This would not do. He had to force himself back on track. Couldn’t allow a mere miss to drive him out of control. Out of his mind in this ragged manner. Having her to his heart’s content would lead him to overcome this nonsense. At least he expected as much. He’d make sure of as much.
A knock on the door and Miller came in. “My lord, this has just come for you,” he said, handing him a gilded envelope.
The clerk left after Harris’s thanks. Miller had been one of the few people who’d been with him since before he abdicated from his title in Scotland, and still maintained the habit of calling him lord.
The envelope contained Edmund’s invitation for the dinner party he’d mentioned in the club. No doubt the Earl’s wife would invite Edwina. They’d been friends for a long time.
“I trust Lady Thornton has invited you for the dinner party?” As soon as Harris arrived home, he went looking for the little shrew, and found her in the library, sitting with the poise of an empress. He’d bet his entire fortune that his presence or absence made no difference to her. She seemed to live through the day as if she were living alone. The realisation smarted. Of all the women who threw themselves at his feet, he had to lust after the one who didn’t.
Her head lifted to him, an abstract expression lingering from her attention to her reading. “I met her in the park.”
The chit had left the house. Why the hell had nobody told him? The servants were supposed to inform him of every movement happening here.
“How was the park?” He used the inane question to cover his displeasure at what he read as the servants’ allegiance to her.
Her delicate shoulder jerked in a slight shrug. “Empty.” A scrap of lace marked the book as she shut it and put it on the side table. “I’ll hire a hackney to go to the Thornton’s.”
Naturally, he understood she didn’t wish to raise suspicion over their arrangement. But her willingness not to attach her person to him got him downright annoyed.
“No, you won’t,” he stated glacially. “We’ll drive together in my carriage.”
Her brows pleated, those fatal lips pressed, she directed him a peeved look. “Certainly not.”
“I’ll say I drove you.” The mysterious reason it seemed so important for him to be seen together with her escaped him. He always went to events alone. After all, it didn’t do to appear with a dove or two on his arm. He left those for later when the delectation really began.
His insistence may have prompted her to stand from the armchair, and only now did he see how she dressed. A simple water-green attire that brought to light her eyes and her hair. The brown strands confined to a stiff bun, and he had this urge to near her and scatter the pins everywhere to drink on their length. He forced himself to stay where he was by the door instead of giving in to these foreign impulses.
“Well, Mr Darroch, I’ll not abide by this.” Her chin notched up, and she eyed him with haughtiness laced with a defiance that served only to make his blood rage with fire and hunger. “You’re not my owner.”
Devil take him, but he wanted to be. Her owner, her master. Possess and devour the little shrew until that air of prudish haughtiness melted into shattering pleasure. So, he’d make her his, stake his claim, mark his territory, send any other man running instead of sniffing around over what should be his. The unbidden thought infuriated him. Too much work must be frying his brain. The chit twisted his guts without even trying. The worst being he couldn’t care less provided he slaked his lust, sated this famine razing his insides. Then, and only then, would he be able to ditch this damned obsession. And walk away, move on, forget he ever felt such absurdities.
Once more, Harris stamped on these unruly thoughts and put up a cool, detached front. “We’ll see,” he answered, and pivoted to leave before he lost it there and then.
A few minutes before leaving for the Thornton’s, Harris descended the stairs to post himself at its foot. He had no intention of missing the chit coming down to him. It’d afford him a full view of her in one of her new evening gowns. He’d take her hand and compliment her on what he was certain would be a stunning beauty. Then he’d rest her hand on his arm as they ambled to the waiting carriage.
Harris paid special attention to his own appearance tonight. His valet shaved him just before he drew a bath. Darroch requested his best superfine, the most intricate knot on his cravat and made sure his boots were spotlessly polished.
At the door, Hobson cleared his throat just when Harris had been about to check his pocket watch. Darroch turned to him. “What is it, Hobson?”
“I’m afraid Miss Whitman has already left, my lord.”
Harris didn’t censor the scowl that marred his rugged features. “How so?” His tone came silky only for those who didn’t know him.
“I tried to tell her to wait for you, but she’d have none of it.” The butler eyed him carefully. “I had to call a hackney for her after she threatened to do it herself. I took the liberty of sending a footman with her.” The man showed the grace of looking forlorn.
Harris emitted an ugly curse under his breath. “And you didn’t have the decency of calling me?”
The older man lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord, but there was no time.”
“When did she leave?” he asked as he hurriedly put on his hat and gloves.
“Not ten minutes past, my lord.”
The stubborn, insubordinate chit! They’d signed a contract, damn her! In it stood she’d have to do his bidding. Harris fumed as he sat in the carriage and demanded full speed. When he saw her again, he’d twist that delectable throat of hers. After kissing the hell out of her!
The carriage lurched to a stop in front of Thornton House, and Harris took a minute to school his features to his usual nonchalance. The butler allowed him in as he presented himself with a devil-may-care side-smirk. In this case, the devil did care, but he preferred to swim from London to Africa before he showed it.
Unfortunately, his bravado lasted too little. He stepped in the drawing room to clasp eyes on Brunswick in the act of taking both Edwina’s hands in his, a soft smile on his normally cynical person.
But that was after she bludgeoned him with her perfection. She had dressed in a frilly mauve dress with puffy gauzy sleeves, and an embroidered bodice that only made her breasts more appetising. She wore no fichu, which made things that much worse. Her glossy brown hair was coiled up elaborately, the strands shining under the candlelight. Satin lavender long gloves, reticule and slippers completed her attire. She looked good enough to eat, even if she appeared every inch the lady she’d trained to be.
She didn’t glance at him once. All her attention rested on the duke.
The sight of them together erupted vicious bile from a place Harris never realised existed. He had this blind urge to throw her over his shoulders and take her to the furthest place possible away from polite company. There’d be nothing remotely polite in the way he’d quench his crazed thirst.
She and the duke belonged to the rarefied circles of London ton, a circle he frequented only by association. This consisted of her being in her own element, and she danced attendance as if she’d never left it.
She should make a match with the duke. The hell she should! Brunswick would see to her difficulties.
Brunswick would look nice with a black eye.
From a footman, he grabbed champagne and tossed it down in one gulp.
Covertly, Edwina observed the cad as he entered the drawing room as if he was a king surveying all his subjects. A lightning of awareness ran through her at the sight of him. In perfectly tailored attire, he prowled to greet the Earl of Thornton as heads turned to him. The refined clothing barely contained the feral strains cording through him. He dominated the whole room and even the Earl, a man to be reckoned with, showed respect.
“I don’t remember you being introduced to Darroch,” Titus drawled at her side.
Her eyes snapped back to the duke as she f
orced herself to enjoy his company. “In point of fact, he had dealings with my father,” she clarified. “I’ve met him briefly a few times.”
“I’m sure your mother would have herded you both into hiding on those occasions,” he sneered. Every time her sister came into the conversation, the duke externalised a veritable loathing for Philippa. She’d not seen him utter her name even once. Edwina had not the slightest idea of the reason since Titus and Philippa met solely at his wedding with their cousin, Lydia.
“Beware, the man can’t sight a scrap of skirt,” he murmured the alert.
Goodness! If Titus only knew. But she made herself smile dismissively. “I’m well aware of his infamous reputation.”
“You’d better be.”
“Brunswick.” Harris’s voice aired as smooth as velvet though she must have been the only one to hear the wolf’s growl it covered.
She didn’t regret her decision to come by hackney. If the blasted cad thought she’d comply with his every whim, he was in for a serious disappointment. Luckily, Hobson had been amenable to her intentions, or she’d have to reach here without the benefit of a footman. And London wouldn’t be a place for a miss wandering alone at night.
The duke’s face transformed into a mask of surprise. “Darroch.” He bowed with utter elegance. “I trust you’ve met Miss Whitman.”
A rapacious side-smirk covered his lips. “Certainly, though she’s been—” he paused as his eyes arrowed at her. “Elusive.”
There was no mistaking what he thought of her stunt. But it was that or become a subservient ninny in his hands. That she’d never do.
“As one of the most refined ladies of the ton, Miss Whitman has the right to that.” It seemed that the duke aimed at driving home she was too lofty for him.
Harris wouldn’t baulk at any of it. With a gallant bow, he held her hand. “I must say I am enchanted to rekindle our acquaintance, Miss Whitman.” He kissed her fingers over the glove, holding her eyes captive in a sultry stare.
The blasted reprobate! Even through the silk, his touch burned, and she hoped to have caught the gulp of breath that demanded to make it to her lungs. In a gasp.
A saccharine smile stretched her lips while she curtsied graciously. “Mr Darroch, what an unexpected delight to see you here.”
“Oh, Miss Whitman, you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how delightful.” He’d not let her hand go yet, which caused them to stand so close he had to look down at her, and she had to tilt her head back at him. This created a traitorous intimacy as though they were alone in the world to banter to their hearts’ content.
Brunswick’s sharp eyes darted from one to the other, his gaze narrowing as his lips curled in disapproval. “Now, now, Darroch, you can let go of the lady’s hand.”
Harris paid him no heed as his focus remained entirely on her, and they duelled their strength of will.
“There you are, my dear Edwina!” Otilia exclaimed as she neared the group. “I do need your opinion on an idea to use your lace.” She hooked Edwina’s arm to take her away.
“Dear me!” she said softly only for Edwina’s ears. “What was that?” The emphasis on the last word left no doubt as to what she referred to. “I feared they would call each other out over you.”
“Oh, pish.” Edwina gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You know how men like to compete for power when a woman is present.
“But Brunswick glared daggers at Darroch.” Her pleated brows told of the strangeness of the situation.
For all intents and purposes, her acquaintance with the reprobate was brief as widely known. “He’s become protective of me seeing as Mr Darroch’s got a reputation.”
“Indeed.” Otilia stretched her mouth, her eyes acquiring a glint of mischief. “After you get married, I’ll be allowed to tell you about his prowess!” She breathed a little laugh.
If Edwina intended to be true to herself, she’d admit to not wanting to know any of that. The mere hint of the cad in relation to other women had her insides distilling something bitter and corrosive aimed at anyone who had and would cross his path. The awareness plunged her into a confused mass of feelings with which she had no clue how to deal.
After the Countess had taken her off Harris’s clutch, she sat to talk to Otilia’s friends Oliver Trent, Viscount Carlton, who never failed to come with his alleged valet Joshua Freeman from the colonies. Celia Linton and her alleged chaperone, Bridget, also sat in the group. Last year, Carlton had married Celia, but the four of them went everywhere together. Like Otilia, Edwina held a high regard for them.
“She’s not for the likes of you. And I’m not saying it because you’re not English or titled,” Brunswick said as soon as the ladies were out of earshot.
Harris could ask his friend to tell him the news because this he already knew. Witnessing Edwina circulate in her own habitat got him acutely aware of her place in society. She was a lady, the granddaughter and niece to a marquess. She’d likely received the most polished education and prepared to marry an equally refined lord.
Harris scoffed. “You don’t say,” he jested humourlessly.
Which made him question what the bleeding hell he was doing, and why the bleeding hell he didn’t let go. She should have asked for the duke’s help, or Thornton’s. They wouldn’t have denied her, being who she was.
“If you’ve done half of what the gossips say, you’re a villain.” Titus had never been one to mince words.
The chit was too independent for her own good. He understood her need to solve the problems for herself, but in their world, this was simply not done. In her position, she’d require a man to rescue her. And she’d come to him. But he was no hero who saved damsels in distress. The epithet of villain fit him like a glove. When he stood near her, he felt like a lecherous scoundrel, a hungry wolf whose meal could only be her. From the first minute she entered his office, he’d imagined her sprawled over his desk. He wanted nothing more than to feast on her until they both fell from exhaustion.
“Oh, I’ve done every one of them all right,” he admitted to his friend. “But a man is entitled to change, isn’t he?” He picked up another glass of champagne. He’d lost count of how much he’d drank so far.
Brunswick arched a brow. “Did you?”
She’d come to him and he’d made a proposition to her, uncaring of who she was, or which place she held in society. More than that, uncaring that as a woman she counted few options to slip out of her predicament. Without an ounce of guilt, he preyed on her weakness.
“No,” he replied candidly. Of course not, look where he got her.
“So steer clear, or you’ll have Thornton and me to answer to.”
What nobody understood was that his flesh was weak. And now that he’d had a taste of her, he didn’t think he could go back on the arrangement. He wanted her with a force he’d never experienced in his life. She’d become a fever in his blood, and the pitch increased the more she accepted his advances. That she reciprocated did nothing to relieve the situation. She still was who she was, and he who he was.
He replaced the empty glass with a full one. Didn’t they have whisky in this damned place?
Edwina sat by Baron Enfield’s side, trying to keep track of his inane conversation while observing Harris at the other end of the table, sitting by Celia. Something didn’t feel right. The footmen kept filling his glass all too often. He talked to Celia in between imbibing long swigs of the excellent claret. He didn’t use to drink this much. At his townhouse, dinners would come with a glass for her and the one for him. Even when he took whisky, it didn’t amount to much.
The footman filled his glass again. Taking it, he caught her staring. With a wolfish side-smile, he lifted the glass to her before taking another healthy swig.
“This pheasant is magnificent, wouldn’t you say?” the baron commented to her bosom. Since they sat, he’d been talking to that portion of her anatomy, which annoyed her to no end.
She deigned to offer an absent smile. “Never eaten better.”
“Oh, my dear.” He rested his too soft hand on hers, and she couldn’t help comparing it with Harris’s calloused firm ones grazing down her neck, her collarbone… The memory caused her to flush. “You have the sweetest of smiles.” She barely heard the equally inane praise.
The sensation thrumming through her body induced her to lift her gaze to the reprobate again. He had a ferocious glare on him as his dark eyes observed hers and the baron’s joined hands. Her impulse was to keep her hand there just to defy him. But the need to cease the unpleasant touch became stronger. With the excuse of picking up the knife, she slid her hand from under that of the baron’s.
Harris’s eyes snapped back to hers with a smug glint, as if he understood. This time, she discretely toasted him with her glass.
As the ladies moved to the drawing room for tea, the footmen displayed the brandy and cigars the men would partake of. While leaving, Edwina saw Harris demanding the footman serve him with a full glass of brandy.
Relief flooded her when she could finally take her leave. Strange as it might seem, she longed for her chambers in Harris’s townhouse. The dinner, though pleasant, had been a tad straining; sleep would do her wonders.
Outside Thornton House, she slipped into Harris’s carriage unnoticed. It wouldn’t do to go about looking for a hackney, even with a footman in tow. A few minutes elapsed before the door opened to give way to Harris who slouched on the opposite seat.
When he lifted those dark eyes, her insides came alive.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “The lofty miss considers my carriage good enough to return her to safety.” He signalled, and the vehicle lurched into motion.
Only now could she have a full look at him under the carriage’s lantern. His dishevelled hair fell over his brow, and the cravat lay askew, but otherwise, he appeared magnificent. The black coat and waistcoat complimented his eyes and hair, the white shirt contrasting with them. Those long legs stretched in front of him, his arms along the back of the seat. Even in this laid-back posture, he eyed her as if he’d pounce at any second. The idea primed her body for his sensual assault.
Her Wicked LibertineEDIT Page 6