“I’m sorry, Harry. It’s instinct. I guard my life the way your beefeaters guard the Crown Jewels. I do not think. I act.”
She watched as the hard planes of his face gave way into a small smile. Harry drew her close, his hands running over the small of her back, where he found her second blade and tossed it to the carpet. “Your brother says you wear at least three. Where’s the other one?”
Mary Elizabeth felt her heart begin to pound like the hooves of a runaway horse. She told herself to calm down, for the love of God, but she could not seem to catch her breath.
“On my thigh,” she answered.
She watched the blue of his eyes turn to a deeper shade still, and then his hand began its slow descent down the length of her waist, over her thigh, and to her knee, where he started to draw her skirt up one slow inch at a time.
Eighteen
Mary Elizabeth leaned close to Harry, allowing him to explore beneath her skirt as if he had the right. Which she supposed he did; she had given it to him without thinking, just as she had drawn her blade. Perhaps she was the one who had run mad.
His callused fingertips were hot on her bare thigh. He found the knife tied to her garter and pulled it free, leaving its sheath and her garter intact.
Harry let the last of her weapons fall beside the other two, while he smiled down at her, his azure eyes searching her face before sliding down her body. She shivered as he drew his hand away, letting her skirt fall back into place.
“I don’t know if I got them all,” he said. “I think I’d better search a little further.”
“Where else can you search?” Mary asked, her breath almost gone.
“Let me think a bit, while you think on this.”
Harry’s lips were on hers. First skating across her throat and then her cheek, they came to rest on her mouth, and she felt her innards melt in a delicious puddle, like a brick of chocolate turning to soft candy over the fire. His tongue played with hers a moment, while she felt his hands glide down her sides and her buttocks, and back up to cup her breasts. That was when she pulled away.
“Harry!” she said. “Behave!”
He smiled a wicked smile, and she felt her stomach flutter. “But that’s no fun at all.”
He kissed her again, but this time his hands moved away from her derriere and her breasts and stayed at her waist, drawing her close so that she might feel his manhood burgeoning behind his breeches. Mary Elizabeth shuddered, but not in horror, as any proper girl would have done.
So this was what lust felt like. She had always wondered, and now she knew.
He locked the library door behind her—whether to keep her in or to keep Billings out, she did not know, but she let him do it. For the second time that night, Harry picked her up in his arms, but this time he cradled her against his chest. She laid her ear against his heart and listened to it beating. She was so enthralled by the warmth of his body wrapped around hers that she did not notice what he was up to until they were sprawled once again on the only comfortable sofa in the room, with her sitting on his lap.
“I promised you that I would take you over my knee before sunset,” he said.
“I think you missed your deadline.”
Harry laughed and kissed her, but when she would have lost herself in the taste of his lips, he drew back once more. “I love you, Mary Elizabeth Waters. Before I touch you again, I want you to know it.”
“I know it already, Harry. Now kiss me again.”
He not only kissed her, but slid his hands along her bodice again, until his fingers were delving along the modest scallop of her décolletage, as if seeking some treasure in her bosom that she had not known was there. Mary Elizabeth felt her stays tight around her ribs, lifting her breasts beneath her silk gown as if making them ready for his touch. She shivered in his arms, and he let her draw back from him, his blue eyes on hers.
“I won’t let you spank me like a child, Harry,” she said, trying to gather her wits even as she worked to catch her breath. He smiled, and the warm wickedness of it made her want to move closer to him, good sense be damned.
“You are many things, Mary Elizabeth Waters. A child is not one of them.”
His callused thumb made its way past the barrier of her stays. The feel of the callus against her peaked breast made her almost swallow her tongue. She shivered with pleasure, and tried to rally her reason. Part of her only wanted to feel and to let reason go, but Mary Elizabeth was far too stubborn for that.
“You’ll not be spanking me, Harry,” she said again. This time her voice sounded faint in her own ears. Harry’s thumb left off playing with beneath her gown to slide down her side. His large hands turned her over, so that she was lying across the sofa they sat on, no longer sitting on his lap like a hoyden, but sprawled on her stomach, her posterior over his lap. She raised herself on her elbow but did nothing else to bring herself up. She looked at him and saw the heated gleam in his blue eyes, and she almost forgot what protest she was going to make.
Almost, but not quite.
“Don’t be daft, man” was all she could manage to say.
“Oh, I’m well past daft, sweet Mary. I’ve crossed over into pure madness.”
He caressed her bum, not once but twice. She could feel the heat of his callused palm through the layers of silk and muslin she wore. She wondered if Alex would burst in on them and kill Harry where he sat, for she was not the only Waters to go about armed. She prayed that no one would try the locked door, and that no servant would find them, peeking at them through one of the hidden doors in the wall.
She did not move to get away, nor did she give herself over to his caresses completely. Mary Elizabeth steadied her voice.
“You should let me up now, ye wee, daft man.”
“Wee, am I?” His thumb moved along her jaw then, and she turned her head toward it, taking his thumb into her mouth without thinking. She drew it behind her teeth and laved it with her tongue. The taste of his skin was sweet even there, and he drew his breath in and held it.
“Stop, Mary,” he said.
She did not answer but drew his thumb in deeper. His breathing seemed more erratic of a sudden, and before she knew it, her mouth was empty and she was on her back, with a lot of hulking Harry looming over her.
“We must talk, Mary.” He sounded as if his fancy linen were strangling him. He knelt beside the sofa, his hand running over her body again and again of its own accord, as if trying to memorize how she might feel if they were alone in the dark.
“I don’t want to talk,” she said, telling him only the truth. If they talked, they would have to deal with the fact that he was a duke and that she would rather throw herself into the sea and drown than tie herself to such a mess of burdens for the rest of her life—or so she told herself as she gazed into the blue of his eyes. His face was not the face of some English duke, but of the man she loved.
God help her.
“I don’t want to talk, either.”
Mary Elizabeth felt his hand on her stocking then, running up her leg, beneath her gown. His fingers caressed her garter and the sheath that was still tied to it, but they did not stop there, rising to her thigh, bringing her skirt along with it.
“I’ll have to call you out, Harry, if your hand goes any higher.”
He laughed at that, as if he did not believe her, and his hand kept moving. “I’ll risk it, Mary.”
“Swords at dawn, then,” she quipped, just to prove she could still think. But then his hand slipped between her thighs, delving beneath her smallclothes in some clever, wicked way she had not thought of before, and she could think no longer.
“Mary,” he said. “You can kill me tomorrow, but let me kiss you tonight.”
* * *
It seemed that his lady had lost her tongue somewhere, and the will to use it. At least, she was no longer able to speak, whic
h Harry took for a good sign. She simply smiled at him and tousled his hair, which he took for a bad one.
He moved quickly, drawing her knees up to his shoulders, so that she gasped. But she trusted him, for she spread her legs wide, as free as any courtesan. But he knew that she was no courtesan, nor even a wanton woman. She was a girl who trusted him with her life, along with her virtue. He reminded himself of this, even as he committed himself to not being a gentleman.
“I love you, Mary Elizabeth Waters,” Harry said. “I want you to remember that.”
She blinked at him, her curls fallen from their pins to frame her face against his leather sofa cushion in shades of honey, bronze, and gold. Harry leaned forward and kissed her lips, almost losing himself in their sweet softness. But he knew what he was about, and he drew back, only to lift her hips, shifting her smallclothes out of his way.
“I also want you to remember this.”
Harry bent down then and pressed his lips to the softness of her inner thigh. She gasped and tried to scrabble away, but his weight held her down. He did not speak, but put his mouth on her secret places, until she fell still beneath him, and stopped trying to get away.
The woman he loved shook as his mouth covered her, and when he looked up, his eyes traveling the length of her body, she met his gaze.
“Harry, you are daft. What in God’s Holy Name are you doing down there?”
He almost laughed out loud at that, but knew his business and that he needed to get down to it before she kicked him off her altogether. He went to work over her then, and in less than a minute, she was writhing, her hands in his hair, this time not trying to get away but to get closer.
“Harry, I love you,” she said, and then she spasmed beneath his mouth, her thighs clamping over his ears. He could still hear her labored breathing and her gasping moans, which she tried to stifle in the sofa cushion, and failed.
Finally she laid back, her thighs falling open, her breathing labored but slowly beginning to calm. Harry sat up then, his hands running over her body, feeling very like the cat in the cream.
She smacked him once, not very hard, on his shoulder, which was all she could reach. He felt himself smiling and knew that he was going to enjoy pleasuring this woman for the rest of his life.
“So, Mary, is it pistols at dawn, then?”
She smacked him again, but this time she spoke. “Don’t be cheeky, ye wee bugger. What the devil did you do to me?”
“I’d say that was fairly obvious. You were there, beneath my mouth the whole time.”
As he watched, his lady blushed, pushing herself away from him and drawing her knees together. She also drew her dress back down, but Harry left his hands on her calves. He was not willing to surrender that ground, not all of it. Not yet.
She stared at him, and he knew that she would not quit giving him that arch look until he answered her.
“Mary Elizabeth, I gave you pleasure with my tongue.”
“I believe your thumb was in there as well,” she corrected.
He raised one brow and sat beside her on the couch, drawing her close to him, his lips pressed to her temple. “I believe it was.”
At first she did not yield, but before he had taken his next breath, she had settled against him, tucked into the crook of his arm, her soft curves splayed against his body like the answer to every prayer he had ever spoken—and some he had not been wise enough to make. Harry kissed her then and lingered over her lips a long while, until he felt his own desire rising to a peak. He knew that he had to let her go, but he did not want to, not yet.
“Come sailing with me tomorrow,” he said.
“Hmm?” She was drowsy and did not seem to be heeding him.
“On the ocean, tomorrow morning. Come sailing with me.”
“What of your house full of English?” she asked.
“They are not invited.”
She smiled at him then, raising her face to his to kiss his cheek. “All right, Harry. I’ll go sailing with you. Just don’t bring Billings along at the last minute.”
A feeling of warm triumph rose in his breast, but he hid his smile in her hair. “As you say, Miss Waters. The illustrious Billings will stay here.”
Nineteen
Mary Elizabeth had a good deal to think about once Harry let her go. The first thing she thought of was how lovely it would be to invite him to her room, so that he might truly ruin her on one of the purgatorial ducal settees. Or better yet, on the comfortable bed.
She had come to know her man a bit over the last week, and she knew him well enough that had she managed to get him alone in her room and naked, he would take it as a declaration on her part. Harry would be certain she meant to marry him, and that would never do.
She was simply not duchess material.
She thought of the women who had scoffed at her during the ball and after, and she thought of their mothers, their fathers, and their English kin, all of whom would sit in judgment of her for the rest of her life, muttering behind her back about how the nobody from nowhere had appeared out of the back of beyond and stolen a young and handsome duke off the marriage market.
Mary Elizabeth swore under her breath and brandished the fire iron, as her sword was too long to fight indoors. She put herself through her paces but was no calmer afterward. A duchess would have to spend time in London, time at court, God help her, and be a support and a succor to Harry while she did it.
Mary Elizabeth cast the fireplace poker back on its stand, listening to it clatter against the spotless brass, swearing again, this time a bit louder.
She put herself to bed in the vain hope that she might sleep, but when she lay down, all she could think of was Harry’s mouth and how he had used it on her lips…and other places. This was certainly a more delicious line of thought, but she still did not sleep. With her candles blown out and her fire banked, she watched as the moon rose and crossed behind the windows, casting milky light over her borrowed bedchamber. She watched as the room turned dark, and then light again only a few hours hour later and knew she must get up.
She was down in the breakfast room alone, hoping that the other ladies would not rise so soon. She was right in that, for even Catherine was not there to greet her, as Alex no doubt had not let her out of bed yet. To her surprise, the duchess joined her, though she did not think the older lady ever rose before noon, guests or no guests.
Mary Elizabeth watched as Billings poured hot chocolate into a demitasse cup for Her Grace and did the same for Mary. “I’d like a mug of that, if you please, and a bit more milk poured in,” Mary Elizabeth said.
Billings raised one eyebrow but rang for more chocolate and more milk, while the duchess eyed her over her own bit of porcelain.
“My boy is going to offer for you,” the duchess said. “I want to know what your answer will be.”
Mary Elizabeth fidgeted in her chair, tearing a bit of brioche apart between her fingers. The duchess stared pointedly at the ruined roll, and Mary Elizabeth ate the shards of it without butter, wondering where the porridge was.
“I just discovered he’s your boy,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I am not sure I want to make him mine.”
The duchess did not turn her blue-eyed gaze away from Mary Elizabeth, but mixed the new chocolate with milk when it came and poured it herself. Decent mugs had not been brought, but slightly larger porcelain cups had. Mary Elizabeth made do, wishing she might spike hers with a bit of Islay to soften this conversation but knowing that it was far too early to exercise such a remedy. She was a Scot and no English sot. No whisky until afternoon, unless she was in peril of her life and needed the whisky to dress a wound. Her father had taught her that.
She thought of home with a desperate pang, and as she always did, she fervently wished herself there, wading through her own streams, fighting back her own bracken, fishing her own waters, left alone and in peac
e. But for the first time, the vision was an empty one, because Harry wasn’t in it.
Mary Elizabeth would have cursed but did not, only because she feared sending Billings into an apoplexy. Instead, she drank her chocolate, noting that it was quite fine, though her mood was not.
“I’ve more for you to consider before you make your decision,” the duchess said. “I warn you that I will not let you dally and trifle with my son. He is a hard man, but he has a soft heart. If you break it, I will break you.”
Mary Elizabeth smiled for the first time that day and raised her chocolate cup in a salute. “Agreed, Your Worship. I will have a care with Harry’s heart, and he will no doubt have a care with mine.”
Billings filled her cup while it was aloft, and Mary Elizabeth thanked him for the kindness before turning back to the matter at hand.
Before she could speak again, the duchess asked, “So you love him then?”
Mary Elizabeth did not flinch. “I do.”
“But you will not marry him.”
“I don’t see how I can and remain myself. If I try to be the woman you English want, Harry won’t want me anyway.”
The duchess smiled then, and tossed a bit of vellum across the creamy expanse of the table. The older lady sat back, smiling into her chocolate, for all the world as pleased as if Mary Elizabeth had given a different answer. Mary did not touch the vellum, for God alone knew what it was. She had never known paper to bring good news, and vellum, expensive as it was, usually brought worse. Still, she fingered it as she met the duchess’s eyes.
“I will be honest with him, always,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I will have a care for his heart. But I do not know yet what my answer will be.”
The duchess smiled at her as if she could see into her soul and knew what her answer was already. Mary Elizabeth sighed and lifted the vellum, wondering what fresh hell it contained. When she stripped away the outer cover, she saw her mother’s slanted, glancing hand. Mary Elizabeth dropped it as if it were a hot coal. She had had no word from her mother since March, when she had first been sent away.
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