by Robyn DeHart
She spun around to face him, her mouth gaping. Her heart plummeted to her feet and she was certain that if she took a step, she’d crush it to pieces. She had waited so long to hear those words. And he’d made a mockery of them. A mockery of her. “I find it deplorable that you would tease in such a way.”
His brows arched. “You don’t believe me?”
“I do not. We were poised to get married, or have you so easily forgotten? You told me, in no uncertain terms, that you had no desire to marry me. That even providing a better life for your mother wasn’t enough temptation to be saddled with me.”
He pulled her into a quieter part of the room, in the darker corners behind the Parthenon replica. “What I said then…” He shook his head. “That was about me. Not you.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe you. This is just like you, to say something to try to distract me. Just like the other day when you pressed your hard muscles against me.” She couldn’t prevent herself from perusing him. Even fully clothed she knew that his body must be as expertly sculpted as the statues in this room. “You pretended you wanted to kiss me. This is ridiculous, this game you’re playing. And it serves no purpose. Unless you’re simply so cruel that you enjoy tormenting me.”
“You leave me no choice.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll simply have to prove it to you. My desire for you is real, Harriet.”
She opened her mouth, then promptly shut it. “You are ridiculous.” She made her way to a glass case with a vase enclosed. She leaned forward to examine the ancient pottery.
He stood behind her, not touching her, but close enough that she could not mistake his presence.
“You were right the other day. I wanted to kiss you,” he said. “I want to kiss you now. I want to press against you so you can feel how much I want you. There is no denying it, Harriet. I want to strip every last piece of clothing off your body and kiss every last inch of your delicious curves.” He leaned closer to her ear. “Every. Single. Inch.”
She swallowed. Desire poured through her, liquefying her limbs. She braced her gloved hands on the glass case to bolster herself so she would not melt into the floor. She knew what that dampness was pooling between her thighs. And thus far in her life, she’d felt it only with him. Her breathing tightened.
“After I’m done exploring you with my mouth, I want you to sit atop me and ride me until neither of us can breathe. I want to watch you come apart again and again with my cock inside you.”
“Enough,” she whispered. She nearly ran to get away from him, pushing her way through the crowd and not even bothering to look back at him. Damn him for teasing her in such a way. For making her want things she knew he’d never give her. She swiped at the tears and melted into the crowd gathered in the nave of the building.
She didn’t know to what end he played this game. What was the purpose in making her want him? Did he want her to beg him, or was he simply trying to scandalize her? Either way, it was too much. She’d have to send a message later telling him their agreement was over. She and the rest of the ladies would have to find another place to do their exercises and practice. Perhaps she could speak to Lady Somersby.
Harriet refused to give Lord Davenport the pleasure of allowing him to use her in a wicked jest. He might expect that she had not fully comprehended all of the wicked things he’d said to her, but she’d understood every single word.
She knew all about the goings-on between a man and a woman. She’d been eleven years old when her sister had gotten married, and she’d hidden under the bed to listen to her mother explain it all the night before Helen’s wedding.
Then, after their conversation had ended and her sister had retired for the evening, her mother had coaxed her out and offered to answer any and all questions she’d had. Harriet knew enough to know that she only ever wanted that kind of intimacy with someone she trusted, someone she loved.
That was what her heart wanted.
So why did her body seem to want something else entirely? What was wrong with her that her body seemed to crave that intimacy with a man she did not trust in the least? A man she could never love.
A man who most certainly did not love her. And it all came down to that four-letter word.
Chapter Seven
Harriet obviously hadn’t believed him, and instead thought he was jesting with her. He’d seen the tears shimmering in her eyes before she’d effectively disappeared into the crowd and he’d lost her.
He knew he shouldn’t have said those things to her. No true gentleman would ever speak in such a way to a lady. But he never claimed to be a gentleman in anything but title, and she’d strained his patience to its limits. Testing him, accusing him of teasing her or simply lying. He did want her, and he didn’t understand why she refused to believe that. Simply because of some asinine thing he’d said to her six years before? He’d kissed her. He’d pressed his very hard, very real desire against her. Still she hadn’t believed him.
She’d see he was quite serious soon enough. Which was why he currently sat in her older brother, Malcolm, the Duke of Lockwood’s study.
The man in question breached the doorway and stopped short. “Davenport, this is a surprise.”
“Lockwood.”
“I’d heard you were back into Society full force, but I don’t suppose we’ve run into each other outside of Benedict’s.”
“Yes, though I try to never venture farther than that fine establishment, it would seem my mother insists I have more of a presence.”
“Mothers,” Malcolm said with a roll of his eyes, but there was genuine affection in his tone. He came and sat in the chair next to Oliver instead of across the desk. “I’m assuming you’ve some purpose to this visit, or did you simply miss my handsome face?”
“I’ve come about your sister,” Oliver said.
“Helen? Whatever for? She’s expecting her third child, you know. Living quite happily just outside of Salisbury.”
“Don’t be daft, Lockwood. Not your married sister, your other sister.”
“Harriet?” He leaned back in his chair, lay his hands across his stomach, and did nothing to hide his surprise. “This ought to be interesting.”
“I wish to marry her.” He gripped the knob at the top of his cane. Despite how close he and Catherine had come to a betrothal, he’d never actually had to have this conversation with a father or a brother. “I am not here for your permission, nor your blessing, simply a courtesy of my intentions.” No one and nothing would deter him from this. He would have her.
“You want to marry Harriet?”
“I do.”
Malcolm frowned. “Whatever for?”
“Come now, man, she is your sister. Certainly you can’t be that surprised that a man would find her desirable.”
Malcolm schooled his features. “No, of course not, but she has never before had any serious suitors.”
“For that reason you believed her incapable of warranting one?”
“No, but I did wonder if perhaps the fact that everyone sees her as I do, the perfect little sister, everyone’s best friend, might have impacted her in the romance area.” Malcolm was quiet for a few moments before he spoke again. “Am I to believe that you’re in love with her, then?”
Love? That was preposterous. He wasn’t even certain he had a heart. “Good God no, I am incapable of love. Suffice it to say I want her.” He leveled his gaze at Malcolm. “Shall I elaborate?”
He held up a hand and shook his head. “Please do not. She is my baby sister, after all.”
“And a woman, nonetheless,” Oliver said.
The study door flew open and a fuming Harriet stormed in. “Is it not enough to mock me in private, my lord, but you must come to my home and do so in front of my brother?”
Oliver turned to Malcolm. “She doesn’t believe my intentions are true.”
“Harry, love, he’s just expressed an interest in marrying yo
u and not once did he even inquire about your dowry. Don’t be a goose,” Malcolm said.
She blew out a breath. “He does not want to marry me.”
“Don’t frighten him away,” Malcolm chided. “It is your first proposal. Indeed, your first true suitor.”
She closed her eyes, and blush stained her from the top of her forehead to where her bodice rested against her glorious cleavage. “Splendid. Now the two of you can torment me together.” She turned to her brother. “Malcolm, for unknown reasons he is having fun at my expense. I certainly hope you did not give him your blessing.”
“I didn’t have to,” Malcolm said.
“I didn’t ask for it. Merely expressed my intentions.” Oliver stood. He did not wince when his leg protested. He’d learned long ago how to manage the pain, how to hide it from those around him. “My sweet Harriet, your brother does not wish to listen to me extol on all your physical virtues. And you do not seem to believe me. I shall endeavor to appeal to your pragmatic side. You are firmly upon the shelf, I do believe they call it, and I am in need of a wife. We are a match made in convenience, practicality, whatever you wish to call it.” He leaned down and put his face an inch from hers. “Desire, above all else. Do not think, for a moment, that you can evade me. I want you, and you shall be mine.”
…
She watched him walk away. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she was positive others could hear it as well. Her foolish body had melted at his words.
I want you, and you shall be mine.
Her mind, however, was not so easily deceived, thank the heavens. She whirled on her brother. He stood and backed away from her.
“Harry, I’ve never seen you this angry. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you angry at all.”
“That man is infuriating. And stop calling me Harry. It was sweet when I was a child, but in case you haven’t noticed, Malcolm, I am a grown woman!” She stormed out of the room and went directly outside to hail a hack. Normally she’d go to see Iris in such a situation. Perhaps it was wrong to categorize her friends, but in matters of the heart, Iris had always been her first choice. But today she needed Agnes and her cool thinking. Besides, Iris had already proven that she was susceptible to a man’s seduction. Harriet knew she would be, too. She doubted Oliver would even have to ask before she’d start removing her clothes. Good heavens, when had she become such a wanton?
Agnes, thankfully, was not one to be swayed by a pair of intense silver-blue eyes. Or a searing kiss that had obviously melted part of Harriet’s brain. Or the wicked things he’d said to her, wicked things he wanted to do to her, that had left her with desire-soaked pantaloons. Good heavens, but he had a mouth on him, in more ways than one.
Marry her. He was ridiculous. And her heart was even more ridiculous for beating faster at the thought. She would not sit back and endure her torment simply for his enjoyment.
Once she was escorted into Agnes’s family townhome, she quickly located her friend in the library. She was busily sketching into a book, her brow marred with concentration.
“You will never believe what has happened,” Harriet said.
Agnes looked up, and her eyes widened. She set down her pencil. Without saying anything else, she closed her book, rang for a servant, and ordered tea to be sent directly to her bedchamber. Then she hooked her arm with Harriet’s and led her up the staircase.
“You look dreadful,” Agnes said.
“Thank you.”
“So, tell me what this thing is that I am not going to believe.”
“It’s Lord Davenport.” She fell silent as the maid brought in the tea tray and set it down on the ottoman between their two chairs. When the servant left the room again, Harriet took a breath. “He proposed to me.”
Agnes’s expression did not change. And she said nothing as if waiting for the rest of the sordid tale.
“He even went and spoke to Malcolm. What was he thinking?”
Agnes frowned. “That he wanted to marry you.”
“No, do you not see?” Harriet stirred her tea absently. “He is toying with me. Tormenting me. He told me all these wicked things he wants to do to me.” She whispered that last part despite the fact that they were alone.
She waited for her friend to be as appalled at the scenario as she was, but nothing came.
“Agnes, you are not helping. I came to speak to you because you are so pragmatic. Why would he do all of this? Why would he go to such lengths to tease me so mercilessly? Is he that cruel?” She did nothing to stop the tears that filled her eyes.
“Perhaps I am missing something.” Agnes reached over and squeezed her hand. “I can see that you are upset. Hurting. And I am certainly being pragmatic. I’m not convinced I know how to not be.”
“He is laughing at me.” She silently cursed him for making her want more. Making her want for his words to be truth, that he did desire her and long for her to be his wife. But she knew that none of that was true.
“Did he?”
“What?” Harriet asked.
“Did he actually laugh at you?”
“Well, no. Not in front of me.”
“Then the only logical conclusion is that he proposed to you because he truly wants to marry you.”
Harriet rolled her eyes.
“Answer me this. Why has that option not even occurred to you?”
Harriet sucked in a breath. She allowed herself a moment to imagine such a thing, a world in which she’d caught that handsome giant of a man, that devilishly dashing man with a wicked tongue and eyes so haunted she wanted nothing more than to hold him until the dark shadows disappeared. But therein lay the problem. She knew herself. She knew precisely what would happen if she let herself believe such a fantasy. She’d lose her head and then her heart. Knowing that he’d never love her in return, she knew that she’d be forever ruined.
The Marquess of Davenport had the ability to destroy her completely. She refused to allow that to happen.
“That’s preposterous,” she said. She shoved away at the “what-if” thoughts that tickled at the edges of her mind.
What if he truly wanted her?
…
“Are you going to pretend I haven’t heard by now what you did today?” his mother asked from the doorway of his bedchamber.
Currently he hung from his exercise bar that had been wedged in his doorframe to the adjoining bedchamber—the room where his wife would put her pretty things.
He’d learned quickly, after his accident, that if he did not keep his upper body at peak strength, he had a more difficult time moving around with the limitations of his leg. Sweat dripped off his torso, and he eyed his mother’s petite frame. He let go of the bar and landed on his good leg before gripping his cane that leaned against the wall.
His mother had both hands on her hips.
“I’m assuming you spoke to Lady Lockwood?” he asked.
“Of course. She said you made your intentions known to Malcolm.” She handed him a piece of cloth to wipe his face. “I’m certain you did so in pure Oliver fashion.”
“What does that mean?” He rubbed the rag against his neck.
“Did you even ask Harriet yourself?”
“I did. She did not believe me.”
“Of course she didn’t. You rejected her six years ago. How is she supposed to believe that the years have changed your mind?”
“Because I asked her to marry me. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want her.” Why was this so damned difficult? Half the reason he’d asked Harriet was so he wouldn’t have to actually deal with any of this nonsense with any other woman.
“Harriet is a lady, Oliver. She has grown up expecting that certain things would happen before she married. You cannot barge into a room and toss her over your shoulder like some Viking. She needs to be wooed. Courted.”
“That’s ridiculous. Not wanting to deal with any of that nonsense is part of why I selected Harriet.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “You’re
not purchasing a horse, my dear. You are selecting a wife, an actual person with whom you will spend the rest of your life.”
“I thought you’d be pleased with my choice.”
“Oh, I am. I’m delighted. Her mother is as well. Which is precisely why I’m offering you this advice. Because I want you to marry her.”
He moved over to the chair and lowered himself down. He didn’t have to explain to his mother that standing for long periods of time made his leg ache.
“You have a plan?” he asked.
“Only insomuch that if you’re serious about marrying her, then you should be willing to court her. Every woman wants and deserves a little wooing, my dear.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll consider it. Tell me your idea.”
“I suggest we host a country house party. A weekend at Brookhaven where you show Harriet your intentions as well as allow her to invite prospective bride choices for you. But, by the end of the weekend, you can announce your engagement—if she accepts.”
His thoughts fired into action. He’d need to procure a special license, then they could simply marry before returning to London. He could have Harriet in his bed before a fortnight ended. “Allow her to believe that I’m still using her services as a matchmaker in the meantime?”
“You can tell her the truth; I even suggest as much. Not good to start a marriage on anything less than honesty. Simply tell her that she is your choice, but you’re giving her the chance to prove you wrong, to give you alternatives.”
He chuckled. “That’s quite Machiavellian of you, Mother.”
She smiled and lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I have my moments.”
“You’ll arrange this party with her, plan the entire ordeal?”
“Of course.”
“How long will it take?”
Her brow arched. “My, you are eager.” When he did not respond, she continued. “The party can begin a week from Thursday.”
He nodded.
“Meanwhile, you should brush up on your courtship methods.”
“I don’t know the first thing about courting a woman. I find the entire scenario useless.”