“My lady,” Roger said, bowing the bare minimum for politeness’ sake in Lady Maxwell’s direction. “Faircloth,” he added flatly. That was all he said. They both sat there on their horses staring at him for a moment as if they expected more.
When nothing more was forthcoming, Lady Maxwell frowned. “You’ve been fighting again, Mr. Templeton. Have you nothing to say in your defense?” she asked peevishly.
Roger remembered quite well why he had spent one night only with Lady Maxwell. There was more than one reason, actually. First, she was married, though she forgot about that as often as society did since Lord Maxwell preferred the country with his dogs and his plump, common mistress. Second, he’d been very deep in his cups, having lost a horse race that afternoon, which is how she’d gotten him into bed. When he was sober, he hastily rectified that situation. But third, and most important, he didn’t like her. Not at all. And to spend more than one night with her meant she would insist on some sort of conversation, which he wished to avoid at all costs.
“What exactly am I supposed to be defending myself from, madam?” he inquired, his words cool and clipped. If she was going to get nasty about Harry, and truly he didn’t put that past her, he wanted it to be clear from the beginning that she had instigated the immediate and chilling set down he was prepared to give her.
Lady Maxwell ignored him and zeroed in on Harry. “I can’t believe you’ve forgiven him so easily, Lady Mercer,” she simpered. “If a man had derided my attentions all over London as Mr. Templeton has yours, I’d give him the cut direct, not my hand.”
Harry laughed and winked at him. “Oh, dear. Templeton, have you been very naughty?”
“I was playing the reluctant suitor,” he said with a teasing grin. “Didn’t it make my surrender that much sweeter?”
“I’m still savoring my victory,” she said drily.
Faircloth had been very quiet. He was watching Harry with an intensity that bordered on animosity. It had Roger’s hackles rising. “Nothing to say, Faircloth?” he asked with false bonhomie.
Faircloth smiled, but not at Roger. At Harry, who became still, much like a rabbit or doe when they sense the hunter approach. Roger didn’t realize he’d turned his horse to block Faircloth’s view of Harry until it nervously pranced in front of her. Faircloth turned his attention to Roger. “Not much to say,” he answered, “at least not to you, Templeton. Since I’ve been visiting Lady Mercer regularly, I can save any words I have for her.”
At that, Lady Maxwell glared at her companion. “You are acquainted with Lady Mercer?” Roger could tell she was not happy to hear that.
“The late Lord Mercer was a great friend of mine. Was he not, Lady Mercer?” Faircloth asked.
Harry was quite pale now. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Faircloth,” she answered evenly. “Mercer had a great many acquaintances, many of whom I didn’t know. There were several he did not think fit company for me, and so I had nothing to do with them.”
Harry’s late husband knew Faircloth? That was certainly an interesting development. Roger couldn’t imagine what the two men had in common. He could, however, imagine that Faircloth was one whom Mercer did not find fit company for his young wife.
Faircloth’s cheeks flushed in anger at her response and he narrowed his eyes. “We saw quite a bit of one another, if I remember correctly,” Faircloth bit out. “Certainly we were more than mere acquaintances, Lady Mercer, with your husband’s blessing. I believe he said he wished to find younger companions to keep you company in the country, did he not?”
Harry said nothing. She stared straight ahead, her cheeks pale and her full lips tight with unhappiness. Roger had several questions about her history with Faircloth, but he had no desire to prolong their conversation at this point.
“Well,” Roger injected into the silence with a cold smile, “I daresay should you try to visit Lady Mercer again, you’ll find me there. We have a great deal of catching up to do. We knew one another when we were children. Did you know that? I suppose that means our acquaintance supersedes yours.” He turned his horse toward the park entrance, in the opposite direction from Lady Maxwell and Faircloth. Reaching out, he gently tugged Harry’s hand off the reins. He kissed the gloved back. “We shall be inseparable as we were in those days, eh, Harry?” he murmured.
She turned and gave him a sad, grateful smile. He wasn’t sure what had made her sad. His mention of their childhood friendship?
Chapter Ten
Harry was nearly in tears by the time they got back to her house. Faircloth was going to ruin it. He was going to ruin everything. As soon as Roger found out about their past association, he’d leave. She’d had him for only one day. Wait, no. She mentally did the math. Less than one day by several hours. Which was decidedly unfair. She wanted those things he’d talked about this morning in the park. And she wanted them with him.
Roger was silent as well for most of the ride, speaking only to be solicitous as he rode in front of her, guiding them home through the busy streets. The closer they got to Manchester Square the quieter the streets became, until Harry was left with her morose thoughts. In order to take her mind off the impending disaster awaiting their affair, she watched his backside, encased in a tight pair of buff breeches, rock to and fro in the sleek saddle on his horse. He had an excellent seat. She followed the line of his straight back up to his broad shoulders. As he guided his horse, the dark blue jacket he wore was strained to the limit by his muscular physique. She might never see those shoulders uncovered now. Which was a travesty of monumental proportions. She’d seen the collection of classical sculptures at the British Museum and she imagined Roger must look like that when he disrobed. Scandalously, deliciously perfect.
When they arrived back home, Harry watched Roger dismount. It was a thing of beauty. Through the thin jersey of his breeches she could actually see the muscles of his thigh and buttock clench as he swung his leg over and down. Good Lord. She had never, ever considered a man’s body physically beautiful before. But she wanted to just sit and stare at Roger’s behind. She watched him walk over to her and wished he were naked.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly from beside her horse.
“What?” she asked absentmindedly, still trying to picture him naked. She was quite sure he would not look silly with his sex hanging between his legs as he walked, as Mercer had.
Roger hung his head then looked up, appearing angry, his lips thinned and brows lowered. “Dammit, I’m sorry, Harry. I had no idea Faircloth was bothering you so much. You should have said something. I would have taken care of it sooner.”
“You would?” she asked stupidly. She shook her head, feeling like the village idiot, and probably sounding like it, too.
“Of course I would have,” he said defensively. He sighed and pulled off his hat, tapping it against his thigh in agitation. “Perhaps I gave you the impression over the last two weeks that I didn’t care. I’m sorry for that, too.”
“No,” she said automatically. “I always knew you cared.” And she had. He was the only one in London who hadn’t realized it. He met her gaze then, and neither looked away, though they did not speak. For some silly reason her breathing accelerated and she grew quite warm in her riding habit. She broke their stare, and she could not stop herself from looking down at his thighs. His rock-hard thighs framing … oh, my. She jerked her gaze up only to meet his now amused stare. Then he smiled foolishly, his dimples so deep she wanted to taste them on her tongue.
She gasped in shock at her own thoughts. And he knew. She could tell he knew what she’d been thinking. Her face flamed with a painful blush. His smile changed to something sly and suggestive that would have outraged and offended her from another man. From Roger it only made her temperature rise to an unbearable intensity as she fidgeted in the saddle.
“Here,” he said roughly, stepping forward and raising his hands to her. “Let me help you down.” When she didn’t immediately lean into his hold, he rested one hand
on her thigh and the other on her horse’s neck. “I promise not to do anything here in the street.”
She felt her thigh quiver under his touch, not in revulsion but with high-strung excitement, much like the mare beneath her. “And when we get inside?”
“Then I will do whatever you wish.”
She got off the horse so quickly, Roger nearly dropped her. “Whoa!” he cried to the horse that pranced away from her graceless dismount. The footman rushed over and grabbed the reins as Roger yanked her into his embrace and turned his back to the horse, sheltering her from any danger. It was an automatic gesture on his part, no tenderness in it. And yet it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. He’d put himself between her and the horse. She peeked over his shoulder. Well, a rather docile and sweet horse, but still. He had no way of knowing that.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously, pushing her away with his hands on her shoulders, as he looked her up and down. “Didn’t you ever learn how to get off a horse properly?”
He was frowning at her now, and without thought, she reached up and ran her thumb over the lines on his forehead. “Don’t be cross,” she said quietly. “That’s not what I wish.”
Roger shook his head, looking exasperated. “You will be the death of me, yet,” he muttered. He grabbed her hand and dragged her behind him to the door where her butler, Mandrake, waited stoically. Lady Lockerby had found him for Harry, saying only that he came with glowing recommendations for his sterling character and his discretion. So far both had proven correct. She had a feeling that today was going to be the real test of his mettle, however.
Roger spared not a glance at Mandrake. He pulled off his hat and simply held it out waiting for some invisible hand to deal with it, never taking his eyes off Harry. “Where?” he asked. That was all, just one word. And upon hearing it she was positively vibrating with excitement, and fear, and curiosity, and arousal. This. This was what she had wanted from an affair, had hoped so desperately to find but had not until she saw Roger again.
She pointed wordlessly up the stairs and Roger dragged her in that direction. Mandrake did not ask a single question. When she looked back, the entryway was mysteriously empty, as if he had disappeared into thin air. Oh, she did have an excellent staff.
Roger went up the stairs, pulling her along rather urgently, which she adored. He turned to go into the receiving parlor, but Harry’s sharp “No” had him stopping and turning back to her. He raised his eyebrow in question. She didn’t want to go into the same room she’d used for Faircloth’s visits. Instead she pointed farther down the hall. “On the right,” she said, directing him to her private parlor. No one came in there, not even Lady Lockerby, who had respected her privacy. Privacy was definitely required right now.
When he got to the door, there was a rough desperation in the way he shoved it open until it banged against the wall. He dragged Harry through the door and literally threw her into the room, slamming the door behind him. She spun to face him and they stood there staring at each other, their chests heaving like they’d run a race from the park to the square. And then they were kissing. Harry wasn’t exactly sure who moved first, or how it happened. But she had her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly that no one could have gotten her off him without doing one or both of them harm. And he was no better. Harry could hardly breathe for the strength of his embrace around her middle.
They kissed roughly, with an urgent passion that Harry had never known, had never even suspected existed. She needed that kiss like she needed air and water. Their tongues clashed, wet and slick and hungry for the taste of the other. She ran her hand up to the back of his head and grabbed a fistful of his hair, just to make sure he didn’t try to stop kissing her. He made a deep sound in the back of this throat, half grunt and half groan, and Harry knew it was a good sound. She answered it with a moan as he slanted his mouth across hers, deepening a kiss that had already reached so deep inside that her stomach rippled with the intensity of it and she had to move her hips against Roger to ease the ache of it.
Roger ripped his mouth from hers and looked around. Then he picked her up with his arms still wrapped about her middle, her feet dangling, and carried her over to the wall next to the door, slamming her back against it. Without asking permission, he tore the ribbon holding her hat, ripped it off, and threw it aside. He cupped her cheeks, not tenderly but possessively, and then ran his hands up into her hair, dislodging pins. He made an impatient sound and let go only to yank his gloves off. The left one wouldn’t come off, so he gripped it in his teeth and tore it off, spitting it onto the floor, and then his hands were in her hair again and he was kissing her, holding her head the way he wanted it, pressing her into the wall with his body.
Harry lost control of the situation, if she’d ever had it. But oddly enough, she didn’t care. She let Roger do what he wanted to her, gave herself over completely to his desire. It was a heady feeling, knowing that she would get just what she wanted without having to fight for it. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on for a moment, but then she had a revelation. Just as she wanted Roger to do whatever he wanted to her, he wanted her to do the same to him. And what she wanted was to touch him. She wanted to feel that marvelous backside in the palms of her hands. So she slid her hands down his lower back, fumbled under the tails of his coat, and … there. Her head fell back against the wall as she squeezed the tight mounds and they flexed at her touch. She and Roger both groaned at the same time and he thrust his hips against her. His hands went from her head to her bottom and he gripped her hard through the layers of her skirt, pulling her into him.
While they rubbed against each other, Roger placed slow, sensual, wet kisses along her jaw and down her neck. He stopped at her décolletage and kissed the exposed top of one breast and Harry gasped. She allowed instinct to guide her as she raised her leg and wrapped it around his waist, forced to move one hand off his rump to do it. But that was all right. She clutched the back of his head with her free hand and held his mouth to her chest.
Roger yanked on her skirt until it was no longer between them, grabbed her leg and held it up around his waist as he adjusted his stance. Suddenly they fit together like a hand in a glove. His sex was a hard ridge against the sensitive flesh between her legs, and she cried out as he thrust and a bolt of ecstasy shot straight from her sex to her head.
“Yes,” Roger ground out, his voice strange and deep and wonderful against her breast. “Like that. Can’t wait.” He repeated the movement again and again and Harry mimicked him, meeting him in a violence of passion, desperate to feel that hard piece of him driving against her over and over, making her feel like she never had before. She felt wild and hungry, a savage need driving all thought from her head except Roger and never wanting the pleasure to end.
She loved the sound of them, their rough panting and grunts and groans and the stiff sound of the fabric of their clothes rubbing together. “I want you naked,” she admitted, her voice so breathless she could barely get the words out. She gripped Roger’s neck, her hand wrapped around his nape, as he thrust hard against her and she had to bite her lip to keep the loud shout of pleasure locked in her throat.
“Yes, later. Again. Later.” She laughed, a mad sort of laugh, completely out of control because what they were doing had made him incapable of speaking a complete sentence. She let go of his backside in order to burrow her hand under his waistband so she could cup his hot, hard, naked bottom only to realize that she still had her riding gloves on. She moaned in frustration.
He latched onto the side of her neck with his lips, sucking deeply as he panted loudly through his nose, his thrusts hard and sharp now, faster and rougher. And Harry knew something wonderful was about to happen. She felt damp and empty and aching inside, her sex throbbing in anticipation. She had never, ever throbbed before Roger had touched her yesterday. “Roger,” she said in a shaky voice, frightened and desperate at the same time.
“Yes. Now. Now Ha
rry. Give it to me.”
As the indescribable pleasure hit her and her sex clenched tight she cried out, digging her fingers into his neck and his behind so hard that she knew she must be hurting him, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. She rode the waves of pleasure selfishly, rubbing against his sex without an ounce of shame just for the feel of it, the mad pleasure it brought her. And then Roger cried out, thrusting against her and shuddering in her arms, and she knew with a wonder born of amazement and desire that he felt it, too, felt this unholy, selfish, insane, marvelous pleasure.
Chapter Eleven
It took at least a minute before Roger was capable of rational thought. During that minute he simply stood there holding Harry’s leg still wrapped around him, panting into her neck. And then it hit him how ludicrous this whole situation was.
He’d just come in his breeches like a schoolboy, while both he and Harry were still fully clothed. He’d tossed her into the room like a common strumpet and dry humped her against a wall without one ounce of tact or consideration. And he had no idea what to do about it.
“Roger,” she inquired sweetly, “would you be so kind as to put my leg down? I don’t believe I can do that for much longer.”
“Oh, of course,” he said quickly, and then awkwardly helped her get her foot to the floor. The leg tried to collapse under her and he grabbed her and propped her up against the wall. Her skirt was folded up on itself, still exposing most of her leg, and he hastily brushed it down with one hand while keeping her upright with his shoulder.
She began to laugh. “I can’t believe we just did that. I’m a mess.” He glanced up at her in dismay. She was trying unsuccessfully to tame that wild hair of hers again. Considering what they’d just done, he thought perhaps her hair was the result of trying to bury all that passion under too many rules. Her wild streak had to escape somehow.
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