by Robyn DeHart
Harriet slowed her breathing. She’d never been this furious. It seemed ridiculous that merely defending Iris could have riled her up this way. Then she realized with stunning clarity that she, too, was angry with Iris. She didn’t blame her, but it did seem as if some of the blame rested on her. Not all, but some. Had she not been so reckless in her behavior with Lord Ashby, he would have been none the wiser about their secret group and the skills they possessed.
The meeting ended. There was nothing left to say. The women left in small groups, and Harriet and Agnes decided to walk since their own houses were not far from the Somersby townhome.
“I cannot believe we’re finished,” Harriet said as they strolled down the street.
“Not finished, dear, merely on a reprieve,” Agnes said.
“How can you be so certain?”
“I don’t believe that Lady Somersby has worked this hard to simply let everything fall to the wayside.”
Harriet considered that. “Lord Somersby must be helping her.”
“Yes, I suspect that he was here today to observe. He’s had years of training and experience in this and perhaps he believes that this Lady X is in our group,” Agnes said. “The most significant problem is that if we wait until she’s ready for us to be active again, our skills will have dulled. What we need is a way we can continue to train in the interim.”
Harriet stopped walking and stared at her friend.
“A secret location,” Agnes continued, not realizing she now walked alone. “I know that my home would not work—dear heavens, my brother watches everything I do. It’s rather astounding that he doesn’t already know about our group.”
Now she knew precisely what to trade with Lord Davenport for her matchmaking services. “Agnes,” Harriet called.
She stopped and turned with a frown. “What are you doing?”
“You are brilliant, and I believe I have the perfect solution.”
…
It had been more than a week since he’d seen Harriet at the Crystal Palace, though he’d returned every day in between. He told himself it was because he was mesmerized by the architecture and exhibits, and that was true. But he also knew that part of him hoped each visit he’d run into her again. Aside from his obvious attraction to her, he wasn’t certain why he enjoyed her company. He’d decided not to spend too much thought on it. She was pretty, and his presence seemed to simultaneously make her nervous and embolden her to speak her mind. It was a heady combination.
When a note from her arrived that morning suggesting he accompany his mother on her visit to see her own later that afternoon, he’d not even considered not going. Perhaps she’d had second thoughts about helping him. But her motives didn’t even matter. He wanted to see her and she, for whatever reason, wanted to see him.
His mother had seemed surprised when he’d shown up ready to escort her to weekly tea with Lady Lockwood.
She kept smiling covertly at him in the carriage.
“I took your advice and have sought Lady Harriet’s assistance in finding myself a wife.”
“Splendid.”
“Mother.”
“I am pleased you are taking this task seriously.”
He doubted that was it, but he said nothing more. When the carriage stopped, he climbed down, then assisted his mother. Number 22 King Street was a handsome townhome with red brick and two white columns flanking the shiny black door.
He’d already noted that the entryway and foyer of the townhome were in excellent repair. The Lockwoods quite obviously took great care with their home.
“My lady,” the butler said to his mother. “The duchess has requested tea for you in the gardens.”
“Excellent choice,” his mother said.
Oliver moved to lead his mother to the back of the house where the garden doors would be, but the butler held up a hand.
“My lord, if you don’t mind, Lady Harriet suggests you might wish to wait for your mother in here.” He opened the door to their immediate right.
His mother didn’t wait for him; instead she simply smiled and waved as she followed the butler down the corridor.
Oliver noted that the parlor was tastefully decorated, and he recognized that his mother must love this room with the pale green tones. But what caught his attention most was the vaulted ceiling and the fresco painting of cherubs with gilded wings.
The butler stepped back into the room and Harriet entered, followed closely by another woman, her lady’s maid, he’d guess.
“Lord Davenport,” Harriet said with a curtsy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Of course, she couldn’t admit to inviting him here herself. That simply wasn’t done. She’d certainly gone to great lengths to follow propriety in setting up this rendezvous. He stepped over to her and bent as well as he could over her hand, pressing his lips to the softness of her glove, never taking his eyes off her. She had such a pleasant face that he decided he could look at it for hours. Sketch it. He didn’t often draw anything other than building plans, but on occasion something beckoned him to put his pencil to paper. Lady Harriet was one such thing, though he doubted he could do her justice.
He motioned to the large leather chair adjacent to the settee. “May I?”
Her eyes fell to his leg, then the cane. He was accustomed to the looks and the stares; still, from her it was unsettling.
“Yes, of course, where are my manners?”
He lowered himself into the chair, knowing that his slow, methodical movements were likely painful and awkward to watch.
She and her maid sat on the settee.
“The weather has been unusually cold,” she said.
He nodded. He’d noticed. His damned leg was better than a weather vane at knowing when a temperature shift was coming.
“Is that what you wanted to discuss? The weather?” he asked.
Her cheeks pinkened. “No. It would seem that some things have changed since last we spoke, and I have reconsidered assisting you.”
“In my bride hunt?”
She inclined her head.
“So, you have decided to no longer concern yourself with my spending habits?”
“Of course not. I still believe your behavior to be appalling, and I will not cease reminding you of such.”
“Splendid,” he said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. “I fear I would miss your incessant nagging.”
“As it so happens, I’ve decided there is something I want from you, in exchange for my help.”
His eyes dropped to her lips. Her perfectly pink rosebud lips. As if she read his mind, she bit down on her bottom lip. He wanted to kiss her. Hell, he wanted to do more than that, but starting with that would be all too pleasant. He didn’t dally with virgins, though. She was off-limits. Or she should be.
“You want me, you were saying,” he said.
She frowned. “I want something from you.” She turned to her maid. “Lottie, would you be a dear and fetch us some tea?”
Her maid eyed her suspiciously, opened her mouth as if to say something, then curtsied and left the room.
“You recently purchased the Garner townhome right down the street from your own,” Harriet said, not wasting any time. “It is only a few doors from here.”
“That is correct. I bought it last month.” He frowned. “Why do you know that?”
Her shoulders lifted slightly. “Our mothers talk. I hear things.”
“What is it that you want with the Garner townhome?” he asked.
“I want to borrow it.”
He opened his mouth to ask a question, but she held up a hand to silence him.
“No questions asked.”
“The home is empty. I have only had it cleaned; I haven’t even hired staff for it or decided what I shall do with the property. Whatever…” His eyes took in the length of her. There was only one reason why a lady such as herself would want to have use of an unoccupied townhome—a lovers’ rendezvous. Anger surged through him. He didn’t
want to think about another man having his hands on Harriet’s beautiful body. That was ridiculous, though, as he certainly held no claim over her. “Who is he?”
Deep crevices furrowed her brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your lover, Harriet. What’s his name?”
Confusion marked each of her features.
“There is no other reason you’d need such a property,” he said.
Her shoulders rounded, and her chin tilted upward. “I, uh, yes, that is why I want the house. To, uh, fornicate with my lover.” She stumbled over several of the words, and her cheeks now glowed a deep crimson.
He nearly drowned on the relief flooding him, also ridiculous. He needed to do something soon about his unreasonable attraction to this woman. If she didn’t have a lover, then she had another reason to use the townhome. If she thought to play at deception, he would certainly oblige her. He stood and moved to sit next to her on the settee. She was the one who’d dismissed her chaperone.
“Are you saying you are a woman of loose morals?” he asked, leaning close to her face. She smelled delicious…like ripe cherries and cloves. He resisted the urge to inhale deeply.
Her eyes widened, and she sucked in a breath but nodded swiftly. “Yes, I am very much that. Very loose morals, indeed.”
He bit back a smile. “And you wish to fornicate inside my property?”
“I do. Fornicate, yes.”
He stared at her face, his eyes dropped to her lips again. She was so damned pretty.
“I can’t very well do it here,” she said.
“Of course not.” He was now so close he could see the pupils of her eyes widen at his nearness, the black swallowing the warm brown of her irises. “Loose morals,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she breathed.
And then he lowered his mouth to hers. She stiffened initially then relaxed as he coaxed her lips with his tongue. Her body leaned in to his, and she opened to him. He’d meant only to tease her, to startle her, but now that he’d started, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to stop kissing her. Especially since Harriet kissed him back. Her inexperience didn’t turn him off; on the contrary, the tentative strokes of her tongue fueled his desire. He cradled her face, let his thumb stroke her cheek.
The tea cart rattled down the corridor toward them, and Harriet abruptly stood, hand to her throat.
Her lips were parted, and her blush disappeared beneath her bodice.
He stood as well, leaned against his cane. “You might not wish to tell me the truth, but I shall discover why you want that house.” That kiss had been far more arousing than it should have been. He shifted his stance.
She took a steadying breath. “Then I may borrow it?”
“Yes. For the time being.”
The maid opened the door and shuttled the tea cart inside.
“You shall assist me in finding a suitable wife?”
“I will.”
He took her hand in his and pressed his lips to it. He looked up over her hand and met her gaze. “Then we have a deal.”
“I suppose we do.” Her fingers touched her lips as if to check that they were still in place. “If you will excuse me, I have a ball to get ready for.”
Chapter Five
What the hell had he been thinking? That she’d needed a kiss to shock her out of whatever game she thought to play with him? But as it turned out, everything had shifted onto him. Damnation if he didn’t want the chit.
He made his way to Benedict’s, the gaming hell his closest friend owned. Much of the success of Benedict’s was due to Oliver, but that was the way it should be. His father had nearly destroyed Benedict’s family. He’d certainly nearly bankrupted them as he’d done his own.
Much of Oliver’s fortune had gone into creating Benedict’s. He was a silent partner. And though his friend would not accept any additional funding, once the gaming establishment had opened, Oliver had done his best to patronize the place, infusing it with his funds. He was a decent card player, but damned if anyone in this town legitimately believed that for as many times as he lost.
At the moment, he waited in Benedict’s office, a spacious room set behind a wall of paneling and mirrors that framed the gaming room. He’d already helped himself to his friend’s brandy and sipped thoughtfully. Why had he agreed to his mother’s proposition? Because the poor woman had already wasted too much of her life on worthless Lords Davenport. Though he’d done his damnedest to not become his father, his accident had prevented his mother from moving on in order to stay at his side and assist him.
“Help yourself,” Benedict drawled as he entered the office.
“You know I always do.”
“You bought most of it, might as well enjoy it.” Benedict lowered himself into a chair adjacent to where Oliver sat, propping up his injured leg on the settee. He absently rubbed at the knee, crediting the achiness to the unusual chill in the air.
“I told my mother I would find a wife.”
Benedict paused mid-sip and grinned. “She was undoubtedly pleased.”
“She was.”
“It is about time. Have any prospects?” Benedict asked.
“No, but I have secured a matchmaker for myself.”
“That should be interesting.”
“Well, I’ve been out of society long enough, I don’t know any of the marriageable women. Nor do I truly want to, but there is only so much pestering a man can endure.” He took a swallow of the amber liquid. “Were she not so inclined to have grandchildren, I’d let the bloody title die with me.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Benedict said.
His friend was right, damn him. Still, Oliver liked to pretend that he didn’t care. But much of the last several years had been driven by his desire to right his father’s wrongs. Would he have bothered if he didn’t care about the Davenport name? Likely not. He could have simply made a fortune and paid off the debts and left it at that. But, instead, he’d repurchased all the Davenport properties that his father had lost in wagers and games of chance and repaid all of his debts and then some.
“So how did you find this matchmaker?”
“She’s not officially a matchmaker, we merely have a deal. She needed something from me and agreed to help me with this in exchange. She knows everyone. Talks to bloody everyone. Talks all the damned time, actually.”
Benedict chuckled.
“What?” Oliver asked.
“There’s a problem with her. I can tell. I know you, Oliver.”
It was irritating that Benedict could read him so well. He would make a phenomenal card player if he ever chose to gamble himself, because he would be able to identify every player’s stance. Benedict owned the gaming hell, but he never gambled. Oliver shrugged. “I want her.”
Benedict leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “The matchmaker?”
“Yes.”
“But she is married?”
“No.”
“Too old?”
“No. She is a virgin. I don’t seduce virgins.” He drained his glass and set it down on the table to his right.
“So marry her.”
Oliver eyed his friend and let his words sink in. Marry Harriet. He’d been given the opportunity to do precisely that once upon a time. He knew their families would approve.
“I’m glad I could solve all of your problems.”
“I haven’t agreed with you.”
“Yet. You’ll get there.” Benedict stood and retrieved a ledger book and set it down. “Now, then, let us discuss this matter of you losing nearly fifty pounds in here last month.”
Marry Harriet? That would certainly solve two problems. He wouldn’t have to bride hunt. And he could have that bite-size morsel all to himself. Whenever he wanted. His cock stirred at the thought. It was a bloody brilliant plan, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself.
…
The entire time Lottie helped Harriet dress and arranged her hair, she had relived Oliver’s kiss. What had
he been playing at? He knew she’d been lying about having a lover; no doubt he could tell precisely how inexperienced she was once he’d kissed her. Still, he had kissed her.
To tease her? To distract her? To torment her?
She wasn’t certain.
Tonight was about Iris, she reminded herself. If all things went as Lord Ashby had planned, then he and Iris would be engaged by the end of the night. That is what Harriet should be concentrating on, since she’d helped him follow through with the plan.
It would do Harriet no good to dwell on a kiss that had meant nothing to Lord Davenport. It mattered not that it had been nearly earth-shattering for her. Though only his lips had touched her, she’d felt him all over her body. She’d kissed him back, too. Never mind she hadn’t known what to do, she’d followed his lead.
Of course, it had been her first kiss. Her only kiss. Perhaps that was how all kisses were. She would ask Iris, but then she’d have to confess that she’d allowed the boorish and brooding Lord Davenport to take liberties with her. And for nothing more than to humor himself. Not only that, but this ball was a special gesture for Iris from Lord Ashby. It was not the time to pull her friend aside and question her about kisses.
He saw her as a joke, she knew that. He’d said as much six years before when their mothers had tried to create a match between the two of them. Then he had desperately needed her dowry, and still he’d said no. Her mother had excused his rejection, claiming that it had more to do with him being brokenhearted after Catherine Finney had dissolved their would-be betrothal. They hadn’t been officially engaged, but everyone had assumed that they would marry.
Then his accident had happened. He’d disappeared from Society for an entire six months while he’d healed, and Catherine had waited for him. When he’d returned, with a bad limp and a cane, she’d backed out. Two months later she’d married Lord Burgess.
The rest of the evening went by in a blur. Harriet was so distracted, she hadn’t fully enjoyed Iris’s expression when Lord Ashby had declared himself to her. Harriet’s mind, instead, focused on two things: Oliver’s kiss and getting over to the Burkes townhome to begin her plans for the training space.
