by Jane Feather
The words caressed her, filled her with a sense of her own power, a newfound power. Her body began to sing beneath his languorous gaze as he ran his eyes over her, keeping his hands at his sides. His dark eyes had that deep velvety texture again. She could see herself reflected in the rich black pools, and she seemed to lose the shape of her self in their depths. She moved against the coverlet, her legs parting slightly of their own volition, a strange liquid weakness filling her loins and belly.
He put one knee on the bed beside her and leaned over, his mouth locking onto hers. Her lips parted instantly, and this time she was the aggressor, her tongue darting between his lips, touching, playing with his, her mouth filled with sweetness. His hand was on her breast, outlined beneath the thin lace-edged muslin of her nightgown, and she felt her nipple harden, pressing against the material up into his palm. He smiled against her mouth and raised his head, moving his free hand to her other breast, watching her face as he teased the nipple through her gown, feeling it harden with its twin. He bent his head again and pressed his lips against the fast-beating pulse in her throat as his hands continued their slow caress of her breasts.
A soft moan escaped her, and she stretched her body on the bed, her back arching slightly as if she could press her breasts even further into his hands. She reached up, her hands twisting in his thick dark hair, pulling his head up higher so that she could find his mouth with hers again, filled with an invincible hunger that she couldn’t name.
“Slowly,” he whispered, moving his mouth to her cheek, his tongue delicately stroking the curve of her cheek, before touching her eyelids, each one in turn, in a dainty butterfly kiss that brought every nerve ending in her skin to life. He lifted his head, looking into her eyes, a searching question in his dark gaze.
She met his look, reading the question. “I want this,” she said simply. “I know I want this.” She had never felt like this before, wasn’t even sure what it was she was feeling, but Harriet knew it was right, knew that if he left her now, the emptiness of disappointment would be almost unendurable. At this moment, nothing else mattered.
He nodded, his gaze clearing, his eyes suddenly bright and focused. He unfastened his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He unbuttoned his britches and pushed them off his hips, showing himself to her, his penis jutting from the nest of black curls at the apex of his thighs.
Harriet looked at it, imagined that hard length entering her body. A warm flush crept over her skin, and the liquid fullness in her loins intensified. What will it feel like? She understood the basic mechanics of the business—for that, she had country life to thank—but she had no idea beyond that. She had never had anyone to ask.
Julius bent over her, taking the hem of her nightgown with one hand, sliding it up the length of her legs, his other hand stroking her bare skin as it was revealed inch by inch. When the gown reached the top of her thighs, she inhaled sharply, and he paused, his intent gaze on her face once more. Her tongue touched her lips, and she let her muscles relax, her legs sinking into the bed as the tension flowed from her. As he felt her relax, he raised the nightgown another inch, and another. She felt the air on her belly, felt his eyes on her nakedness, his hand stroking upwards across her belly as he raised the gown further. There was a moment when he slid a hand intimately beneath her, cupping her bottom as he lifted her hips to free the material, then let her relax back onto the mattress. Within seconds, the air was cool and yet warm on her bared breasts, her nipples hard and erect beneath his stroking hands. He lowered his head, and his tongue took the place of his hands in a moist, teasing caress over the swell of her breasts. His teeth lightly grazed her nipples, and she was aware of a deep tug in her belly, a wash of warmth in her loins. A little whimper of pleasure broke from her.
He moved onto the bed, kneeling astride her, lifting her nightgown up over her head, sliding a hand beneath her head to lift it free. Then he sat back on his heels and gazed at her as she lay spread out in front of him. A smile touched his lips. “Do you know how very beautiful you are, Harriet? You are so lovely.”
Her pleasure deepened at the wonder in the rich, melodious voice, and she felt herself to be every bit as lovely as he said. She wanted to touch him as he had touched her and tentatively reached a hand to his penis, touching the tip with her fingertip, looking at him as she did so.
“Please,” he murmured with the same smile. “Learn the feel of me. It will only increase the pleasure for both of us.”
Emboldened by his words and by her own sudden need, she enclosed him in her fist, feeling the corded veins pulse against her palm. It was so strong, so muscular, so full of a life of its own. Instinctively, she moved her hand between his thighs, cupping the hard sacs at the base of his penis, and this time, it was Julius who groaned, his head falling back as her hands continued to explore the feel of him. Once again, she gloried in this sense of power, this knowledge that she could give him such pleasure just with her touch. Her hips shifted on the coverlet in involuntary invitation.
Slowly, Julius put his hand between her thighs, a finger sliding deep into the cleft of her sex. She gasped, shocked by the invasion and yet filled with a deep sensual delight. He continued to move his finger, watching her face, feeling her moistness. “This is the first time for you?” The sound of his voice was startling in the intense silence of their play. It was part question, part statement, and Harriet just nodded.
“Trust me, sweetheart,” he said softly, bending to kiss her. As his lips met hers, his stroking finger slipped suddenly inside her. She gasped once against his mouth at the suddenness of the intrusion, at the initial stab of pain. His finger moved swiftly, easing higher into her body, and the cry broke from her as the pain intensified, something seemed to stretch and break within her, and then it was over. He withdrew his finger gently and slipped his hands beneath her bottom, lifting her onto the shelf of his palms. “It will be easier for you this way.”
His intent gaze was on her face, reading her expression as he pushed inside the tight sheath of her body. She licked her dry lips, her eyes never leaving his, hanging on to his gaze as if to a lifeline. He was filling her up, and yet there was no pain now and only momentary discomfort before her body opened around him. She didn’t move, her mind and body focused on these new sensations, on the quivering deep in her belly, the tautness in her thighs. He moved with a slow, steady rhythm, pressing deeper, then withdrawing a little, and each time, she felt herself open further, until she instinctively moved her own hips, establishing her own rhythm in time with his. He smiled down at her and bent his head to kiss her, a deep and lingering kiss, as he continued to move within her.
Harriet put her hands on his back, then down to his buttocks, feeling the hard muscles against her palm as he drove the rhythm. Abruptly, his movements increased, and the quivering in her belly grew stronger. She tightened her thighs, lifted her hips a fraction higher. For a moment, she was as taut as a bow string. Julius withdrew to the very edge of her body, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he drove into her, and she felt as if she were shattering into a million pieces. He withdrew from her with a short, sharp cry and buried his face in her shoulder.
She felt the warmth of his seed on her belly and thighs, the pulsing moisture of her own core, as she lay spread-eagled, drained, filled with the deepest and sweetest weakness. Her hands stroked down his back, her fingers pushing into his hair as his head lay heavy on her shoulder, until he shifted to the bed beside her, one leg still across her, pinning her hips to the bed.
After a moment, he moved his leg and hitched himself onto an elbow. He looked down at her, a slight smile playing over his lips as he stroked the fair hair from her face. “How are you?”
“I think I’m all here,” she murmured, her own smile still rather weak. “For a moment, I seemed to be in a million pieces.”
“You are an amazing woman.” He kissed her, his lips a mere light, brushing caress on her mouth. “Most women don’t achieve anyt
hing close to their peak the first time.”
“And I did,” she said smugly.
He laughed, falling back onto the bed beside her. “Yes, my sweet, I believe you did. But I believe you have higher peaks yet to summit.”
“Oh?” She turned on her side, propping her cheek on her palm, her eyes bright with exhilaration. “Why is that?”
“Because no one can do everything they’re capable of first time around,” he stated, sitting up. He swung himself off the bed and went to the washstand. He poured water into the basin, dipped a cloth into it, and came back to her. “This might be a little cold, but you will feel more comfortable.” Bending over her, he sponged her belly and the tops of her thighs and then matter-of-factly moved her legs apart and cleansed the blood from her inner thighs. “You may be a little sore in the morning, but it will pass.”
He tossed the cloth back into the basin and with a swift movement lifted her off the bed long enough to pull down the coverlet and insert her between the sheets. “Better?”
“Mm.” A delicious languor was creeping over her as she sank into the deep feather mattress. “Will you stay?”
“I dare not. We must be up betimes for the hunt, and we both need to sleep.” He dressed quickly, leaving his shirt unbuttoned, and then came back to the bed, kissing her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Harry.”
She smiled sleepily up at him. “You didn’t kill Nick.”
He paused for an instant, and the shadows crossed his eyes again. “No, I didn’t kill Nick . . . but I was responsible for his death.” And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Harriet sat up, her languor vanished. What did he mean? He was responsible? How could he have been responsible? How could he say something like that and then just leave her? The dream world was gone now, and everything she had seen that evening flooded back in a cold wash of bitter reality. She had seen the man who had just loved her meeting in the woods with a foreign agent.
She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her nightgown, dragging it over her head. She let herself out of her chamber and ran down the silent corridor to the landing and into the wing that housed the guest apartments. She flung open his door as violently as he had flung open hers what now seemed a lifetime ago.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “How were you responsible?”
Julius, still in his britches, shirt hanging open, turned from the dresser where he was pouring himself cognac. He sighed wearily. “Can we talk of this tomorrow, Harriet? Now is not the time, and you need your sleep.”
“Sleep!” she exclaimed. “How could I possibly sleep when you say something like that? After what we’ve just done together . . . What did you mean?” She almost stamped her bare foot in frustration.
Julius cursed his impulse. He had regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth, but her openness, the honesty of her response to him in her bedchamber, had affected him so deeply that he had spoken the truth without thought. He owed her his own honesty. But that had been a foolish, sentimental mistake. He searched for words that would minimize the damage, but under the burning question in those candid green eyes, he could find nothing.
He shook his head. “Because of my actions, Harriet, Nick was unable to defend himself from a sudden attack.”
“What actions?” She was calmer now but watchful.
He debated for a moment and then asked, “How much do you know of what your brother did?”
“I know he was a spy for England. He told me so himself. I know he was murdered somewhere on the Continent, presumably by French agents. The Ministry told me that. So where were you?” Her heart was beating too rapidly again, as if she stood on the brink of an as yet unknown danger. But she would not back down . . . not now, not after what they had done together. “Where were you?” she repeated with more emphasis.
His expression was bleak, his voice expressionless, the words emerging in a staccato rhythm. “I was there, but I could do nothing for him. I had a mission to accomplish, and Nick could not be part of it. Sometimes I had to work alone. I had put something in his drink to send him to sleep for a few hours, but it meant that when he was attacked, he couldn’t focus enough to defend himself properly.” He turned away from her then, raising the glass to his lips, draining its contents in one swallow.
“If you were there, why could you not help him?” she pressed, nausea rising in her throat.
He sighed again, a weary, almost defeated sound. “Because I had my own mission to accomplish, and I could not jeopardize it with any delay. Too many other lives depended on it. I had to choose between one and the many.”
She stared at his averted back, swallowing the nausea, tasting the acid bile at the back of her throat. “So you are a double agent, working for the French.” It was a flat statement.
He spun round on her, and anger now flickered anew in his dark gaze. “Do you really think that, Harriet?” He shook his head at her, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You disappoint me.”
“I disappoint you,” she breathed in shock and outrage. He had no right to turn the tables like that. With an incoherent sound, she left him standing there, her bare feet racing away from him as if she were pursued by the Furies.
Once in her own chamber again, she closed the door and stood leaning against it, unaware for the moment that tears were spilling down her cheeks. After the tumultuous emotions of the evening, she could not think clearly about anything. She was aware only of a deep and desperate sense of betrayal, and Nick’s loss was suddenly as raw and immediate as it had been when she had first faced it. Julius could have saved him. He didn’t have to die.
Cold now, she crawled back under the covers, seeking the warmth she had left a few minutes earlier, but she could find no comfort, nothing to stop the shaking that convulsed her limbs.
Chapter Twelve
Harriet must have fallen asleep eventually, because when she opened her eyes again, it was to the sound of Agnes drawing back the curtains.
“Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?” The maid set the tray of hot chocolate and bread and butter on the bed as Harriet dragged herself up against the pillows.
“Yes, thank you,” Harriet fibbed, aware that her eyes still felt swollen from weeping. They must look awful, she thought. But Agnes did not look exactly bright-eyed, either, this morning. The servants’ ball must have gone on late into the night and Mallow’s Christmas punch was renowned for its punch.
“Your riding boots are scuffed and muddy, my lady.” Agnes held up the boots Harriet had been wearing in the woods the previous night. “I’ll take them downstairs for the boot boy to shine.” She cast a curious glance at her mistress. “I was sure I’d seen that they were clean before I went off last evening, m’lady.”
“I went for a walk,” Harriet said. “I felt a little restless, and it was a fine night, so I took a stroll around the garden.”
“Oh, right y’are, m’lady.” Agnes hurried away with the boots, and Harriet sat back against the pillow, sipping her chocolate.
The events of the night were as vivid this morning as they had been while she was living them. They hadn’t left her even during her intermittent dozing, and she felt only an overwhelming desire to lock her door, curl up under the covers again, and sleep until Twelfth Night had come and gone and the house was finally empty once more. Surely Julius would have the decency to leave as soon as he could? She knew who he was, knew what he was. He couldn’t continue to abuse her grandfather’s hospitality. She decided that if he hadn’t left before the hunt began, she would tell the Duke everything. Then he would have to go. There would be no mail carrier on Boxing Day, but tomorrow she would send a message to the Ministry in London, and her task would be over.
She set the tray aside and slid out of bed, wincing a little as she took a step to the washstand, where Agnes had left a steaming pitcher of hot water. Her legs shook, and she grabbed the post at the foot of the bed, physical memory of the previous night flooding her, making h
er toes curl into the Aubusson carpet. She could hear Julius’s voice telling her she would probably be a little sore today, feel his hands on her again as he sponged gently between her thighs.
She clung to the bedpost until the moment passed and then took a deep breath. What had happened was real. She was no longer virgin, and that in itself was all to the good, she decided with characteristic honesty. It was a burden she was well rid of. She had no suitors, no young men pressing her for her favor. She spent most of her time in town depressing such pretensions as gently but as directly as she could. And while she was quite prepared to go to her grave a spinster, she was very glad that it would not be as a virginal spinster.
For that, she had to thank Julius Forsythe. The man who had stood by and watched her brother die.
The reflection was sufficient to wipe away whatever satisfaction she was feeling. She wanted a bath, but there was no time before breakfast. It would have to be later, after the hunt. She pulled the nightgown over her head and walked gingerly to the washstand, pouring steaming water into the basin. A cake of verbena-scented soap and a washcloth brought a degree of soothing comfort to her body, and a pad of witch hazel on her swollen eyes restored her complexion to something approaching its usual composure.
Agnes came in with her newly polished boots. “Nurse Maddox says she’ll try to keep the children in the nursery until after breakfast, my lady. But they’re very excited.”
It was a welcome change to turn her attention to familiar problems. “I’m sure they are, Agnes, but if anyone can keep them in check, it’s Nurse Maddox.” Harriet turned from the washstand and began to dress as the maid handed her undergarments to her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the crisply starched white shirt with its high lace collar and pulled on the leather britches she wore beneath her tawny orange riding skirt. She stepped into the skirt, tucking the shirt into the waistband before Agnes fastened the buttons at her back. A black silk waistcoat over the shirt and a fitted jacket of the same color as the skirt completed the outfit. Agnes took a soft brush and smoothed over the black velvet collar and cuffs of the coat.