Reforming Harriet

by Eileen Putman

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Elias bowed politely over his betrothed’s hand and led her out for the waltz. Her auburn hair was held in place by a silver comb that his hands longed to remove. Her gown was a soft apricot, with a décolletage that begged to be cast aside to reveal the rosy tips the fabric hid from his view. Her gloved hand, its lithe fingers covered in white kid, rested lightly on his arm as she moved gracefully to the ballroom floor. Her silk skirt rustled, taunting him with the intimate secrets it shielded from his eyes.

  Her brilliant blue eyes looked almost feverish as he led her into the figures of the dance, but she fixed them resolutely on a point beyond him. Elias did not think she was ill — unless it was from the same fever that gripped him. As they moved through the motions of the waltz, surrounded by the other dancers in Lord and Lady Blathmore’s ballroom, Elias wondered whether it was possible to staunch this blinding desire that gripped him and blazed anew each time their gazes met.

  The other guests might see an impeccably attired widow dancing with perfect decorum with her fiancé. Elias saw only the woman beneath him on her kitchen table, a siren urging him to have his way with her.

  He’d found her secret places, made love to her with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, daring her to open herself to him, to give herself over to raw pleasure. For all that Freddy had put her through, she deserved that and more. Watching Harriet Worthington discover her feminine passion, awakening to her own sensuality, thrilled him beyond his wildest dreams. Elias wondered if he could ever get his fill.

  And there was the rub. By one measure, he had more than fulfilled the terms of their contract, albeit in a manner neither of them could have foreseen. But the truth was, he burned for her. If Lady Blathmore had a secluded terrace with shrubbery, he would have taken her there straight away. He no longer cared where or when he made love to her. Just as long as he did.

  But Harriet was aloof tonight, as if she, too, were grappling with the consequences of their actions. Was her much-vaunted independence threatened by the force of her desire? Had it disturbed her to be controlled by passion? She had created an orderly world for herself that helped her survive her marriage and widowhood. It likely did not leave room for enslavement to blind, raw need. Wasn’t that what their blasted contract was about? To help her avoid being ruled by passion?

  And what of him? Elias had no wish to lose himself in an all-consuming passion. Once he’d almost shackled himself to a wife, but that had brought public disgrace and, ultimately, relief at having been spared that encumbrance. Dalliances with women like Caroline Forth were simpler. They left no scars, no encroaching chains that could not be cast off. He had been perfectly satisfied with his life.

  Was he still? Did he mind that the woman he burned for moved through the figures of the dance with a wooden expression, failing to meet his gaze? Did he mind that she displayed more warmth to her other dance partners than to her putative fiancé? Did he mind that she belonged not in this grand ballroom in her fashionable gown but in his bed, writhing on the sheets, waiting for him to claim her?

  Elias exhaled shakily as he returned her to the side of her friend, Mrs. Tanksley. No doubt she would be led out momentarily by her next partner, who would have no idea of the sensual woman beneath that façade.

  That stopped him — the thought of another man touching her, awakening her to new sensual delights. Another man joining their bodies, perhaps having no care for her needs. Another man touching her intimately.

  Any man but him.

  His pulse thundering in his ears, Elias bowed formally over Harriet’s hand and relinquished her. Then he turned on his heel and sought the comfort of Lord Blathmore’s port.

  ***

  “You know, dear, you do not look at all well.”

  Harriet eyed Monica, who was regarding her in concern. “I am quite well.” But even as she spoke, her attention was on Elias, who looked as if he could not leave her fast enough. Already, he was halfway across the room, headed for other pursuits. Caroline? Someone else? It hardly mattered. Any of those women could offer him far more than she could. She was unschooled and naïve and not in the least capable of meeting a man’s needs. Indeed, all she could do was take from him. He had made love to her without a care for his pleasure — surely no man could tolerate such a thing.

  He had brought her to ecstasy again and again, but she had done nothing for him. Instead, she had begged shamelessly for his touch, taken her own pleasure. She had not wanted him to see her in such unguarded moments, but he had refused to let her hide her face that first time, almost as if he enjoyed watching her in the moment of release.

  Could that be? Freddy had never shown interest in her needs. To be sure, he had touched her intimately, but it had not seemed to gratify him. At times, he had come to her with the scent of another woman on him, and Harriet had tried to turn away but he would not allow it. For all that, he’d not been a cruel man. But it had been manifestly clear to her that she was not woman enough for him.

  Elias had not led her to believe that. But what else could he think when she had not made the slightest effort to please him? The fact that she did not even know how filled her with despair. Freddy had always taken what he had wanted. He’d given her no instruction. She had not known there were different ways of lovemaking. Freddy had certainly never made love to her on a desk or on her kitchen table. Nor had he employed his mouth or hands in such a fashion.

  This was not how she had envisioned her arrangement with Elias. She had thought perhaps some careful instruction in her drawing room as to the ways of predatory gentlemen, perhaps an exercise in discourse she could put to good use. She envisioned that he would, by his presence, shield her this Season from gossip about Freddy and his women, so that others might say that it was a pity her husband had been unfaithful but how nice that she had moved on to that handsome Lord Westwood.

  And he was handsome. His eyes were his most compelling feature, dark and magnetic, capable of igniting her with the slightest glance. They saw straight into a part of her she had not known existed. Harriet loved the feel of his thick, unruly hair in her fingers as he made love to her. His arms were so strong that lifting her onto the table had seemed child’s play, and his size such that he could easily crush her with his weight — only he had not, holding himself above her, careful to spare her the full measure of his power.

  Harriet had never felt this way toward any man. He was never out of her thoughts. She craved his touch, craved the feel of his body against hers, craved the passion that overtook her when he touched her. She could not control her desire. Once more, she had lost control of her life because of a man.

  No, this was not the way she had envisioned this arrangement. She had not expected him to make love to her. She had not wanted that. And now, it seemed she wanted it very much. But one day soon, this would all be over. Their agreement would be at an end. Harriet was very much afraid she would never get over the loss.

  “I believe you are woolgathering,” Monica said. “And here is that nice Mr. Wilberforce, ready for his dance. You must make an effort, dear. Else people will think you are pining for Lord Westwood. And I am sure that is not the case.”

  Harriet slanted her friend a sharp gaze, but Monica was all innocence and benign smiles. Harriet gathered her resolve, and forced a smile to her face as she greeted Mr. Wilberforce. Indeed, she was quite fond of him and under other circumstances would have been delighted for a few moments with him.

  But Elias was nowhere to be seen, and her much vaunted independence lay in shreds on the dance floor.

  ***

  His Grace, the Duke of Sidenham, was an imposing figure of a man, if for no other reason than the lines of his face, which etched his visage into craggy cliffs and lowlands not unlike his native — some would say godforsaken — Cornwall.

  He eschewed the trappings of his rank. Not for him the ducal robes and regalia, the purple belt and imported taffeta his ancestors had worn, the fur and hammered gold brooches. Inste
ad, he preferred a coarse leather jacket and buckskin pantaloons of the type one might see on tradesmen, though no one would mistake his imposing — not to say arrogant — demeanor for one of low station. In His Grace’s view, a man’s quality inhered in character alone, and if he had not always found himself on the angel’s side of that measure, he had at least recognized when the devil was on his shoulder.

  In the matter of his only daughter — his only child, in fact — the duke would, if called to account, acknowledge a lapse or two, chiefly as it pertained to her tender feelings. He had rarely attempted to ascertain whether she possessed any, being too much wrapped up in the bleakness of his own tragedy, which is to say the tragedy of a man who lost his only love far too soon. And so, when word of certain matters reached him — for even in the wilds of Cornwall, the Mail ventured — the duke decided it was past time he saw to these matters himself.

  Which is why, when Harriet’s party returned from Lady Blathmore’s, she found her father sitting in her drawing room, brandy in his glass and impatience on his face. Hovering just outside the room were Celestial, Heavenly, and Horace, anxious not to miss a single ducal request — for while the man did not dress the part of a prince, he fully expected to be treated like one.

  “Father!” Harriet exclaimed, her heart sinking. Amid the turmoil of the last few days, it wanted only this.

  “You will introduce me,” he commanded, eyeing the assemblage, which included Monica — looking as if it were well past her bedtime — and Elias, who regarded the imperial figure before the fire with some interest.

  Before Harriet could introduce him, Elias stepped forward. “I am Elias Westwood, sir.”

  “Ah. The man engaged to marry my daughter — or so the Gazette declares.” The duke regarded him from deep-set blue eyes under sandy brows that nearly met over his regal nose. “And yet, you did not apply to me. Indeed, this is the first time that I have laid eyes on you. Why is that?”

  “Because it is a private matter, Father, between Lord Westwood and myself,” Harriet said. “I do not see how it involves you.”

  Her father regarded her, and then shifted his gaze to the earl. “And you, sir. Is that your view as well? That a father need not be applied to in the matter of his daughter’s hand?”

  “No,” Elias said. “That is not my view.”

  The duke’s brows arched. He turned to Harriet. “It would seem, daughter, that your betrothed disagrees with you. I sense there is more to this than meets the eye. But perhaps tonight is not the time.”

  “It will be my pleasure to wait upon you tomorrow,” Elias said.

  Harriet eyed him in alarm. “There is no need.” She did not fear that he would willingly disclose the truth of their betrothal to him, only that her father would subject him to merciless inquisition that could force his hand.

  Her father studied her. “Perhaps it is best that my daughter and I discuss the matter first,” he said. “I will send for you at the proper time.”

  Elias bowed his assent and bid them goodnight.

  ***

  It was nearly noon when he received the summons from the duke. Accordingly, Elias dutifully presented himself at the door of Harriet’s townhouse without any notion of what to tell her father. Their arrangement was not his to reveal. At the same time, her father had every right to seek the truth.

  That did not make facing the duke any easier. His Grace received him in the parlor, a pair of spectacles on his nose, a quill and parchment on the writing table at his elbow. He was a large man, and his graying hair must have once been the color of Harriet’s.

  Without any preliminaries, the duke fixed his gaze on Elias. His eyes were blue like Harriet’s, but harder, at least now. “You were Freddy’s business partner. From the looks of it, the only one with any business sense.”

  Elias opened his mouth to respond, but the duke stopped him. “Do not bother to defend him. Worthington was careless and a scapegrace, and I feared he would not make her happy. But she wanted him, and that I understood.” The duke hesitated. “I have learned in my life that when a woman I love wants something, I am hard-pressed to say no. It has been, I fear, the defining fact of my life. Not always for good.”

  Elias made no response. He knew little of the duke, only that he had broken the entail to secure Harriet’s sovereignty over Freddy’s estate and made it possible for her to direct her own affairs. Though she had described him as controlling, it appeared to Elias that her father simply intended to protect her.

  “Harriet tells me that your engagement is none of my concern,” the duke said. “She begs me not to interfere. But I cannot like a man who is not forthright. Do you take my meaning?”

  “I do.”

  The duke waited, but Elias said nothing.

  “I am not a patient man, Westwood. I wish to ascertain whether you are good for my daughter.”

  “Is that not for her to decide?”

  “Exactly what my daughter said. But I expect more from you.” The duke’s gaze was hard. “I wish to know whether you will take care of her. Whether you will do for her what every man in her life has failed to do — and I count myself in that number. In short, I want her protected — and by that I do not mean safeguarding her financial affairs, which I have already seen to. I want her happy, Westwood. I want her loved. Can you promise that?”

  Elias met the man’s gaze. “I cannot.”

  The duke blinked. “That is honest. I’ll grant you that.”

  “I cannot say what the future holds,” Elias said carefully. “Nor can I break your daughter’s confidence, when she has not given me leave. All I can say is that I will try to live up to her expectations.”

  “Do not make the mistake of taking her for granted, Westwood. Time has a way of destroying that which we most value. My wife was taken from me giving birth to Harriet. It is possible I blamed my daughter for that, to my undying regret. I withheld affection that ought to have been hers in full. I am not proud of that. So you see, I will not rest until I see her happy.”

  “I would expect no less, sir,” Elias said.

  “And am I to be satisfied with that paltry response?” the duke demanded.

  Elias saw the pain in the man’s eyes, but he could do nothing to alleviate it. “I expect not. But my hands are tied, sir.”

  “Something is amiss here.” The duke leaned forward. “Still, here is a question I trust you can answer: What is it about my daughter that entices you?”

  Elias blinked in surprise. “Er, her eyes.”

  The duke arched a brow. “I see nothing special in them. Indeed, they are the same as mine.”

  Elias shook his head. “Hers are the color of Caribbean seas. Yours are merely blue.”

  The duke frowned. “I see. What else?”

  “Her skill with food, certainly.”

  His Grace waved a dismissive hand. “Let us stipulate that she is an excellent cook and that the fact is irrelevant.”

  “Not irrelevant,” Elias insisted. “You have not seen her at her worktable, covered with flour, working the dough — just long enough to hold it together, mind you, yet not erode its innate tenderness. Truly, her pastry is magic.” He made a sweeping gesture. “It lands on the tongue with the evanescence of air, yet explodes on the palate with a burst of crispness that surpasses any it has been my privilege to enjoy. It is the stuff of gods.”

  The duke’s brow furrowed.

  “I have not even begun to describe the filling in her meat pies,” Elias continued. “’Tis seasoned prominently with cinnamon but teases the nostrils with a range of other spices — thyme, cloves, perhaps even a small quantity of mustard seed — which manifest themselves as a startling underlayer in the precise moment that the pie enters the mouth…” Belatedly, Elias noticed the duke’s thunderstruck expression, and fell silent.

  The duke regarded him in astonishment. “You wish me to believe my daughter’s chief appeal is…her food?”

  “No,” Elias said quickly. “Certainly not.”
>
  “You are quite eloquent on the subject,” His Grace said after a moment, “but I bid you continue. What, beyond my daughter’s eyes and culinary skills, makes you wish to marry her?”

  It would be fortuitous timing, Elias thought, if one of Harriet’s meddling servants would pick this very moment to come in and inquire if the duke required anything. But none did, and so it appeared he would be forced to amplify his response further, though it amounted to tacit agreement that marriage was the goal — when, of course, it was not, for either Harriet or him. “I cannot pretend indifference to her beauty,” he offered.

  “Beauty fades,” the duke snapped.

  “Her intelligence is exceptional, although she has a distressing habit of surrounding herself with rabble-rousers and revolutionaries, and I cannot like that,” Elias said.

  “Quite right.” His Grace nodded approvingly.

  “She has no appreciation of her true worth,” Elias said. “I would endeavor to change that.”

  “Oh?” The duke looked intrigued. “How would you bring about such a transformation?”

  Elias slanted the man a gaze. “If you do not mind, sir, I will keep that to myself.”

  The duke regarded him assessingly. “Perhaps that is for the best.”

  ***

  “It seems to me that the duke does not look unfavorably on Lord Westwood,” Monica said.

  Harriet looked startled. “I did not hear him say such a thing.”

  “Not in so many words, but did you not think he regarded Lord Westwood with a certain amount of respect? And he is already preparing to leave, after only a few days. I do not think he would do so if he did not trust your fiancé.”

  “He is not my fiancé, as you well know, Monica,” Harriet said wearily. “’Tis but a masquerade.”

  “And yet, I cannot think that your heart is untouched,” her friend replied.

  “It is not,” Harriet insisted. “Besides, Lord Westwood could have no wish to extend our arrangement.”