by Liana Lefey
“Not at all, Your Grace,” she interjected. “I was simply stating the facts concerning your part in the current renovations.”
“Shame on you, Lady Harriett,” he chided. “You ought to be enjoying yourself, not talking of such sober matters during a time of revelry.” He turned back to Sandwich. “It’s been what, some two years since your return from the tour?” he said, changing the subject. “Your letters from Egypt were so very intriguing, but they left me curious. I wish I’d come to see you sooner. When you have time, you must visit and tell me all about your travels.”
He returned just after William died, thought Harriett. Manchester would have been in deep mourning, though Sandwich seemed not to remember it.
“Ah, yes!” said Sandwich with enthusiasm. “The temples of Greece, the palaces of Turkey, and the vast monuments of Egypt—all of them far more fascinating than can be described in any fusty old book, though I have considered writing on the subjects myself now I’ve seen them in person. I hope to go back and revisit them one day.” His voice grew wistful. “Once such places enter the soul of a man, they never truly leave.”
Harriett knew it would never happen. He had married Dorothy at the beginning of March and had many obligations to fulfill, not the least of which was getting an heir—which had thus far proven somewhat problematic. Dorothy had confided in her during lunch that her new husband was distinctly lacking in romance when it came to their marriage bed.
She eyed Sandwich with doubt. For a man rumored to be a member of the Hellfire Club and who openly kept none other than the infamous Fanny Murray for a mistress, such news was a surprise. Harriett prayed the cheerful degenerate didn’t give Dorothy the pox.
Her opinion of her host stayed well hidden, however, as she politely reinserted herself into the conversation. “My lord, I wonder that you have not written a dozen books by now, having seen such inspiring sights. I, who am likely never to leave England’s shores, would certainly delight in reading such exotic tales.”
Sandwich’s cheeks rounded and pinked at her flattery. “Perhaps I shall pen them, at that,” he murmured, his interest in her renewed. “One doesn’t often think of ladies as being adventurous, but you have a heart for it, I can tell.”
Meeting his gaze, she held it, giving him her most alluring smile. “I am far more adventurous than many might suppose.” She flicked a glance at Manchester. “Indeed, had I been born a man, I should have done a great many things forbidden to women.”
“Oho!” said Sandwich, his smile broadening to a grin as he bowed low before her. “Rebellion boils within your breast—a woman after my own heart! Let not your sex keep you from your desires, dear lady. There are women who pursue their dreams, who travel the world and follow the will o’ the wisp. It takes courage to do such things, courage that I deem you have in great abundance.”
It also takes a great deal of money. She bit her tongue and cast down her gaze. “Such encouragement invigorates me, my lord. Perhaps one day I shall follow my heart and see where it leads.”
“No doubt a great heart like yours will take you to some far horizon on the other side of the world,” he said, taking up one of her hands and kissing it. “Just be sure to come back and tell me of your adventures.” He released her. “Now I believe I hear the beginnings of a—”
“Lady Harriett, would you honor me with this dance?” cut in Manchester.
Harriett, shocked at his rudeness, glanced at Sandwich, expecting to see a frown of displeasure on his face. Instead, she saw gleeful speculation. She swallowed and turned back to Manchester. “I would be delighted, Your Grace.”
Without waiting, he swiftly appropriated her arm and led her away.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she hissed as he assumed the opening position.
“Doing what? Dancing with you?”
“Don’t mock me!”
“I? Mock you? I would never mock a lady. And a lady is what you are, no matter how you just tried to convince Sandwich otherwise.”
“I did no such thing!”
“You were flirting with him.”
“I was being polite to our host, which is more than I can say for you, his supposed friend.”
“You were being coy and inviting. Beware, for John is not a man for any woman to encourage—he has no morals or inhibitions to keep him from pursuing what he desires.”
“And you do?”
He stared down at her. “I have restrained myself a good deal more of late than I have in the whole of my life prior to meeting you.”
It was a moment before she remembered to breathe. “False flattery will get you nowhere, Your Grace. I know your opinion of me.”
“Is it false?” he asked, something flaring to life in his whiskey eyes. “If that is what you think, then allow me to prove to you otherwise.”
She gasped as he swept her away and off the dance floor. She had neither the time nor the wherewithal to object before she was propelled through the French doors and out into the darkness beyond.
He swung her about to face him.
“How dare you!” she squawked, indignant at his high-handed manner.
“Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, Harriett?” he said in a voice like rich, dark velvet. “You’ve changed. You’ve become something quite other than what I remember from our first few encounters. Against my better judgment, I find myself intrigued.”
She laughed, and was startled at the breathless, husky sound. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“That night at the Penworth ball, you were...how shall I say it to best convey the impact of that moment? You were mysterious. Sensual. Delectable. And you continue to reveal new, hitherto hidden aspects that tempt and fascinate me.”
Tempt and fascinate? “This from the man who once mistook me for a lowly servant,” she snapped, lading her words with scorn.
“Ah, but that was before you showed me the real you. I have decided what to do with you, Harriett, now that I know the truth.”
Her heart hammered away at its cage, sending tendrils of both panic and desire throughout her body as he moved closer.
“You’ve put me on my ear and unbalanced the scales of our happy little war,” he teased, reaching out and capturing one of her hands. With his thumb, he traced a lazy circle on the back of it.
“Stop that,” she said, ashamed to hear her voice trembling as he followed the path of his thumb with his lips. “Stop it at once.”
“Stop desiring you? Never.”
“This is not the real me!” She tugged, to no avail. “The clothes may be different, but I’m the same person you’ve known from the start—the do-good prude, the kitchen maid, the drudge!”
He raised a brow, and a sinful smile stole across his lips. “How can I ever look at you and see ‘Drudge Dunhaven’ ever again?”
She tried to back away, but could not so long as he held her hand. “I know what you are on about. This is nothing more than another attempt to unsettle me and make me leave the Hospital.”
“Why were you flirting with John?” he said, pulling her closer so he could look down into her eyes.
Her head reeled at his sudden change of both subject and tone. His voice had grown deeper, with a dangerous edge to it. “I was not—”
“You were.”
“I was not!” she gasped, jerking free. Rather than flee, however, she stood her ground, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her run away.
“Then pray tell me what you thought you were doing? First Russell, then John...are you by chance trying to make me jealous?”
Harriett blinked in surprise as his words made her feel all funny inside. “I was attempting to remain in his good graces, if you must know. He’d just promised a rather large donation to the Hospital—and then you showed up and began pushing me out of the conversation.”
“You don’t need his money,” he growled.
“It’s not for me. It’s for the Hospital!”
“John never give
s a gift without expecting something in return.”
“Fine.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Then we’ll have to name the new building after him, won’t we?”
His eyes widened. “Just how the hell much did he offer you?”
“He committed two thousand pounds before several witnesses—to the Hospital.”
“Bloody hell, woman!” he exploded. “No man gives a sum like that without expecting his bed warmed for it!”
Horrified, she gaped at him for a moment. “He’s a married man! Married to one of my friends, in fact. Even if he weren’t, I am appalled that you would even suggest I might engage in an illicit liaison for money like some common dockside strumpet!”
“If he is married to your friend, then why bother with him when she could just as easily have helped you?”
“She did,” Harriett answered through clenched teeth. “It was Dorothy’s idea to donate the funds. He told me so himself.”
Manchester stared at her. “Don’t avoid the issue. You were clearly trying to endear yourself to him. I was there.”
“So what if I was?” she said, cornered and not liking it one bit. “The man has several unmarried friends. Did it not occur to you that I might want him to introduce me to some of them? No. You immediately thought of the worst, the lowest, the crudest possible motivation for my congeniality.”
“You don’t want to marry any of his friends.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are all like him.”
She crossed her arms and pressed her lips together in triumph. “Including you? You named him friend, so I must assume that puts you among their ilk.”
“I have known John since he was a boy. He has always looked up to me.”
“Indeed? Well, it seems to me young ‘John’ learned a great deal from observing you,” she bit out. “I know all about his affairs and mistresses. The phrase ‘birds of a feather’ comes to mind.”
“I don’t know why I bother talking to you,” he muttered. “You are as difficult to reason with as the north wind.”
“Then why don’t you stop trying? Heaven knows all I’ve wanted since the moment we met is for you to leave me alone,” she said, flinging the words at him like knives and hoping they were sharp enough to drive him away.
“That’s not all you’ve wanted, and we both know it.”
The quiet truth hung on the air between them, a tangible thing. Harriett stood, paralyzed, as he came closer.
“Lord Russell doesn’t make you feel this way, does he?” he asked softly, moving to within mere inches of her.
She ought to have been outraged, but she couldn’t dredge up the anger—because he was right. “Lord Russell is devoted to me,” she said, her voice faint in her ears. “And you, Your Grace, cannot presume to know how I feel about anything.”
“Perhaps not, but I can venture a very good guess at the moment.”
He leaned toward her, and her whole body strained upward of its own accord, the craving of his closeness like some dreadful thirst that could only be assuaged by his kiss. As his lips covered hers and his arms wrapped around her, something inside her eased.
Heaven help her, she’d wanted this that day in the cemetery—to hold him and be held, to feel his strength against her, to feel the breath and life in him and have it drive away the cold and the grief and the ache of loneliness.
Drugging warmth spread into every limb as he gentled his hold, as his mouth moved over hers with sudden, unexpected tenderness. It was as if the sun had come out to shine full upon her, filling her with blessed heat that sank right down into the marrow of her bones. She hadn’t realized how chilled she’d become until he’d touched her and set her ablaze.
Though her desire for the man in her arms—for her arms had indeed risen to return his embrace—was insistent and demanding, part of her registered that it wasn’t only lust she was feeling. Every bit of her, every last infinitesimal mote, knew a sense of completion unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
For the first time ever outside the Hospital walls, Harriett felt as though she belonged.
Fifteen
When Harriett’s hands crept up to cradle Roland’s face, the shock wave of her touch rippled throughout his entire being. He could hardly breathe for the sudden tumult in his chest. Her slender fingers stroked the hair at his temples, grazed the planes of his cheeks, and her smooth palms cupped the sides of his jaw. So soft and tender was her touch, like feathers brushing against his skin.
The kiss they’d shared at the masque had been different, tempestuous, almost defiant. But there was no defiance here, only a slow surrender to sweetness. She was pliant in his arms. If he were to open them, she would fall. He tightened his hold a little, the ache of desire intensifying as her soft form molded to his own.
After a long, blissful moment, he pulled back—not because he wanted to stop, but because he had to. If he did not, they would both be in serious trouble. And not because of the chaos stirring in his breeches, but because of the chaos stirring in his breast.
Of a certainty, her response to him was instinctual and had nothing to do with what her heart desired. Unfortunately, his own heart had just betrayed him by deciding what it wanted—what it could not have. Acute, physical pain struck him as he looked down and saw tears streaming from beneath her lashes.
His plan had gone all wrong. Watching her with Russell today had quickly grown from being unpleasant to downright unbearable. Seeing her flirt with John had just about driven him mad. He’d wanted to punch the man. And now she was crying. He didn’t have to ask why. He could think of only one man for whom Harriett Dunhaven would shed tears, and he was far beyond the reach of any fist.
Jealousy. He’d teased her about trying to incite him into it just now, not realizing that he was already the victim of its cruel caprice. He waited until she regained her balance before releasing her. Her eyes were glazed, bewildered, as if she’d awakened from some dream to find reality completely different.
It was. They were enemies. She loathed him. And I am not her William...
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he truly meant it.
She stared at him, saying nothing.
“I—I shan’t make excuses for my behavior,” he continued, struggling for composure. She began to back away, and he panicked. “No, Harriett, please. I must—”
But it was too late. In a flash, she’d turned and fled.
He could go after her, but it would likely result in a scene and lead to embarrassment for them both. Besides, he didn’t have any solutions to offer for a problem he was only now realizing existed. An odd sensation flooded him as he watched her run, a sort of tearing deep inside, followed by yawning emptiness.
As she vanished from sight, all of his strength bled out. Bending over, he gulped air as though there were not enough of it in the world to fill his lungs. A stone bench beckoned in the shadows. He sat and waited until his heart had slowed, hoping his thoughts would settle themselves along with it. They didn’t.
When he at last rose, the moon was a good deal higher in the sky than it had been when he’d come out with Harriett. He was stiff and had no idea how long he’d sat there staring into the night.
Going into the house, he could not help looking for her. His eyes sought her out, but found no trace. He had to leave and quickly, but wanted to see her beforehand—had to see her—if only to assure himself she was well. It was a shallow excuse for his need to lay eyes on her again, and he knew it.
Though it made him grind his teeth, he began searching for the bright red head of Lord Russell. He found it quickly and sure enough, there she was with him. She looked a bit wan and her smile appeared brittle, but at least she was still here and not in tears. The solicitous Russell bent to offer her a glass of punch and she took it.
It galled him to admit it, but Russell was one of the few decent men he knew in a city all too ready to indulge a man’s vices. The fellow was a bit prone to emotional displays, b
ut that was just the way of some men. But did he love her?
Love.
Roland stood and stared at her, heedless of the crowd flowing around him, their grumbling only faintly registering. Is that what this is? He hardly knew, seeing as he’d never felt anything like it before. It wasn’t anything like the sentimental drivel Rich and his players acted out on the stage. The longing looks, the burst of song flowing from a heart too full to contain its joy.
This was nothing like that. This was painful. Unpleasant. It couldn’t be...that.
Guilt. That’s what caused this constriction, this feeling of there not being enough air in the room. Someone bumped into him, breaking his reverie. Chest tight, Roland turned away and entered the flow of the passing crowd, determined to leave before he did anything stupid—or rather anything else stupid.
The ride home passed in a blur, London’s dark streets going by unnoticed while he was lost in thought. Upon arriving, he went straight to his office and reached automatically for the comfort of the brandy decanter. Up on the mantelpiece, a long flat box caught his eye. He took it down. The items within shifted and rattled against the sides as he turned it over.
He’d avoided opening it for almost two years. He knew what was inside. Had his brother left behind more than just admonishments and pleas to live a more respectable life? Had he perhaps written of Harriett?
Possessed by a burning need to know everything there was to know about her, even if it meant reading every harsh, critical word his brother had written, Roland carried the box over to the desk. He turned up the lamp until the flame was bright enough to read by and opened the lid.
The stack of letters stared back at him. He picked them up and turned them over to see William’s neat script dating each. The oldest had been written just before their father’s death. He broke the seal, and several bank notes fell out as he unfolded the parchment.
Roland,
Please use the enclosed to pay the debt owed to Munthorpe, after which I implore you to come home. Do not allow your pride to keep you from...
