She walked unsteadily to the dressing table, still as naked as God made her. One electric lamp didn’t cast much light, but her hair looked like she’d stuck a finger in the house’s dynamo. Her cheek was mottled, her scar vivid. There was no trace of any sort of pleasured female, just a gauche, ungainly brownish woman past her prime in serious need of a hairbrush.
She pulled her nightgown over her head, turned off the lamp, and lay back down. Today was New Year’s Day. Thomas had passed up scores of invitations to spend the night with her. She hoped he’d find some amusement once this was over, she truly did. Surely there was some nice society girl in London who was deserving of Thomas’s affection.
Harriet punched the pillow again, even harder this time. Everything would work out, one way or another.
Chapter 29
Sunday, January 1, 1905
Ah. This kissing business was enough to make a cat speak. It was becoming more difficult by the second for Thomas to remain upright, and it was the most natural thing in the world to two-step Harriet over to the library couch. He managed to collapse with her neatly in his lap, their tongues tangling in delightful tandem. Harriet quivered a little, which was very interesting. Thomas held her tighter.
“We’ll never get to Mount Street if you keep this up,” Harriet said, gasping, as she tried to push away.
“Hush. We can go tomorrow. It’s snowing anyway;” and he set about continuing their post-lunch pastime. They had both slept very late. Not with each other, unfortunately. Harriet had shooed him away, and Thomas supposed she had been right to do so. As far as the household knew, she was his secretary, nothing more. He didn’t want her embarrassed in front of the staff.
He also didn’t want one of Hitchborn’s lectures. Sometimes his butler forgot who was boss. If he was opposed to Thomas’s female flirts and his artist friends, he would be extremely upset to know Thomas was finkydiddling his secretary under the pitched slate roof of Featherstone House.
But it was hard for Thomas to keep his hands off her. After their shared lunch, she’d begun the afternoon all business, gathering up receipts to take with her to Mount Street to consult with the porter. At present they were scattered all over the rug. Tomorrow would be soon enough to see that the beds and pianos had been delivered. Today was for kissing and getting to know her better.
One would never know they hadn’t had much practice kissing each other. Or kissing anybody. Her fingertips made the hairs on the body lift. Other things had already lifted. Would it be too outré to get naked in the library?
His head was fuzzy. Fizzy. Kissing Harriet was like drinking a bottle of champagne without his brain being sublet to Jag, Hangover, and Company.
He pulled away a fraction, but Harriet came right after him. Good girl. He let himself be lost for a minute more before he reluctantly broke the kiss.
“You’re right. We probably should stop, my dear. Anyone might come in. But tonight . . .” He waggled an eyebrow, hoping she’d think it charmingly rakish. “Still, I refuse to let you dwell on the foundation anymore today. It is, as you noticed so astutely, Sunday. A day of rest. Why don’t we stay in and just talk?”
“Talk?” She still looked dazed, poor dear.
“Yes. I’d like to get to know you better.”
“I feel I know you pretty well after last night,” Harriet replied.
Thomas chuckled. He felt known. It had been the best night—or morning, really—of his life so far, and he was looking forward to more bests. This deal he had with Harriet was phenomenal, as long as her father didn’t find out she was here. Thomas had already warned Hitchborn to turn the man away if he showed up again, and told Josephson to watch out for anyone lurking in the bushes by the mews.
It might complicate her getting out to Mount Street to supervise things, he realized. Her figure was much too singular to disguise. Maybe he could roll her up in a rug like Cleopatra.
“Speaking of last night, you old pa said he was going to spy on me. Maybe it’s best you don’t leave the house.”
“Not leave? How can I do the work I need to do?”
“We’ll cross that bridge. I know! Didn’t you say he’d lost his job? Maybe I can get him a new one somewhere. Anonymously, of course. He’ll be too busy then to suspect me of leading you astray.”
“I think we led each other astray,” Harriet said, blushing. “But that would be very kind of you if you could fix something up for him. He’s been a clerk at Stratton’s for decades. He’s a hard worker. Dedicated.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, then. Why did you choose to be a secretary instead of a nurse or a teacher?”
“I’d had enough of both, bringing the boys up. I thought it would be nice to do something clean.” Harriet gave a rueful laugh. “I forgot about ink stains and typewriter ribbons.”
“All right. Being a secretary was your preference. Is that what you want for the rest of your life?”
She was silent. Thomas let her be. He got up from the couch, poured them both another cup of coffee, and waited.
And waited. Her eyes were closed. Had she fallen asleep in her seat? He was damned tired himself.
“What I want,” she finally said, “is impossible.”
“Why?”
“It just is.” She took a sip of coffee.
He was about to launch into a “no expense will be spared speech” when he thought the better of it. Money could buy many things, but Harriet had been insistent he not spend more on her than they had agreed upon. Maybe what she wanted couldn’t be purchased anyhow. A husband. Children of her own to raise, not her brothers.
But she’d said she wasn’t interested in getting married.
“A secret, eh?”
Harriet nodded. “Deep and dark. What about you?”
“Ha, you want me to tell you my secrets when you won’t reveal your own?”
“All right then. We’ll skip the secrets. Why do your friends call you Tubby? You are not a bit stout.”
“It’s a ridiculous, boring tale. And I was badly used. My life was blighted for years.” Until I met you, he wanted to say. “You know I was thrown out of school?”
“What did you do?”
Thomas told her. Her plucked brows raised when he was finished. “That’s all?”
“It was enough. I might have been poking the bear before that. I sketched back then. Drew some unflattering portraits of my masters. I don’t think they were too sad to see me go.”
“So you’re an artist, too.”
“Not at all. My efforts were childish cartoons. Crude compared with the artists I support.”
“A paper flotilla? Can you demonstrate your paper-folding capabilities?”
Thomas tapped his chin. “I’m a bit rusty. I might need some motivation. What’s my reward if I do?”
Harriet tapped her chin right back. “Let me think. I might manage another kiss for you.”
She was really getting into the spirit of this mistress business, becoming playful, pliant, and almost flirtatious. Harriet was blossoming before his eyes.
“And I might manage to kiss you back. Let me take the precaution of locking the library door.”
“Won’t someone be coming up to remove the luncheon tray?”
Was she worried about inconveniencing a servant? Probably. “All right. Let me ring, and I’ll tell whoever comes we are to be disturbed under no circumstances.”
Harriet stood, straightened her skirt and returned to her desk. She uncapped a bottle of ink and made a great pretense of writing. When a footman entered and left, she didn’t even look up, so engaged was she in her “work.”
“There. That fooled him. No doubt he’s gone down to the kitchen to report me as a slave-driver, keeping my poor secretary chained to a desk on a Sunday. New Year’s Day, in fact. I am an ogre.”
Harriet looked up. “You don’t think we’re causing . . . gossip?”
Thomas heard her hesitance. “The members of my staff are discretion itself. The
y would never dare to speculate. All they know is that you suffered an accident and I’ve provided temporary shelter. Your father’s appearance last night provided all the proof they’d need that your home was not safe.”
“The clothes . . .”
“What was I to do? Let you wander around Featherstone House in a blanket and that ghastly brown suit? That dress is very becoming, by the way.”
Harriet looked down at the cream wool bodice. It had elaborate cording and fitted her perfectly. She fingered a pleat absently. “He is usually so abstemious. I have never seen him drunk but twice in my life.”
“I see we’ve changed the subject. Do you forgive him for hitting you?”
“No. Women are not chattel. They shouldn’t belong to their fathers and husbands to be abused at will.”
“Spoken like a true suffragist. I happen to agree.”
“I—I just wanted to tell you. If you are able to exert influence in getting him a job, you needn’t worry he’ll be like he was.”
Thomas forbore telling her the only reason he’d help the old man was to get him out of their hair. He didn’t want Benson popping out behind the fence like a demented jack-in-the-box. At some point, Harriet would have to leave the house.
He walked across the room and smoothed her cheek. The bruise was fading, but Minnie had still powdered her to a fare-thee-well. “It does you credit, but you’re worrying too much.”
Harriet shrugged. “I can’t help it. My brothers are alone with him. I can’t imagine how they’re coping. Here I am in such luxury. It was hard raising them, you know,” she continued. “My father couldn’t help with the boys because of his job. A neighbor woman, Mrs. Sullivan, watched them when they weren’t in school and I was. I had to pay her out of my funds.”
There had been nothing left over for her to have any fun with her funds, Thomas reckoned. There she’d been, a young woman almost worn out from drudgery. Friendless. His heart went out to her. Hell, his heart was already in her lap.
“Good grief, woman! Don’t feel guilty. You’ve earned some ease, don’t you think?”
“You haven’t met my brothers.”
And he didn’t much want to. Ungrateful cubs, if they were typical fifteen-year-olds.
Speaking of which. “Hand over some of that paper. I shall show you what got me thrown out of school. Behold the true magic of my hands!”
Chapter 30
Harriet knew perfectly well what his hands could do, and wanted them to do it again. Now that the door was locked—
Oh, dear. She was approaching this new job of hers with entirely too much enthusiasm.
Job. For that’s what it was. In a few days’ time, she would earn an outrageous amount of money and leave. She hadn’t mentioned the leaving part to Thomas yet, but how could he expect her to stay and revert to their original roles? It wasn’t as if she’d been with him for years like poor Thurston—she’d only started a few days before Christmas.
True, they had gotten an awful lot accomplished in a short time, for which she took some credit. All she’d had to do was harness Thomas’s genius, for genius it was. He had an uncanny knack for finding diamonds amidst the detritus. His art collection was simply staggering.
He wanted to ship a few of the lesser pieces he could part with to Mount Street, with instructions as to where and in what order to hang them. They would be the seeds for the Featherstone Foundation’s sales. All proceeds would go back to the foundation. It was Thomas’s hope that eventually the operation would be entirely self-supporting, and he could stop begging patrons for money.
Harriet knew he’d invested plenty of his own. She’d met each of the grateful lodgers, none of whom were at all business-minded. Who would take care of all the details?
Her replacement. For a second, Harriet wondered if Thomas would start an affair with her, too.
Well, why shouldn’t he? It was none of her concern. She’d be long gone to her cottage in the country.
She would feel foolish telling Thomas about her Cotswold cat-and-dog dream. For a man who had everything, he’d think her goal was too modest. But Harriet was a modest sort of person, and there would be plenty left over for her brothers’ education.
Of course, what she really wanted now that she knew the possibilities was completely inappropriate. She mustn’t lose her head after a forbidden taste of intense pleasure. Harriet would just enjoy the next few days and count her blessings.
Enough thinking of the future. Right now, it was fascinating watching Thomas turn typing paper into a sleek skiff. His fingers worked so quickly, she was dizzy. In no time, he’d made a few boats, a very life-like squirrel holding an acorn, and a faceted sphere.
“This is incredible!”
“It’s just a hobby. I haven’t had much time for it lately, and really, what’s the use of it?” He balled up the sphere and tossed it into the wastebasket before she could stop him.
“But it’s art, Thomas!”
“Pooh. It doesn’t last. People have been making things like this for hundreds of years, but there’s no trace. Here, let me show you how to make a paper crane. That’s the most popular form in the East. Schoolchildren do it.”
Harriet watched, and then tried. Her crane resembled no bird in nature or fantasy. “See? You are an artist, Thomas. I’ve never felt so ham-handed in all my life.”
He took a hand and lifted it to his lips. “It’s a lovely hand.” He blew across her palm, and her skin prickled.
“I suppose you’ll want your kiss.”
“Oh yes.” His lips brushed over her upturned hand, and then his tongue swept along her lifeline.
“Is—is that all?” Harriet asked, disappointed.
“By no means, Miss Benson. The door is locked, and no one will dare come in to see where I’ll kiss you next.”
Harriet’s heart fluttered. It was impossible to forget exactly where his clever lips had been earlier today. She had not thought such a thing was to be found outside of that book.
And if he could do that to her down there, could she do the same to him? Would he like it? Harriet bet a mistress would be skilled at that kind of kiss, but she had no confidence in her own abilities whatsoever.
But that was what this week was for—to build confidence. Engage in new experiences. Escape her humdrum life for just a little while. Who better to help her become the woman she was meant to be than Sir Thomas Benedict Featherstone? Harriet was lucky; she really was.
But so was Thomas. His mouth dropped open when she very deliberately put her free hand over his flies. She gave an exploratory rub, and Thomas nipped her palm.
“Be careful, Harry,” he growled.
“You did say the door was locked.”
“I thought we were waiting for nightfall.”
Harriet looked at him with feigned innocence. “We’re only kissing.”
Could she get down on her knees without toppling over? She’d never been especially graceful. But Thomas held her hand as she descended, steadying her.
His voice was all gravel and yearning. “Oh, God, Harry. You don’t have to do this. It—it wasn’t in the agreement.”
Certainly not. Harriet didn’t even know such an activity existed until she’d seen the pictures.
“I’d like to try if you’ll let me.”
“Let you! You can’t know how—but it’s really not a proper thing for you to do.”
“Aren’t you always saying ‘to hell with propriety’? I seem to remember something like that.”
“Um.” Thomas reeled a little as Harriet struggled with his buttons. “I think I’d better sit down.”
“Whatever will make you more comfortable.” He looked rather tortured at the moment.
He got to the couch and almost tore the buttons off himself. Harriet was faced with the indignity of walking on her knees or standing up to reach him. She didn’t think she could do either unassisted.
“Oh, I’m criminally negligent!” He hopped off the couch and pulled her up. “You
are—you are an unbelievable woman.” He gave her a hard kiss and led her back to the couch.
It was easier this time sinking to her knees. His member was easily accessible and enormous. She blinked behind her spectacles. What should one do first?
She must have spoken aloud. “There’s no wrong way, Harry.”
“You—you’ve done this before?”
His face flushed. “I was a virgin. In the technical sense. But I may have been a—a passive recipient of this kind of kiss a few times.”
“I see.” Suddenly her brazenness felt foolhardy. Those other women were likely to have been far more proficient than she would ever be. A few lingering glances in a book were not helpful enough.
“Not often,” Thomas said hurriedly. “And never with someone I actually cared about.”
If Harriet was vulnerable, she knew Thomas was, too. This exploration was new for both of them. “Take my glasses off.”
He placed them on the end table with care. “You don’t have to do this if you’re having second thoughts.”
Harriet was having third and fourth thoughts. But he sounded desperate for her to continue.
She wrapped her hand around his cock and Thomas shut his eyes. It was easier without him looking at her, or maybe because she couldn’t see him clearly. She kissed him lightly on his tip and he hissed.
“Please. More.”
Her mouth opened. Did he taste the same to her as she did to him? She had no words for asking or describing. This was all so very odd. Not only was she no longer a virgin, but she was behaving like a practiced courtesan.
Well, not practiced, since she had no idea what she was doing.
Thomas seemed to have no objection to anything she attempted—her strokes, her licks, the grazing of her teeth on his rigid shaft. Harriet recalled the piston movement of their coupling, and tried to duplicate it with her mouth. Thomas’s hands were in her hair now, pins scattering to the floor. He was speaking in gasps, each word incomprehensible. He thrust inside her and she worried she would fail him somehow—the sensation was overwhelming, her own breathing difficult.
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