returned to her luscious mouth. She was open for him. Vulnerable. Her kiss was a gift he didn’t deserve, but he took it.

  She was warm and tasted of wine and tooth powder. So he was not the only one who’d scrubbed frantically. He’d wanted to come to her clean, fresh—even if it meant shaving again. He wouldn’t abrade her tender face or hurt her in any way until there was no choice.

  Thomas knew the scientific words. Hymen. Vagina. Clitoris. He’d been forced to read Huxley’s A Manual of the Anatomy of Vertebrated Animals as a student. He’d studied Lizars’s intricately drawn plates of the human body and tried to reproduce them. He’d seen a thousand paintings of nude bodies and owned a score himself.

  But he was unprepared for the sensation as the tip of this fully-clothed woman’s tongue touched his. His medical vocabulary deserted him. There was nothing but heat and wetness. Her fingertips were at his cheek, so featherlight, as if she thought he’d shatter.

  Thomas wanted Harriet’s hands everywhere, but he was grateful for that small, shy gesture. He delved deeper, fell into the lush kiss even as he held himself apart from her by one wobbly elbow. If he allowed his body to touch hers, he might forget to stop, and he didn’t want to rush this. By the end of their week, he’d have his experience.

  He might not have skill, though. Thomas thought of his friends who knew their way around women. They’d had years of practice. He had less than a week now.

  But still, this kissing business was pretty swell. He really should cease thinking of the next step and just enjoy this one. He really should cease thinking of the future altogether.

  It wasn’t hard. Thomas gave in to the kiss without further ado and felt his skin tingle from the top of his head to his toes, a mixture of fire and ice and freedom. He’d never been so aware of his body and what it was meant for.

  But not yet. Harriet’s breast was still in his gentle grasp, her nipple peaked. This was a good sign, a very good sign. She was moaning and sighing a bit as well. She didn’t hate him.

  Would she, though?

  No. No tomorrows or next weeks. Just now.

  Chapter 22

  Something very odd was happening. This extraordinary kiss was not staying put between her lips and Thomas’s, but traveling within her. Ping ping ping. Harriet had built domino walls with her brothers when they were younger, and right now her inner tiles were collapsing against each other, building up speed to an unknown destination. She felt hot, though by rights she should be chilly in the cobwebby nightclothes. Even with the careful distance between her and Thomas, she was absolutely roasting.

  He was behaving far too gentlemanly for her liking. Delaying the inevitable was only going to ruin the day ahead, and she needed her wits about her to go to Mount Street and meet with the new tenants. How could she concentrate on her tasks if she was worried about what would happen when she got home?

  Home—no, Featherstone House was not that. Although this bed was blissfully comfortable, more comfortable than any bed she’d ever slept in. Of course, she was not sleeping now.

  Kissing was the most peculiar thing. It should be off-putting, what with the saliva and accidental collision of teeth, but somehow it wasn’t. Thomas’s lips were firm and smooth, his tongue adept at stroking hers with just the perfect amount of friction. She was sinking into the mattress, all her limbs useless, except for the fingers that were framing Thomas’s chiseled cheek.

  She may have made a noise, a melting sort of groan. It seemed to spur Thomas on, and the kiss became more. How was that possible? It had been perfect before, but now was even better. So dreamy, with an edge of darkness that was not at all frightening. Harriet could hear the blood rushing in her ears, feel her breast swelling beneath Thomas’s talented fingers and the heat pooling between her thighs.

  Surely he knew all these things were happening to her? She was ready. More than ready. Anxious. Not simply to get it over with, either.

  And then he pulled back. Harriet’s hand flew to her mouth. Her lips belonged to someone else. They were pillowy and soft, and she wondered if she’d be able to speak normally.

  “I think we’ve got to stop.” Thomas sounded winded, as if he’d run a mile.

  “Why?” Harriet did not want to stop. It was unseemly to beg him to continue, though she was coming close to doing so.

  “It’s late. You need your rest.” He bounced off the bed with such good cheer that Harriet wanted to hit him with something. A pillow would be inadequate, not half hard enough.

  Harriet struggled to sit up. “Where are you going?”

  “Thought of something I must attend to. Good night, Harriet.”

  He went out the door before she had a chance to wish him to the devil. How could he have turned off that kiss like that, just when it was getting so interesting? Thomas needed to attend to her. Harriet could barely move, her body so languorous she finally understood the meaning of the word. She had been floating in a warm cloud but was now plummeting back to earth.

  Perhaps he hadn’t like kissing her. Perhaps the thought of doing more was not appealing. She’d felt practically beautiful this evening, and she’d been almost sure Thomas was sincere when he’d complimented her.

  But men lied all the time. Thomas was glib to start with, charming the birds out of trees to self-pluck and throw themselves into the roasting pan. She’d seen him deal with people, although he was not always so smooth-tongued around her.

  As his lowly secretary, she was not worth his effort, or hadn’t been until this ill-conceived idea. She was not mistress material, and Thomas must be regretting his generous impulse.

  Harriet wiped the tears from her face with a shaking hand, coming up with a palm full of powder. She rose from the bed and went into the en suite bathroom to wash her face. Her cheek was still very tender, the color mottled between blue and yellow. She was like a modern painting, her skin making no sense.

  She put herself back to bed,
tearing the delicate robe over her head since she couldn’t get the damned knot undone, either. Her night rail was slippery and strange—she felt she might just slide off the bed in it. All she had wanted was a decent flannel nightgown.

  The silk hit the floor with her robe. Shivering, she mummified herself in the blankets, feeling sorrier for herself than she ever had.

  Harriet’s life had been hard, but not unbearable. She’d raised the boys to the best of her ability, and while they were scamps, they were in the process of turning out very well. There had been the very modest legacy from her mother’s mother that enabled her to go to commercial college when she was eighteen. She’d made her way now in three jobs, still while keeping house, performing ably, and adjusting to the demands of her employers.

  She’d more than adjusted to Thomas’s. She was selling her very innocence! Not that he wanted it, she sniffed. She was unlikely to get another offer, and would never know the alleged delights of being a woman.

  After tonight, alleged was the wrong word. She had certainly felt some delight and wanted more.

  Now all she felt was misery and rejection.

  And then her door flew open, a shaft of light from the hallway cutting into her gloom. Thomas stood there in just his pajama bottoms, his hair awry. Harriet clutched the blankets to her chest. Her very naked chest. All of her was naked. Oh, dear.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  Harriet didn’t know what to say to him. Take a sleeping draught? Read a book? Go out on the town for amusement? London was very busy in certain quarters at this time of the night. It was still New Year’s Eve, after all. He was bound to be welcomed at a hundred parties.

  He took a few steps into the room. “I’m sorry. May I come in?”

  “You’re already in. Please shut the door before someone catches you in here,” she said coldly. She had to get him out of here as soon as possible before he saw her too-colorful cheek.

  And the rest of her.

  “I’ve hurt your feelings. You’re cross with me.”

  “Of course not. My feelings don’t enter into anything. It’s not my place to object to anything. I’m at your disposal, Sir Thomas.”