Until finally, when she was spent, he did not take his own pleasure but merely brushed his lips against her forehead.
“Lady Harriet,” he said softly, “you are a complete and utter fraud.”
***
Lust was manageable. Had he actually told himself that?
Well, and the tables had turned, hadn’t they? Far from being a woman who needed schooling, Harriet Worthington possessed enough raw magnetism to wreck all the compasses on His Majesty’s royal fleet. Apparently she had no idea of her power.
Elias had escorted her back to her house; that she had come to him alone spoke volumes about her lack of acumen in such matters, though she more than made up for that with her other gifts. Indeed, there was more sensuality in her than in any woman he had known, including the likes of Lady Caroline Forth.
It astonished him that the woman who had professed to know nothing of desire was capable of enjoying such unabashed pleasure from a man’s touch.
Had she found such pleasure with Freddy? Elias suspected his late business partner had not looked beyond the satisfaction of his own immediate needs. If so, that was another reason the man ought to have been thrashed for his wasted opportunities. Fate had given him a woman ready to have her sensual nature awakened in all its glory. Instead, Freddy had sent her into widowhood uncertain and insecure.
Elias did not delude himself about his own role: He had merely been the instrument of her awakening. Anyway, there had been no choice in the matter. The moment her arms wrapped around him, urging him onward, the thing had been decided. At least he’d been honest. He had not, would not, safeguard her from the consequences.
Contrary to his warning, however, he had walked her to her doorstep and left her there. A man could be noble once.
Besides, she deserved time to consider where this dangerous masquerade had taken them.
***
Lady Harriet frowned at the contents of the bowl. The dough had been sitting in it for several days, and save for a bubble or two along its surface, had showed little sign of life. “Lady Hester did not mention a long rise,” she said.
Celestial peered at the inert, shapeless mass. “If you ask me, that dough is a lost cause.”
“I did not,” Lady Harriet said irritably. “Ask you.”
Celestial’s eyes widened. Lady Harriet had not been the same since she arrived home after paying a call on Lord Westwood yesterday afternoon. And a scandalous call it was, what with her employer venturing to his house by herself. Mrs. Tanksley had fretted over that for more than an hour after Lady Harriet left. Such was her alarm that she had been ready to send Horace to fetch her when Lady Harriet herself appeared, looking far and away like a woman who most definitely ought to have had a chaperon.
Her sprigged muslin frock was wrinkled and would need to be washed and pressed before it could be worn again. Her mouth was red and swollen, her face flushed, her demeanor distracted. Then there was that trail of reddish marks down her neck. If Celestial had not herself so recently discovered the joys of romantic pleasure with Horace, she might have missed the signs. But since she had, she felt deep in her bones that Lady Harriet and Lord Westwood —
“I will take some of that gammon, if you please,” said a deep, masculine voice.
Celestial jumped, as did her mistress, and if Celestial had any doubt as to Lady Harriet’s thoughts, the violent blush that overwhelmed her mistress’s features at the sight of Lord Westwood said it all.
He stood there, nearly filling the door frame of the kitchen. He carried a large basket of vegetables, including an enormous plant with wide, heart-shaped leaves, some brightly colored peppers, and two large coconuts.
Both women stared at him in stunned silence, Celestial was the first to recover. What had he asked for? Gammon. Yes, that was it.
Quickly, Celestial retrieved the meat from the cold chamber. She set it on the worktable and then fled without a word, leaving Lady Harriet and Lord Westwood quite alone in the kitchen.
***
Harriet stared at him, her heart thundering in her breast. “What is this, my lord?”
“Callaloo. A Caribbean dish.” He set the basket on the table, next to the meat, and rolled up his sleeves nearly to his elbows. “I’ll take a large knife. And a basin.” At her stunned expression, he added, “that is, if you do not object.”
“Object?” she echoed. “To, er, what?”
The hint of a smile hovered about his mouth. “Why, I intend to cook for you, madam. What’s more, this dish is a treat I am certain you have not yet experienced.”
The intimacy in his tone made her shiver, and when Harriet met his gaze she was not entirely certain he was referring to food. “I-I have no objection,” she stammered. “Indeed, I am curious as to what you have planned.”
“Oh, very little is planned,” he said. “I merely throw what I have into a stewpot. Often the best treats are surprises, don’t you think? Do you have one?”
Harriet blinked. “One?”
“A pot. A big one, please.” He turned his attention to the large plant with the heart-shaped leaves and began to separate the leaves from the stems.
Harriet found herself staring at the exposed part of his arms, which looked burnished from the sun and strong enough for any task — in or out of the kitchen. She shook her head, trying to recall herself to the task at hand. She found a pot and offered it to him, only to see him frown.
“’Tis copper,” he said. “I am accustomed to clay.”
“I find copper exceptional, my lord,” she responded, striving for a coherent thought. “It, er, distributes the heat evenly and gives one more control of the cooking process.”
“Control. Yes, you would prefer that. Set the thing on the stove, then.” He took the leaves and immersed them in the basin, washing each one carefully. He moved easily, as if it was nothing to engage in what even in the West Indies must be women’s work. Moreover, he looked utterly composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred between them.
He must have felt her watching, because abruptly he halted in the act of stripping a stem of its outer covering. “You may help, if you wish.”
The gleam in those dark eyes made Harriet’s heart flutter alarmingly. “I would gladly do so,” she managed, “were you to give me the slightest inkling of what it is you are making.”
“Callaloo is like a stew, but not as thick. Like a soup, but with less broth. Mainly, it is green. Rather like the color of your skin at the moment. Tell me, Harriet: Do I make you unwell? If so, I promise this dish will heal what ails you.”
Harriet very much doubted that. She had not felt well since that shocking interlude in his study yesterday, when she had given herself over to him, enslaved herself to the pleasure he conjured so effortlessly. She had not known it was possible to lose herself in such a fashion, heedless of all around her. Later, when she examined her behavior, it had profoundly shocked and embarrassed her to know that she had forgotten herself so completely and engaged in such intimacy with a man who was not even her true fiancé, much less her husband.
Even now, she could not look at him without feeling that intense warmth steal over her. “I am not unwell, Lord Westwood,” she insisted.
“Elias better suits the state of things between us, do you not agree?”
Harriet stared at him. “I-I confess I am a bit at sea.”
“When at sea,” he said, turning back to the greens, “it is essential to give in to it. I find that when one moves with the turbulence, the journey is considerably smoother. Here —” He handed her some leaves. “Tear these into pieces.”
Harriet was still not certain what they were discussing, but she took the greens readily, grateful for a task that would occupy her wayward thoughts.
For his part, Lord Westwood — Elias — was chopping the stems. “This is dasheen, a bush plant native to Jamaica,” he said. “I grow it in my garden here, though it does not flourish as well. To it we will add a little okra for thickening and some
onion and herbs. Thyme is traditional, but I also like to add pimento.”
“Pimento?” Harriet stared at the brown powder.
“Berries of a shrub that grows on Jamaica. Dried, then ground just before cooking so as not to degrade their potency. Some call it allspice.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Rice would be the perfect accompaniment, if you have it.”
Harriet found she quite relished shredding the big leaves, then setting the rice on to cook; the chores calmed her nerves and created a companionable silence between them. Yet it was only the illusion of calm, she knew, since she could not imagine feeling composed in his presence ever again.
When she was finished with the leaves, she saw a colorful orange pepper that he had cut in half. She had not seen its like and reached for it. But he caught her hand before she could touch the cut surface.
“It is hotter than you might imagine,” he said. “The heat marries with the bitterness of the greens and elevates the dish. However, its heat is tolerable only after the pepper is cooked.”
But it was the heat of his hand that Harriet was most aware of, and when he withdrew it she felt strangely bereft. That’s what came of being a wanton woman, she decided. One’s thoughts went constantly to the pleasures of the flesh, and every touch became disruptive. She did not know how to purge such thoughts.
Even now, as she watched him add the greens, stems, and okra to the big pot, Harriet could not think of anything but the touch of his hands on her.
She hoped he did not notice her distraction. Indeed, his attention appeared to be focused wholly on the copper pot. Into it also went onion, celery, garlic, the orange pepper, a quantity of salt, and the meat. When Harriet raised a mild objection that the gammon itself surely provided sufficient salt, he overruled her, saying the additional salt would bring out the flavor of the greens. She knew better than to argue with the man’s unparalleled sense of taste.
Next he produced something resembling a small, stout machete and a tool with a pointed end. The latter he inserted into two of the small spots at the tip of one coconut. Holding the coconut over a bowl, he drained it of the white, milky liquid. Using the machete’s blunt edge, he tapped around the girth of the coconut, turning it as he worked. In a moment, it had split into halves. The other coconut was treated in the same fashion. He poured the liquid into the pot with the other ingredients.
“Now, we wait while it cooks down.” He scooped some of the coconut meat out of the shell and offered it to her. “Try it.”
Harriet took the piece and found it quite delicious.
“It keeps for weeks when dried.” He took some for himself, his gaze never leaving hers. “’Tis perfect for a soggy climate like the Caribbean.”
Something in those dark eyes told her that the soggy Caribbean climate was not uppermost in his mind. Harriet turned away from his disconcerting inspection. But his hand touched her shoulder, and he drew her back around to face him.
“I will not pretend that things are as before,” he said in a low voice. “I imagine that you are embarrassed at seeing me here, invading your kitchen. It may be that you wish me at Jericho.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I rather wish myself at Jericho. My behavior of yesterday —”
“Yes,” he said. “That.”
“Freddy…” she began, then covered her face with her hands.
Gently, he pulled them away. “I confess his is the last name I wish to hear.” Then he enfolded her in his arms. His hand stroked her hair with exquisite gentleness, almost as if she were a child.
After a moment, Harriet lifted her head to look at him. “To think that I once thought you a bilious snob.” She managed a game smile.
He arched a brow. “And I thoroughly disapproved of you.”
“I suspect you still do.” She’d meant it playfully, but her smile faded as his brows drew together.
He sighed. “I have never met a woman who so prides herself on her independence, who seeks out opportunities to flout convention and to consort with the many false intellects this city produces. So if that is any measure, I suppose I still do disapprove.”
But he caught a strand of her hair and curled it around his fingertip, robbing his words of their sting. “’Tis the same woman who denies all knowledge of passion,” he said in a musing tone. “I cannot reconcile her with that woman who was helpless in my arms yesterday. Perhaps neither can you. Perhaps that is the source of your embarrassment.”
His lips grazed the tip of her ear. “That woman invaded my dreams last night,” he murmured. “And I will do all in my power to have her in my arms again.”
With that, his mouth claimed hers. Harriet could only lean helplessly into him as he plundered her lips, daring her to deny him. But she needed no persuading. She yielded willingly. When he relinquished her mouth to kiss her earlobe, then the base of her throat, she felt as if she were exposing her innermost secrets to him, without heed as to what he might do with them. But the small frisson of alarm that rippled through her was swiftly silenced by fierce, enveloping passion.
And when his hands slid down her back and crushed her against his length, Harriet thought she would die of longing. As he backed her against the worktable, she put her arms around his neck and clung to him, betraying herself with a breathless sigh.
Suddenly, there was a great clattering sound as he swept the pans and utensils onto the floor. He lifted her onto the table in their stead and eased her backward, onto the wood. As he rose over her, eyes dark with fire, Harriet looked up at him, her heart in her throat.
“Elias.” The word was a desperate plea. Need consumed her. She could not fight it.
But he was in no hurry. Slowly, he lowered himself until his lips once more claimed hers — but only just. He held himself above her, brushing her mouth lightly, teasing her, even as he must have known that her lips wanted — needed — to be possessed.
Harriet strained toward him, wanting the weight of his body on hers. She tried to pull him closer, but his hand caught her wrists and pinned her arms lightly above her head. Only then did he cover her with his body, settling some of his weight on her as his other hand slipped under her, cushioning her against the wood but also tightening his hold — a captor’s embrace. It was a measure of her desperation that she wanted so much more.
“Elias,” she pleaded again.
He silenced her with a kiss — this time, the kind she wanted, the fierce, all-consuming joining that marked her as his. Her mouth opened to him, wanting nothing so much as this wild, rough invasion. She yearned to wrap her arms around him, but he still imprisoned her wrists, so she could only wait in helpless longing.
Finally, as if he sensed her hunger, he freed them. But when at last she reached for him, he slid away from her. Instead, his mouth began to trace a lazy, tormenting path from her lips to her ear, then down the length of her neck. His warmth sent shivers through her, but if he felt her trembling he ignored it, for his mouth simply continued its slow, maddening path over her flesh.
When he kissed the rise of her breasts, Harriet buried her hands in his hair, pressing him closer still. She felt the neckline of her frock slip; then his mouth was on her nipple, sculpting lazy circles around and over its tip.
And then, merciful heavens, he moved lower. Through the fabric of her dress he kissed her ribs, her abdomen. Harriet arched into him and her fingers entangled in his hair, instinctively pushing him lower still. His arms went under her, and she felt him shift his weight to support her legs as he pushed her skirts aside. Now the heat of his mouth was on her thigh. But he did not linger there.
When he kissed her intimately through the fabric of her chemise, she froze. Then that barrier was no more, and his tongue flicked over her soft folds, shocking her into helpless, delicious wonder.
Harriet spared a fleeting thought for the extent of her depravity and then could only accede to the swirling sensations gathering within her. She arched upward, silently begging for completion and an end to this sweet
torment. But he seemed intent on exploring her secret places, finding new ways to drive her beyond all control. She was powerless to resist. All she could do was entwine her fingers in his hair, her distant lifeline. Lost in pleasure, she gave herself over to him with every shred of her being.
Finally, her body grew rigid until at last there was nothing but wild ecstasy and a cry that came from somewhere, perhaps her very own lips.
And then, silence.
At last, he moved upward and over her once more, letting her feel the hard length of his own desire. His gaze locked with hers, but when she thought he would take her, he simply kissed her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Harriet ached for him to take his pleasure; when he ended the kiss and raised his head to look at her, she did not hide her longing. She reached for him, but he eased himself away from her, leaving her alone on the table.
But he did not intend to leave her there, it seemed. Instead, his arms went under her, lifting her gently, cradling her against his chest before setting her carefully on her feet once more.
Swaying slightly, Harriet could barely stand. Her knees were weak, her mind befogged, her world disoriented. She forced herself to look at him — she was no coward, she told herself — and saw that he was far more composed than she. Indeed, he stood there calmly, watching her from eyes that betrayed no hint of the turmoil she felt.
Then, his mouth curved upward in a slow, crooked smile — that dimple! — and Harriet’s heart turned over in her chest. A spark leapt to his eyes, and it catapulted her back to the moment when he’d claimed her with his kiss.
How, Harriet wondered weakly, did one go on from here? She stood there, paralyzed by the force of her world shifting on his axis.
He had no such paralysis. With an economy of motion, he bent down and picked up a pan, a spoon, a towel, the utensils he’d consigned to the floor. He moved to the stove and stirred the callaloo, inhaling deeply.
Then he turned to her. “’Tis ready,” he said in a silken voice that conjured those molten kisses. “Pray, be seated.”
Harriet sank unsteadily into a chair as he put some of the callaloo and rice on a plate and placed it before her with a flourish.
Reforming Harriet Page 17