The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  “That’s it. And get back into bed. Now.”

  She clutched the robe more firmly to her throat. “I will not take such orders from you or any other man!”

  Chapter 12

  Thomas blinked. She was rather fierce in her robed glory. “Quite right. Didn’t phrase it properly. Not a brute, you know. Not like the cur who hit you.”

  “He’s not—” Miss Benson shut her beautiful mouth. Thomas had never really noticed how pink her lips were before, or how full. Her hair was in extreme disarray, rising up from her shoulders in a curly cloud. It appeared shorter in front, and fell past her waist in the back. His fingers itched to touch it and he clutched them hard again.

  “Yes, he is. A gentleman never hits a lady, no matter how provoking she is. Who is he?”

  She looked down at her bare feet and was silent so long Thomas thought she wasn’t going to answer.

  “My father,” she whispered.

  “You’re not a child to be disciplined! Why would he do that?” Thomas asked.

  “He’s lost his position at the bank and is upset. I may have said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  Thomas sprang up from his chair and crossed the room, placing one hand gently on her shoulder. “I don’t care what you said. He was wrong to touch you.”

  Miss Benson looked up, tears welling in her eyes. “I agree. That’s why I came here, though that will only add more fuel to the fire.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Shrugging, she slid away from him. “He—oh, it’s so ridiculous. I cannot repeat it.”

  “Harriet.”

  She startled at the use of her Christian name, but it worked.

  “He wants me to quit my job. He—he—” Her cheeks were scarlet now, at odds with the bruise. “He accused me of having an affair with you. That I was your m-mistress. I washed your handkerchief, you see, and he didn’t understand.”

  Thomas felt a little light-headed. Was her father some sort of psychic? Thomas would delight in taking Harriet Benson as his mistress.

  If he knew what to do with one.

  “My handkerchief?”

  “The pigeon one.”

  “Ah.” The one he’d tried to touch Miss Benson’s bosom with, imbecile that he was.

  “My father’s very overset. He’s been at Stratton’s forever. Decades. It’s terribly unfair. But I was not going to stay to be his punching bag.” She decided to sit after all, and edged into a chair near the fireplace.

  Thomas was rooted to the carpet, his hand still tingling from its brief touch of her shoulder. “No indeed. I’m glad you came to me. Do you want me to speak to him? Straighten this misunderstanding out?”

  “He’d never believe you. For some reason he thinks I’m a temptress.” She gave an awkward laugh.

  Thomas found himself agreeing with old Benson. True, Miss Benson was a bit out of the ordinary—her height might intimidate a shorter man, but Thomas was plenty tall himself.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t think. I suppose Mrs. Evensong might help me.”

  No again. Thomas didn’t want Harriet Benson turning to anyone but him.

  “You can stay right here until he comes to his senses. I’ll talk to someone I know at Stratton’s—perhaps I can persuade them to take him back on.”

  “Stay here?” She was staring at him myopically, and Thomas realized she still wasn’t wearing her glasses. He marched across the room to the bedside table and picked them up.

  “Yes. The house is big enough, as you well know.” Carefully, he adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “They’re crooked.”

  Miss Benson took them off. “I think they may be ruined. L-like me.”

  And then she broke down completely. Thomas couldn’t help but put his arms around her. Couldn’t help but lift her from the chair and carry her the few steps to the bed. Couldn’t help but lie next to her as she cried on his third best coat. Couldn’t help but silence her with a kiss that lasted altogether too long, but not ever long enough.

  Oh, bliss. Wet bliss, but not too much wetness. Trust Harriet to be properly lubricated . . . she was so proper everywhere. She smelled of soap and roses, and Thomas was losing his head one gentle lick at a time.

  There was sweetness and warmth, and when she’d opened her mouth to him in surprise, he slithered right in. Nothing could have held him back. She sighed in his arms, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise in anticipation. His skin prickled everywhere. His prick definitely prickled. Thomas had, he suddenly realized, dreamed about this for days. Nights, really.

  Tongues deliciously tangled and explored. She had the softest inner cheek. She was soft inside and outside, like a ripe . . . something. His metaphors were failing him. Peach? Something fruity.

  Fruity? Absurd. There were no adequate adjectives, either. He felt dazzled out of his words.

  There was one word, however, that leaped to the forefront of his confused brain.

  Mistress.

  His mistress. They could discover carnal delights together. He would be generous to a fault, and once he moved on Thomas would make sure she would never be hit by her father or any other man again. It would be lovely to lie with her when she wasn’t such a watering pot—she fit so very perfectly in his arms. She kissed beautifully, too, or at least improved as the minutes ticked by.

  But then he felt her fist drive into his solar plexus. It seemed his Harriet had other ideas.

  “St-stop that this instant, Sir Thomas!” Her lips were pinker and fruitier than ever. Swollen. So very kissable. But that is what had gotten him short of breath.

  “Hm?” he asked foolishly.

  “You need to get off this bed.”

  No, he certainly did not. He had a cockstand the size of a flagpole which would be very noticeable if he tried to rise.

  “I want you to listen to me, Miss Benson. Harriet,” he amended.

  “I cannot but help to do so since you are so close,” she hissed. “Go away!” She punched him again.

  Oof. “I can’t just yet. You wouldn’t understand. I have something rather embarrassing to confess, but I believe you are suitable in every way to be the solution to my problem. I would give you a . . .” How to phrase it? People thought him very glib, but he’d never felt so tongue-tied in his life. “A bonus.”

  Her caterpillar-y eyebrow raised. “A bonus? For what?” He suspected she knew already, and it was clear exactly what she thought of his proposition. She was getting pinker and less fruity by the second.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of your innocence. I want you to take advantage of mine.”

  Both caterpillars were in the air now.

  “I am a virgin, Miss Benson. Harriet.”

  There. The hard part was over. Or perhaps just beginning. It was too soon to tell.

  Chapter 13

  Harriet felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Could she have water in her ears from the bath? Be dreaming? Perhaps that kiss—that kiss!—had removed every brain cell, one by one. She rubbed her mouth. Somehow Sir Thomas’s mustache still tingled on her upper lip.

  Well, she knew now what it was like to kiss a man with a mustache.

  He patted her hand, and she forgot to snatch it away.

  “I know it’s hard to believe. My reputation and all. Even your poor deluded father thinks I’m some kind of Casanova. I am so sorry that the rumors about me have harmed you. I must make it up to you.”

  He was still lying right there next to her. She could have counted his eyelashes if she could see them properly. It was her affliction to see well neither close nor far. But she knew how handsome he was. How was it possible that he . . .

  “I suppose you’re wondering how it’s possible that I’ve reached the age of twenty-seven without experiencing sexual congress.”

  Handsome, and a mind-reader. Harriet swallowed and nodded. He gave her hand a final pat and pulled the folds of her robe together. My God, had he see
n her breasts? Very likely! But he apparently didn’t want to see them anymore at the moment. She should feel relief.

  She didn’t. He was still. Right. There.

  Sir Thomas flopped to his back, snatching a pillow to cover his stomach. His hand raked through his glossy dark hair as he stared at the ceiling. There was a very nice bas-relief medallion up there. Harriet wished she had her glasses on to examine it more closely. This was the oddest conversation of her life.

  “I was thrown out of school, you see. At fifteen. Fifteen is a very tricky age for most boys.”

  “My brothers are fifteen.”

  “Well, then you know.”

  Harriet didn’t think she did. “What does this have to do with . . .” She waved her hand ineffectually between them. There was not much space. She could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.

  “My mates all went on to university. There are barmaids and laundresses and dons’ wives there.”

  Dons’ wives? Surely not.

  “Everyone was having more fun than I, stuck at home with ancient tutors and my father. I was jealous. I told a few tales so my friends wouldn’t feel too sorry for me, and I’m afraid things mushroomed.”

  “But all your actresses and models!” Harriet reminded him. She’d paid their clothing allowances. One or two had actually called on him at Featherstone House since she’d been working here. Hitchborn had been appalled but resigned in announcing them. They had glittered in the daytime. Wasn’t there some sort of rule about diamonds only after dark? But women like that didn’t follow rules.

  “Friends only. To be accurate, there has been some finkydiddling. Just a very little. Must keep up appearances. At this point people would laugh in my face if they found out. This condition is unnatural.”

  Finkydiddling? Harriet had never heard the term before, but she was fairly certain she understood what he meant. “Well, I’m a year older than you, and have no difficulty whatsoever being a virgin,” Harriet lied.

  “It’s different for a girl. A woman. You’re expected to be pure.”

  Harriet wanted to argue with him over the unfairness of it all, but realized at once it would undermine her case. She wanted him to get off the bed, correct? She wanted him to apologize for kissing her and offering her a . . . bonus, did she not? She was insulted that he’d virtually asked her to be his mistress, wasn’t she?

  His mistress! If he saw her awful scar, he’d withdraw his offer in a heartbeat.

  She sat up. “This is all very interesting, Sir Thomas, but I must get dressed and leave.”

  He sat up, too. “You’ll not go home!”

  Harriet didn’t know where she’d go. Probably Mrs. Evensong’s. She should have gone there in the first place.

  But no. She’d been drawn to Featherstone House like a—like a homing pigeon. She almost laughed.

  He grabbed her hand again. “It’s late. It’s dark. You’re staying here. If you must leave, tomorrow is soon enough.”

  Harriet tugged, but he held fast. “It isn’t proper.”

  “Proper, proper, proper. Is that the only word you know? To hell with propriety! Haven’t we just had this conversation, or have you addled my wits completely? Don’t you think both of us have been proper all too long? Look at us! We’re both attractive adults, and before you say I’m conceited, the house is filled with mirrors and I know I’m not a gargoyle.”

  She might be the one with the spectacles, but apparently Sir Thomas had a vision problem, too. “I am not attractive.”

  Sir Thomas scowled at her. “Are you blind? Oh! You are. No offense meant! But really, how can you not know? You are like some sort of primitive earth goddess—skin like honey, wild mahogany hair, and you know your eyes are pools of melted chocolate.”

  Rubbish. But it did sound rather poetic. No wonder Sir Thomas got his way—

  No. According to him, he didn’t get his way at all.

  “Listen to me, Miss Benson. Harriet. I am prepared to be very generous. Very generous. Give me a week. I’d like to get to know you better. Work out the mechanicals—oh, damn me for a fool. That doesn’t sound very seductive, does it? We won’t do anything you won’t like.”

  It took Harriet a while to find her tongue. It still wobbled a little from their kiss. “Are you completely mad?”

  Sir Thomas nodded. “I believe I am. You have bewitched me ever since the first moment I saw you.”

  Harriet didn’t know whether she should be flattered or insulted. Both, probably.

  “How can I help you, Sir Thomas? I wouldn’t even know what to do. I—I’m just like you in that regard. Innocent. Untutored. I don’t even read racy novels.”

  Very often.

  He grinned. “That’s exactly it. You have no previous experience and won’t judge me. Once I perfect my technique, all will be well.”

  “Can’t you read a book or something?” Harriet asked helplessly. He smelled so good—of shaving soap and gentlemen’s cologne. Bergamot? She was unacquainted with the aromas of male perfume. Or female perfume, for that matter.

  “Already done. Several, actually. You haven’t seen them in the library—they’re locked up in a desk drawer to assuage Hitchborn’s finer feelings. He’s even more proper than you are. We can read them together.”

  Harriet felt her face warm. She could see them now, side by side on a sofa, Sir Thomas’s strong hand turning the pages of something no decent woman would ever acknowledge existed. Dirty books! Her life had come to this, just as her father had predicted.

  Sir Thomas cupped her damaged cheek with one of those strong hands and said very quietly, “It’s my understanding that it’s a myth that a man can know if his wife has lain with a lover before marriage.”

  “I will never marry,” Harriet said automatically. His fingertips were tender. Warm. Harriet wanted to burst into tears.

  “There. You see? One week of bliss, with magnificent financial remuneration.” He mentioned a figure that took her breath away. Misinterpreting her silence, he doubled it.

  “You’ll have your independence. There’s no reason why you’ll ever have to go back to your father’s house again, or even seek employment. You know what a fool I am about my money.”

  Harriet looked into his eyes, which might equally be called melting pools of chocolate. “In effect, I will be your whore.”

  His face was instantly stricken. “No, no! What a dreadful way to look at it. We will seek pleasure together, be explorers into uncharted territory. Like Columbus. Cabot. All the rest of them hacking through the virgin forests and discovering gold and waterfalls. Not that I will hack you in any way, Harriet—I shall be as gentle as—as a tropical breeze. A feather falling from the sky. A misty cloud upon a mountaintop. A—”

  “That’s enough. Columbus’s crew decimated the natives with venereal diseases, didn’t they?”

  He straightened. “I assure you I am completely devoid of whatever you’re talking about. And how can you know such a thing?”

  She shrugged. Harriet knew a very odd assortment of things. It came of being mostly self-educated.

  Thomas tried another tack. “If you do decide to marry, you will know what to do with your husband.”

  “I don’t think that’s knowledge a husband expects, Sir Thomas,” she said primly. As far as she knew, it was a wife’s duty to lie still and pretend whatever was going on wasn’t.

  “Perhaps not, but the bugger will be grateful nonetheless. This could work to our advantage. I—I really like you, Harriet. May I call you Harriet?”

  This conversation was becoming more rabbit-hole-y by the minute. He wanted to bed her, yet was asking permission to use her first name!

  But he did look quite sincere. Earnest. And he was so handsome. How could she refuse him? The amount he offered was obscene. She could afford to keep the boys in school and send them on to university. She could buy a cozy cottage in the country. Somewhere in the Cotswolds. Though she’d never left London, she’d seen lovely photographs in magazin
es. She could buy a new coat. A dozen coats.

  One week. That’s all he was asking. Harriet would lose her virginity but possibly gain something more valuable in return.

  That brought her up short. What of unintended consequences? She knew about those, too.

  Harriet cleared her throat. How embarrassing this all was. “You have neglected to consider what will happen if I become pregnant.”

  “Oh.” He rubbed his chin. She noticed that his face was a bit shadowed. He must have to shave twice a day.

  “I expect I should have to marry you then.”

  “What?”

  “I have to marry sometime. As I’ve already said, I like you. You’d probably do as well as anyone.”

  There was no question now—Sir Thomas Featherstone was mad as a hatter.

  Chapter 14

  At first, Thomas had been reluctant to leave Harriet just when things seemed so promising, but he did have several obligations to attend to this evening. She had promised to stay overnight and consider his offer, so he’d done the pretty and made his social rounds. There was dinner with the Covingtons, a quick look-in at the Paleys’ drinks party, and a nightcap or two at his club with his friend Marcus Stanley. Thomas was arranging to sponsor an exhibit of Marcus’s African landscape pictures, which were riveting and eerie and altogether amazing. At least the Second Boer War had been good for something.

  So Thomas was just slightly squiffy when he returned to Featherstone House a little past midnight. Hitchborn was waiting up as usual, the soul of patience and the voice of reason.

  “How is our guest, Hitchborn?” Thomas asked, as he stood still for the butler to remove his top coat and silk scarf.

  “I would say she is agitated, Sir Thomas. She is in the library.”

  “Not working at this hour!” The poor girl had suffered too many ordeals today, some of which he was responsible for. He’d almost forgotten he’d signed the lease on the Mount Street house today. Lots of changes were in the works.

  “I am not precisely sure what she is doing, sir. Minnie helped her back into her old clothing.” Hitchborn gave a delicate shudder. “She was most put out to discover that her . . . um, afghan met with an unfortunate accident.”