His back to the door in the study, Harris splashed whisky in a tumbler as he heard someone coming in. He instantly knew it to be the chit. The air floated with the perfume of jasmine and that twist of lemongrass so like her. He waited for the handle to click shut and then turned.
He froze, becoming a statue of ice with fire coursing through his veins.
The shrew had dressed in a light-yellow contraption that made her creamy skin glow. The silky scrap of a dress hugged her form with affectionate precision. Its high-waist style combined with the low neckline hinted at her full breasts. Said combination was so explosive that he faltered. She had wrapped a fichu of sheer lace around her neck, but the thing revealed more than it hid, transforming her décolletage into a den of temptation. The skirts flared over her tiny waist to skim her shapely hips, covering legs he would give an arm to uncover.
Why the blazing hell he instructed her to wear this lethal weapon was beyond him.
The effect on his groins burst so indecently, he had to lean on the sideboard for support. His jaw had pitifully dropped as his shameless eyes flared lustfully.
This trap had been of his making, and now it bit on him mercilessly. He struggled not to insert a forefinger inside his collar to ease the choking discomfort lodged within.
“Happy now?” she asked, her chin notching up in that haughty way of hers.
Happy? He nearly chuckled in self-derision. It would be a day in hell when she would not shake the guts out of him.
His throat swallowed grit before he felt ready to answer. “You could do without the fichu.” He hoped the bravado diverted her perception from the raw lasciviousness threatening to splinter his tenuous self-control. “But otherwise, you look lovely.” To downplay his thunderstruck state was the only way to keep his mind clear. Stunning, or even ravishing were the terms he should use.
Their eyes clashed, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. She didn’t smile, didn’t curtsy, her frame as tense as his. She hadn’t moved a single step from the entrance as though sensing the erosion in the air. “Thank you,” she murmured, more for politeness’s sake, he guessed.
He imagined her with her hair down, without the attempt at modesty with the lace, and him undressing her, button by agonising button. He tossed the whisky, hoping to relieve the pressure on his groins. Obviously, it didn’t work. Determinedly, he shook these fantasies from his head, forcing himself into a thin veneer of civilised behaviour.
Harris gathered enough wits to push from the sideboard, stride to her, and offer his arm. “Shall we?” Hobson would undoubtedly be on his way to call them.
Dinner proved to be a stifled affair. They ate in overstrung silence. Eating became a chore for Edwina, even if the food did smell delicious. The last few days were taking their toll on her. Conflicted parts of her fought for supremacy. The interactions with the libertine sitting on the other side of the long table disclosed a part of her she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge; the one that yearned for the foreign sensations he dished without an inch of moderation. Not that she never had any interest in flirting. When her parents were alive, she frequented society, met gentlemen. No one had ever had this devastating effect on her. None of them had ravished her the way the cad had either. But even before he lay a finger on her, he instigated the most appalling reactions, transforming her insides into a tangle of raw feelings. Nothing had prepared her for the earthy landslide he unleashed in her.
Hobson placed a strawberry tart in front of her, driving home the fact dinner would soon be finished. Relief drove her to taste the delicate pastry. The sweetness invaded her mouth, and with a sigh, she closed her eyes. Good to see that her stomach accepted something at least.
“Leave.” Harris’s curt order snapped her out of her enjoyment, her eyes flying to him.
He had his undivided attention on her, causing her skin to flush. The intensity of his perusal should frighten her, should make her scramble from the chair and hide in the fortress of her chambers. But he didn’t frighten her. Never did. Even when he tipped her into a sea of clandestine desires, the only thing she wanted to do was learn how to swim.
The butler and footmen made haste, and in seconds Harris and Edwina were sat in a silent room, separated by the formal dining table stretching between them.
“Time for dessert,” Harris declared. An openly explicit gaze raked what he could see, detaining on her lips.
“But we just—” she started. She had to make a conscious effort not to lick the lips that burned under his attack.
But then those dark orbs perused down to her bosom, incinerating everything in its wake. Not that she wasn’t aware of how men noticed this part of her anatomy. It had merely derived a certain disdain for the way they fairly catalogued her in physical terms. Harris’s attention though inflicted a diametrically different response in her. Her skin caught fire and her tummy contracted as if it had a life of its own, which it had where this man was concerned. The contracting launched a melting sensation further down that screamed for some sort of surcease she didn’t know how to obtain.
“Oh, little shrew,” he interrupted as he unfurled his solid frame from his chair. “That simple tart would never satisfy me.”
Like a wolf, he prowled elegant and purposeful to where she sat, his dark stare fixed on her. Her glare widened on him, her lips falling open.
“W-what dessert do you favour?” After asking, it hit her she should have remained silent because the undisguisedly wolfish grin he cast on her said everything with more clarity than a whole treaty.
“You’re about to discover.” Even convoluted, his answer keeled over her insides like a rock rushing downhill in several tumbles.
It should be clear he’d do whatever his fancy demanded; it determined the purpose of her presence in this house. Their cold arrangement left no room for any other interpretation. Had the time come for her to deliver? The notion didn’t make her half as skittish as she had been on her first evening under his roof. That scared her more than anything else.
As he neared her, he took her hand and tugged her up from the seat. The gesture muddled clear thought. It must be the reason she went in wordless obedience.
With one bunched arm laced around her waist, he propped her to lean against the table. In this position, their heads were closer, for standing she came merely to his chest.
Those strong fingers slid under the fichu as his thumb strolled over the intricate lace. “Did you weave this?” he rasped. They stood so close it caressed her ear.
Yet he reduced the distance between them even more as one of his thighs wedged between hers. The intake of breath she needed to deal with this proximity didn’t go unnoticed. Those dark eyes clasped on hers, held her captive, enthralled. The only answer to his question she could produce was a shaky nod.
“It’s good,” he manifested. But his hands were doing short work of unwrapping the refined piece from her neck.
His breath caressed the bared skin, causing it to heat in response. The scent of him, pine and man surrounded her a second before he lowered his head as his bristled mouth collided with her throat, extracting a gasp from her.
The sharp contrast between his soft lips and the harsh stubble engulfed her in a torrent of sensations added to his warm breath on her skin.
“We import lace, you know,” he said as he dragged that insidious mouth down to her collarbone. “It soars its price.” His teeth grazed on her sensitised surface.
Good gracious! How could he talk about foreign trade while her resistance crumbled to dust? While he led her to crave things she didn’t even understand?
Ajar, that mouth reached the curve between her neck and shoulder. Licking the throbbing vein there, it worsened the throbbing in a very secret place in her centre. The same one that always made an appearance when he touched her.
“What else can you do with your hands?” he asked, trailing down just below her collarbone.
The question made no sense to her. She did
a thousand things with her hands; cooking or writing came to mind. “Knead,” she aired feebly.
“So you squeeze and massage the dough, do you?” he darted his tongue out to lick a little spot she had on the right. “Until it grows and hardens with the heat of the oven.”
Consciously, she had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about. Instinctually though, his hoarse words erupted waves of heat comparable to an oven.
The words and the caresses brought her to a pliant state as her head fell back, and she emitted little moans. From the moment his mouth had descended on the décolletage, her palms had wrapped around his broad shoulders to keep him anchored to her.
She gasped when his hands yanked her dress down in a sudden movement, and her breasts spilled out. Harris stopped whatever he was doing to stare at the full swells tipped with dusky nipples.
“Bleeding circles of hell!” he rumbled in ragged breaths.
He gave her no time to process that before his mouth latched on one breast and his hand cupped the other, rolling the nipple in desperation.
The mindless lightning that took her by assault caused her to moan aloud while her fingers dived in his wavy hair as if her life depended on it.
“I’ve been obsessed with these since the first day you came to my office,” he drawled.
His other hand cupped the twin breast as he alternated suckling one and its twin. Ebony head down, intent on his task, he looked like a pagan god worshipping a great goddess. At the same time, the promise of delights to come streamed incessantly.
One of his arms laced her firmly by the waist again to glue their bodies as his mouth never ceased raiding her breasts. Something hard and long connected with her midriff, and she deduced it to be a man’s member. But the ridge felt too large to do what she’d heard it did. There must be wrong information in all this. The man afforded no reprieve, however, for her to muse on that. Not only did he suckle on the swells but also started to nibble and squeeze the poor victims to the point she possessed no clarity. Her centre pulsed with a need that surpassed anything she’d experienced in her life.
“Harris.” His name was a plea to relieve the torment or to take it to the ultimate consequences. Anything for it to end.
As if in a haze, he lifted his head to her in heavy panting. “For pity’s sake, Edwina!” His arm locked tighter about her. “Don’t say my name like that.” The hardness imprinted further on her softness. “Can’t you see what you’re doing to me?”
Wide, her eyes found his even though she struggled to make sense of what he said. “You’ll have to explain yourself,” she managed.
After straightening her bodice, he put distance between them, his hand raking his already tousled hair.
Pivoting, he looked directly at her. “Suffice it to say we have to stop here before things get out of hand.” His lips pressed together as his nostrils flared in need of air. “You’re not ready yet.”
What the deuce was he talking about? Her gaze searched him at a loss for what to think, her brows pleated, her lips forming a quizzical oh.
“Damn it all!” he cursed, reaching her in two strides to lace her again as his mouth dived to hers.
Her groan didn’t see the light of day when he plundered the wet, hot cavity like a man possessed. Her arms locked around him, his around her, and in seconds they were a mass of limbs, mouths and urgency. He drank on her with a thirst not to be quenched, towering over her formidable and unyielding.
Long hours or brief seconds elapsed, she couldn’t tell, but his hands held her shoulders to put her away from him, ruddy colour covering his cheekbones. “Goodnight,” he rasped before marching to the door, yanking it open and disappearing down the dark hallway.
After a night tossing and turning in the heavenly bed she’d been designated, Edwina decided to go for a walk in the park in the hopes the chilly early spring air made her forget her inevitable surrender to the cad.
Instead of wearing her old-fashioned cloak over a new walking dress, she wore one of the redingotes brought by Madame Delamere, recognising it would do more to keep her warm than the cloak.
That early in the morning, the park was spread at her disposal. The crisp air did little to cool down her insides. Or even stop her memory from going back to the earthy moments Harris had poured over her. The man turned her world inside out, extracting from her reactions she shouldn’t feel, especially for him. He was the exact opposite of any man she had been educated to consort with. Yet, there was no one’s touch she yearned for more, past or present. The very fact took her aback every single time she considered it.
No regret arose. None whatsoever.
And that was something she didn’t understand. If anything, she wished he showed her more. Showed her everything. Her wish contradicted all she’d learned; all her mother had taught her. How was it possible?
On the one hand, she admitted that part of it lay in the cad’s attitude of not forcing her into any of his seductive sessions. Edwina had been receptive of his advances and revelled in them. On the other, her body had been playing against her sensible side to the point of annihilating any resistance.
And shame played no role in any of that.
Which astonished her to no end. As a lady from a noble background, the responsibility of keeping the decency weighed on her. A flawless family name relied heavily on women. Men’s reputation suffered little with their escapades, contrary to women’s. Her grandmother, the Marchioness of Mandeville, harped on this same string over and over from her childhood. The title went down to the first-born male, but women carried the title’s shiny name.
“Edwina!” A familiar voice wrenched her from her contemplations.
Turning to the side, she saw Otilia, the Countess of Thornton. Before her marriage, Otilia had been an orphan, and as such she sought employment as her grandmother’s companion. Once, the Marchioness asked Otilia to be her chaperone. They’d been friends since then, even if her grandmother had set eyes on the Earl as a candidate for her own match. During that long-ago dinner, Edwina realised that the Earl had eyes only for her chaperone. Which had been all right; they didn’t match at any rate.
“Otilia!” They hugged each other with fondness.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, holding Edwina’s gloved hands with a sincere smile.
“Certainly.” She returned the smile. “So much has happened.”
Otilia’s smile died. “Oh, dear, yes, are you all right?” The Countess surely referred to her parent’s passing.
Edwina squeezed her friend’s hands. “I am, don’t worry.”
“So nice to hear!” She hooked her arm with Edwina’s as they strolled along the path. “It’s timely to see you.”
Edwina grinned at her. “Why is that?”
“Edmund and I are giving a dinner party next week.” Her love for her husband was transparent in her voice and on her face. “And you’re simply summoned to come,” she jested.
Edwina smiled a little more artificially this time. By the looks of it, her friend didn’t hear of the changes taking place in her life in the last few months. She knew she should tell her friend about them but didn’t feel prepared to lose her friendship if Otilia disapproved of her decisions.
Unable to keep her cheerful expression, her smile died. “I’m not sure I can come.”
Otilia frowned at her. “Why not?”
She gave a small shrug. “Everything is different now. I’ve been distant from society.”
“Nonsense.” Otilia’s tone was reassuring. “Just because your financial situation is delicate, doesn’t mean you can’t frequent the same circles as before.”
If only her friend knew how serious her situation had become, she’d be more careful in inviting Edwina. But she remembered that no one got word of the recent activities. Yet. So perhaps she still held the chance to enjoy one more evening with old acquaintances.
“All right.” A bit of relief coloured her voice. “It�
��ll be a pleasure to join you.”
“I’m so happy you’re coming!” Otilia squeezed Edwina’s arm.
For an hour more, they continued their walk, talking about amenities.
CHAPTER FIVE
Harris was losing his mind. This, or something terrible was happening to him. He never acted on impulse. So what had that been in the dining room? He didn’t recognise himself anymore.
Passion and senselessness were not his style, ever. Especially with women. Subtlety and detachment used to be his norm. He met his and those women’s needs. And that was that. No clinging, no lengthy affairs, no personal involvement. These pleased him, assuaged his urges, kept his life free of trouble.
Through the disastrous dinner, he had watched Edwina in that lethal dress, her bosom lifting and lowering as she breathed, course after course. Each time fire rushed hotter through his veins. The damned fichu did little to appease him. He’d held himself in check up to the point she sank her teeth on that blasted tart. That did it. It’d been too much to hold back. He barely got rid of the servants before he strode over to her.
And he’d devoured her breasts as though he hadn’t had a woman in years. Bleeding hell, those breasts. Just remembering them got him hard. Perfect, round, full, and sweet like ambrosia. Touching them nearly shamed him on the spot. He imagined himself feasting on the twin perditions the whole night until he had enough, until he marked her as his, until they fell spent on the bedsheets. Only to start it over.
He’d surfaced to his senses, reckoned he’d cool down. Only to go back to her and fairly ransack her calamitous mouth like a man possessed.
At his warehouse office late afternoon, he raked his hair with an impatient hand. Papers were piled on his desk, forgotten.
But the little shrew subverted everything he’d done before. Had he not come to his senses, he’d taken her on that table, hard, fast, insanely. Countless times.
Her Wicked LibertineEDIT Page 5