Anita Mills (12 page)

Her arms slid around his waist, holding him, while his mouth took possession of hers. She was in the embrace of the man she’d loved for so long, and that was all that mattered now.

He’d expected her to be skittish and missish, but she clung to him, molding her body to his, letting him move his hands over her. It was not until he’d worked her dress, camisole, and zona down, freeing her breasts, that she resisted at all.

“No!” he croaked hoarsely as her hands came up to press against him. “Let me touch you.”

She tumbled backward and fell against the bed, lying half on and half off, her dark eyes huge in her face, until he lifted her feet, swung them onto the coverlet, and followed her down. Lying above her, his body propped on one elbow, he moved more leisurely now, taking advantage of the access to her breasts. And as he massaged, gently at first, she was shocked by the sensations that washed over her. She felt the thick waves of his dark hair where it lay against her chest, and then his mouth teased first one breast and then the other, and all the while his hands were everywhere, plying and stroking until she no longer cared what he did so long as he did not stop. She felt taut as a bowstring, every fiber of her being tuned to the mesmerizing touch of his hands and the tantalizing feel of his mouth at her breast. Her hands caressed the unruly dark head ceaselessly. His free arm brushed lightly over the smooth curve of her hip as his fingers dipped lower. She went rigid with shock at first, and then, as heat spread through her whole body, she moaned low.

Abruptly he rolled back, leaving her wanting, while he undressed himself. And then he finished removing her gown and petticoat. This time, when he eased his body back over hers, it was flesh to flesh. Her arms encircled his neck, her mouth sought his eagerly, and her body gave itself up to his.

It was a union that far exceeded both their expectations as each was lost in the other, carried on the rhythmic waves of passion. Afterward he lay spent and breathless for a time, one hand tracing the rise and fall of her ribs as she sought to master her own gasping breath.

And as rational thought returned, she was suddenly afraid that he was disgusted by her wantonness. But his hand came up to brush over her bruised lips.

“Harry …” he managed, still panting. “Lud, girl, I don’t know what came over you, but I hope ’twill always be like this between us.”

“I have loved you forever,” she answered simply, her own heart too full to say anything more.

“Tired?” he asked gently.

“I own I am,” she sighed.

She’d grown quieter and quieter the closer they drew to Rowe’s Hill, until he’d thought she slept for a time. Her eyes had been closed, her body turned toward the window, her head resting against the crimson velvet squabs, and she’d not spoken a word for several miles. He studied her profile, the curve of her cheek, the gently waving strands of hair that persisted in straying over her temple, softening the severity of the way she wore her hair. No, she was not a beauty, but she was taking in her own way. Even now he could remember how those dark eyes of hers grew even darker with passion, and he had to admit she’d surprised him.

He’d meant to set a far faster pace, but somehow the desire to race Two Harry again paled against the pleasure his wife gave him. And for once he was glad that Hannah had not bothered to instruct her stepdaughter in the matter of the marriage bed, for she’d not imparted to Harriet that delicate revulsion so many of their class had for physical intimacy. Even now, as his eyes strayed lower to dwell on the soft curve of his wife’s breasts beneath her fitted pelisse, he counted himself fortunate. If he’d had to marry years before he planned, if he’d had to wed anyone, it was just as well that it had been Harry, for she was not likely to interfere unduly with his life.

He surveyed her more critically now, returning his attention to her face. No, it was not unpleasing. In fact, with a little artifice and the help of a good maid, she could be made more than presentable. As for her hair, he wondered again how it would look cropped and curled in the current fashion, covered in a stylish bonnet that just framed her face. Would it wave riotously as it had done when she was but a little girl, or had she outgrown that? No, she was not unpleasing at all, he decided as he revised his earlier opinion that she would never have taken. Her shyness gone, she was far more appealing even than he’d remembered from those long years ago.

No, she was not unpleasing at all, he told himself yet again, and then wondered with a start if perhaps he could not come to love her. He could do far worse, and he knew it. Only last winter had his friend Halbertson wed his Incomparable, and already he’d confided that he’d set up a very pretty bit of fluff in a snug house in Harley Street. As for the Incomparable, he’d added bitterly, she was naught but a cold, selfish shrew. Well, of all that could be said of Harry, she was certainly not given to freaks of distemper, nor did he think she’d be inclined to spend his blunt excessively. Years of enduring Hannah’s parsimony had made comfort an extravagance in her eyes. Indeed, she’d protested when he insisted on purchasing a pretty shawl in one of the towns they’d passed through.

As if she were aware of his scrutiny now, she twisted in the seat and shifted the weight of her small, slight frame to the other side. And as a particularly rebellious lock strayed across her face, she brushed it away.

“You are very quiet, my dear.”

“Yes.”

“Is aught amiss?”

“No.” She sighed heavily again before meeting his eyes. “I hate going back, I suppose.”

“If ’tis Hannah you fear, you have no reason now, my dear. Indeed, you need not be above what is civil until your things are packed.” He leaned across the seat, placing his hands on her shoulders. “But if it worries you, leave Hannah to me.”

“She’ll be very vexed with me.”

“Harry, ’tis of no matter what she thinks anymore. You are my wife, Lady Sherborne, now. There’s naught else she can do to you.” Releasing her, he sat back.

“I suppose you are right.”

‘I know I am right.” He looked out the window at the lowering sun and then pulled his watch from his coat pocket, flipping open the case. “ ’Tis nearly six and will be dark soon.”

“We could stay at the Cock and Crown in the village,” she ventured hopefully.

“No, for I sent word ahead to Rowe’s Hill. I expect they will hold supper for us.”

She fell silent again, lost in thoughts of her own. The past week since her marriage had been the best time in her life, and she was loath to return to a world where she would have to share her husband with others. It was so wonderful to mean something to another person, to be listened to, to be liked if not loved. And the fact that Richard had chosen to miss running Two Harry in the first races at Doncaster must surely mean that he was enjoying her company nearly as much as she was enjoying his.

And what company it was. She blushed to think of how it had been ever since that first night. They’d stopped early each evening, partaken of elegant private suppers in excellent inns, and retired to continue the discovery and exploration of each other. And she reveled in the closeness of being loved by him—in his kindness, his companionship, his extraordinary handsomeness: in everything about him. To her it seemed he lavished his attention on her, giving her that which she’d lacked for so long.

“Well, Harry, you’d best buck up,” she heard him say. “By the looks of it, we have reached the lane to Rowe’s Hill.”

The familiar line of oak trees, fully leaved now from the milder temperatures and the spring rains, stood sentinel like soldiers the length of the long, rutted drive. A wave of loneliness washed over Harriet almost by habit as she stared at the large stone house at the end. Home, she thought bitterly, was naught but the place of fourteen years’ misery.

Richard watched the parade of ever-more-sobering emotions cross her face. “Harry,” he said softly, sliding across the seat to take her into his arms, “ ’tis but for one night. Then I care not if we ever see either of them again.”

Her hand sought his, clasping it tightly. “You cannot know how very glad I am to have you,” she whispered as the carriage rolled to a halt.

“Lud, what a fond, foolish pair we are become,” he murmured back, bending to drop a light kiss on her soft hair.

Her papa and stepmama were there to greet them, Sir John beaming as though he’d discovered he owned the East India Company, Hannah staring almost through her. And while Richard turned back to direct which bags should be left in the carriage boot, her father patted her heartily. Hannah, on the other hand, leaned forward and hissed under her breath, “Lady Sherborne indeed! You scheming minx!”

Harriet drew back, feeling for all the world like a chastened child, and then she reminded herself that whether Hannah liked it or not, she
was
Richard’s wife. “And we are both well-served, Mama, for we shall be rid of each other,” she retorted low.

“Here, now, Hannah!” her father boomed, unaware of the undercurrent between his wife and daughter. “Are we not proud? Our Harriet a viscountess! Lady Sherborne! What a sly puss—wouldn’t take Thornton for she had her cap set on Sherborne here all along!”

“It was no such thing,” Harriet protested faintly, blushing as Richard turned back to her.

“No, no—mustn’t think we are not pleased, missy, for we are! Sherborne! And a devilish handsome fellow in the bargain!”

Embarrassed that Richard should hear her father carry on so, Harriet mumbled something nearly incoherent, hoping that her father would cease before he’d made a complete fool of himself. It was one thing to wish to get rid of a daughter hopelessly on the shelf, quite another to chortle so loudly. But despite her desperate glances, Sir John clapped Richard on the shoulder, drawing him away from her.

“And you, sirrah, have business with me in the morning, I think. There is, after all, the matter of settlements. And do not be telling me what you cannot afford, for having been trustee, I know every penny you are worth.”

“Papa!”

“ ’Tis all right, Harry,” Richard assured her. “Despite whatever it is you fear, I do not fleece easily.”

“Fleece?
Fleece
,
sirrah? What manner of speech is that when you are referring to your papa-in-law?” Sir John grumbled. “I should be an unnatural parent were I not concerned for my daughter’s well-being!”

“Papa!” she wailed desperately, fearful that her father’s greed would somehow spoil her newfound happiness.

“I said ’tis all right,” Richard repeated, taking her hand and holding it. To her father he nodded. “I shall be happy to discuss the matter of Harry’s welfare in the morning, sir, but just now she is tired and in need of supper.”

“Supper? Yes, yes, of course—so are we all. Hannah, when does Cook mean to serve, d’ye think?”

“Supper awaits,” his wife answered grimly.

“Then there’s but time to freshen, is there? Go make yourselves presentable before ’tis not fit to eat,” Sir John urged. Then, turning back toward his study, he started chuckling again. “A viscountess! Who’d ever have thought the chit could do it, I ask you?” he inquired of himself.

Richard rose early, taking care not to disturb Harriet, who slept as though exhausted. It was as well to let her sleep and miss her father’s ire, for he meant to tell his uncle that he had not the least intention of settling so much as a farthing on her unnatural parents. No, it was to be fifteen thousand on Harriet herself, with another five thousand pounds set aside for her on the birth of his heir. Beyond that, he’d see she had a decent allowance to keep her afloat from quarter day to quarter day. And he still meant to split Two Harry’s winnings evenly.

He dressed quickly, without the services of a valet, and walked back to the bed to look down on his sleeping wife. She lay on her side, her dark hair spilling over her pillow and tangling in wild disarray, while her arm cradled her head and her knees were draw up almost to her stomach. She looked far younger than her twenty-four years, childlike and vulnerable. But there had been nothing childish about her the night before. He reached down, pulled the covers up over her shoulder, and tiptoed from the room.

“About early, my lord?” Thomas asked him.

“So it would seem. Is anyone else down?”

“Sir John has already breakfasted, and I’ve not seen Lady Rowe yet. But I am to tell you that Cook has food ready whenever you wish it.”

“‘Now would be fine.”

The young footman hesitated, and then he blurted out, “Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon for saying it, but ’tis glad we all are that you took Miss Harriet.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

“Them as is here never cared for her as they ought, sir.”

“I know, but that time is over now. You need not worry for Lady Sherborne.”

Richard breakfasted alone, seated at one end of the long mahogany table, while the footman paraded back and forth with porridge, sausages, coddled eggs, and muffins. Finally, as the last covers were removed and strong coffee served, Thomas confided further, “ ’Twould be a pleasure to serve you, my lord—indeed, if you should ever have need of a lower footman, I should like to apply.”

“That would be Miss Harriet’s—Lady Sherborne’s—decision, but you may apply to her.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Even as he emerged from the empty dining room, Richard could hear voices coming from Sir John’s study. Squaring his shoulders against the unpleasantness he was certain to encounter, he decided there was no time like the present to dispose of the matter of settlements. It was not as though he owed Sir John anything for the twenty-four years of neglect he’d visited on his daughter, after all.

He had his hand almost to the door, ready to knock, when he heard his aunt say, “I did not think the girl had the wits to do it, but I’d have to say she played her part well.”

“Harriet is not the slow-top you would have her, my dear,” his uncle’s voice carried through the paneled door. “Forty thousand the boy’s got, Hannah—forty thousand! I’d begun to think she could not do it, thought we’d have to take Thornton instead, but I’ll give my Harriet credit when all’s done—the gel did it right this time!”

“As sly as Siddons, running away like that. You were right—’twas that that did the trick I’ll warrant.”

“Oh, she knew what she was about—forty thousand pounds, my dear! I tell you, when they ain’t got looks, they’ve got to have guile.”

“Well, she has a surfeit of that, all right,” Hannah sniffed. “Though I own I did not wish to see a member of my own family trapped like that.”

“Aye, like a hare in a trap, she got him!” Sir John chortled. “And I’ll not settle for less than if she were a duke’s daughter! Did you see the way he looked at her last night? Got him eating like a cat at cream, I’ll be bound!”

“You forget ’tis my own nephew you and Harriet think to fleece,” Hannah protested. “I cannot wish to see him be overgenerous to her.”

Stunned, Richard dropped his hand, drawing away. A cold, sick feeling knotted his stomach. He’d been duped, deceived, taken in by his step-cousin’s wiles. It did not seem possible, but it was so. He’d just heard it of her parents, spoken when they did not mean to be overheard. It had been a plot to trap him, to ensnare his wealth before he had even had a chance to spend it himself. The awful thought stole over him that she’d known Mrs. Thornton would not be at home, that Sir John must’ve been laughing up his sleeve all the while he was berating and cornering him, insisting that she’d been compromised. No, Edwin Thornton had never been the target; they’d set their collective hat on far bigger game.

The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach dissipated slowly, replaced by cold anger. They’d made a fool of him. Among the three of them, they’d plotted for his gold. Well, he’d have none of it.

“Is aught amiss?” Thomas asked behind him.

“Huh? Oh, not any longer,” he snapped. Then, recovering himself under the footman’s puzzled stare, he ordered, “I shall require paper, ink, and a pen, if you please.”

It was past noon when Harriet finally came down, grateful that her husband had let her sleep through any unpleasantness. There was no sign of anyone in the lower hall except Thomas, who lingered nervously, Richard’s letter tucked in his jacket.

“Miss Har … Lady Sherborne, that is,” he whispered low, motioning her over to the doorway that led to the kitchen.

“Thomas, have you seen my husband?” she asked, suddenly anxious at the thought she might have to face Hannah alone ere they left.

“Aye.” He drew out the sealed envelope. “He left you this.”