“This was supposed to be a demonstration of how to admire your chest,” she panted. “I wanted to do these things to you.”
Roger chuckled as he petted her breast. “Perhaps another day.”
“Perhaps,” she said, torn between wanting to do them to him and wanting him to do them to her. Roger moved his leg, rubbing his thigh against her sex, and she moaned again.
“I love to hear you do that,” he confessed.
“You have a very wicked thigh, Mr. Templeton,” she murmured breathlessly.
He kissed her then, and dragged her close so her breasts were pressed to his hard chest, skin to skin. She couldn’t catch her breath. It was everything she’d imagined it would be. Then he rubbed against her, the hair on his chest abrading her breasts perfectly, his leg moving against her again, and Harry was lost. She climaxed, her hand wrapped around the back of his head to hold his mouth on hers while she pressed against his hard thigh.
When it was over, she collapsed against the sofa and Roger placed small, light kisses across her chest and neck and face. Before long, she was breathing normally again.
“Why?” she asked, running her fingers through his sinfully soft chest hair.
“Because that was easier on me than allowing you to admire my chest,” he answered wryly. “A man only has so much willpower, Harry. I’m afraid you’ve already used up mine.”
Chapter Fourteen
Roger opened the note to read it while Harry finished arranging her hair. He’d helped her straighten her clothes, which had presented more temptation. His hands were shaking. She stood behind him so she couldn’t see that he was still affected by their interlude on the sofa. He had been so close to tossing aside his principles, scruples be damned, and taking her. Even now, if she touched him or ran her hands over his chest again he’d do it. He clenched his hands into fists, unwittingly wrinkling the note with a crackle of the paper.
“Oh, did we tear it?” Harry asked, walking toward him.
He quickly straightened the crumpled paper. “No, just wrinkled it a bit.”
By certain actions you’ve proven a whore and unfit for the company of your betters. If you don’t stop this wanton behavior, you’ll lose your standing in society and the boy. Be warned. More lewdness and public displays of a base nature won’t be tolerated. My plans have not changed concerning you—
“What plans?” Roger asked sharply.
Harry was leaning over his shoulder, reading along with him. At his question she jerked away, taking two steps back. “I don’t know,” she answered quickly, her eyes wide.
Roger stood and began to pace the room. It was that last line that worried him. Clearly this was from the kidnapper, or the person behind the kidnapping. The writing and the language indicated an educated person. Someone who knew what Harry had been up to, had even witnessed it, perhaps? This seemed more personal than just a reaction to recent gossip in the newssheets. They mentioned Mercy again. She’d lose the boy, it said. Because this person was going to try to take him again? Or because they planned to harm Harry? Harry was the focus here, not Mercy.
There was a knock at the door, startling Roger. He faced the door instinctively, as if preparing for an attack.
“I rang for refreshments while you were pacing,” Harry explained before calling out. “Enter!”
Mandrake opened the door for the housekeeper, who was followed by a footman wheeling in a tea tray. Sitting on top was a neatly folded shirt. Roger blushed scarlet as he glanced down at his still bare chest. He walked quickly to the cart and grabbed the shirt. “Thank you,” he mumbled, unable to meet Mandrake’s eyes. The man must know what he and Harry had gotten up to in here. The thought made him frown. The servants should be more protective of Harry. They were the first defense here in her home.
“Who delivered this note?” he demanded of the butler and the housekeeper. He had shrugged the shirt over his head, but hadn’t tied it closed yet. He held out the note, crumpled in his fist once again.
“A messenger, sir,” Mandrake answered. “He wore no livery. Most likely a street urchin.”
“He gave you no indication who sent the note?” Roger asked.
“No, sir,” Mandrake answered. “I did inquire, and he said only that a gentleman paid him to deliver the note.”
Roger’s frown was fierce, he could feel it pulling down the corners of his mouth. “If another note is delivered, you must demand the name of the sender. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Mandrake said with a slight bow of his head. “This boy was different from the others. Each time it has been a different messenger.”
As Mandrake was speaking, Harry put the teapot down with a thud and partially rose from where she’d taken a seat on the sofa. Roger looked at her incredulously. “This isn’t the first note?” he asked her, his manner harsh. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
She looked guilty, her eyes shifting left and right, not meeting his. “I wasn’t concerned about the others. At first I assumed they were delivered to the wrong person. Then they became more personal, as if they knew me. This is the first one that seemed so threatening.”
“Dammit, Harry!” Roger burst out in anger.
“Are we dismissed, sir?” Mandrake interrupted. The housekeeper was looking at Roger with wide, frightened eyes.
“Yes,” Roger ground out between clenched teeth.
Harry was glaring at Mandrake. “You are free to leave at my discretion, Mandrake, not Mr. Templeton’s.”
“Of course, madam,” the butler said, immediately standing tall, with his hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead.
“You wish to have this conversation in front of witnesses?” Roger asked. “Fine. Clearly this note concerns you and I and our affair.”
Harry paled. “You are dismissed, Mandrake, Mrs. Dempsey.”
“Yes, madam.” The housekeeper bustled out ahead of the butler, who closed the door firmly behind him.
“Really, Roger, there’s no need to embarrass the staff.”
Roger had to take a deep breath and count to ten before speaking. “I don’t give a damn about the staff. Why didn’t you tell me about the earlier notes?”
“Well, really, Roger,” she said with a great deal of annoyance. “It isn’t as if we were confidantes until just two days ago. Forgive me if I wasn’t thinking about those silly notes once you’d finally agreed to be my lover.”
Roger had to take another deep breath. This time it was to swallow the guilt that left a bad taste in his mouth. “You could have told me, Harry. You know that. We were still friends, even before we became lovers.”
“Can we actually call ourselves lovers if we don’t copulate?” she asked with a curious, thoughtful look. “Perhaps we should say paramours. More than mere acquaintances? Friends who desire one another?”
Roger was taken aback at her change of topic. “Of course we’re lovers. A love affair isn’t only about the bedding.”
“It isn’t?” she asked in genuine surprise. “What is it about, then?”
His mind went blank for a moment. With all his other lovers, it had been only about the bedding. But with Harry, there was so much more. “It’s about our shared past, pleasant company, engaging conversation … that sort of thing.”
“That sounds like a supper party, not a love affair.”
He snorted in impatience. “Fine, then it’s about the wanting. The wanting is the best part, Harry. I want you every minute of every day. I dream of the things I’m going to do to you. And having sworn off bedding you, I’m planning on being very creative.” She looked shocked at his admission. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry. I’ve shocked you. Honestly, you make me sound like a madman sometimes. That’s what the wanting does. I can’t think straight!” he burst out, slapping a hand to his forehead.
“You can’t think straight because you want me so much?” she asked in bewilderment.
“Yes, dammit,” he admitted with no lit
tle annoyance.
“Then why aren’t you going to take me?” Her question sounded innocent, but the look on her face was anything but. She was teasing him mercilessly.
“Be careful what you ask for, miss, or you just might get more than you bargained for,” he threatened with a warning glare. She just giggled, and he found it charming. It was a sound that transported him back in time, to those idyllic days of his youth, before money and station and social obligation became a concern for him. When all that mattered was running after that little nuisance Harry Stanley, trying to make her leave him alone. He grinned at her then, his anger dissipating like fog on a sunny morning.
“I want you, too,” she whispered, as if it was a great secret. “And the wanting is utterly delicious, just like you.” She hugged herself and giggled again. “I’ve never felt like this over a man.” Her look turned thoughtful for a second or two. “I suppose I felt that way about you when we were young, the way a young girl fancies a boy, wanting to be with him, and catch his attention.” She assessed him from head to toe, her expression warming considerably as her cheeks flushed. “And I still want your attention.”
“You have it,” he told her in all seriousness. “You have my attention in every way.”
“Are you hungry?”
Roger shook his head, once again thrown off track by her change of topic. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you were hungry yesterday after we …” She tipped her head toward the wall next to the parlor door and waggled her eyebrows.
For some reason, Roger found her reluctance to put into words the passionate encounter they’d had yesterday amusing and he laughed at her. “After I used my creativity to bring you a great deal of sexual pleasure?” he offered helpfully.
She blushed profusely. “Yes, that,” she said primly. She set a plate with some biscuits and cake down on the table. “Today you can feed yourself.”
“Hmm,” he mused. “My performance today must have been lacking if I’m forced to feed sweet treats to myself.”
“Practice makes perfect, they say,” she advised him wisely. “I believe if you try several times a day, you might improve your performance.”
Roger laughed again and sat down next to her, grabbing the little plate before leaning back on the comfortable sofa. “Several times, eh?” he asked, biting into a biscuit. “You’ll work me to death. You’re an exhausting lover.”
“Am I really?” she asked with unadulterated delight. She leaned back next to him, and then resettled herself so she was shoulder to shoulder with him. Then she took his plate and offered him a bite of cake from her fingers. “For that remark, I’ll feed you.”
Roger let her distract him from the note with cake and silly love talk. After all, he was supposed to be giving her a romance. It was required of him, really. He licked her fingers clean in martyred silence. Finally, with a sigh, he sat up and grabbed the note from the table, folding it carefully. “I’m going to take this to Hil. Bring me the others and I’ll take those as well.”
“To Sir Hilary?” she asked, sitting up next to him. “I hardly think you need to do that. I only wanted you to see it so you could advise me on a course of action. I thought spending more time with you would discourage whoever is writing them.”
She sounded just a little too casual about the note. Roger pretended to mull over her suggestion and then shook his head. “No, I think I should bring it to Hil. He’s the expert. He’ll be able to glean some sort of clue from the note, I’m sure.” He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eyes.
She looked uneasy. Indecision and worry pinched her forehead for a moment. “I’ll come with you,” she said suddenly, rising from the sofa.
He stared at her in surprise. “To Hil’s? Why?”
“Well, they are my notes,” she said defensively. “I feel like I ought to take an interest in whatever it is he finds out, don’t you? I am the one at risk.”
She made a very good point, one he could find no argument with. “You’re right, of course,” he agreed. “I didn’t mean that you couldn’t, I was just surprised you wanted to go, that’s all.” He stood up with a smile. “Fetch the other notes and we can go now.”
She bit her lip apprehensively. “I haven’t got them.” She rushed to explain before he could ask any questions. “I burned them. They meant nothing to me. They were just an annoyance, really, and so I tossed them in the fire.”
Roger tried not to let his suspicions show. Something about her story didn’t ring true. But why would she hide the other notes? It made no sense. Unless she knew who was sending them. He grabbed his borrowed jacket from the chair and smiled tightly at her. “I understand,” he lied smoothly. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Shall we go?”
Chapter Fifteen
“A note, you say?” Hil asked absentmindedly as he sorted through some rubble laid out in a pattern on his desk.
“Yes,” Roger said, distracted by Hil’s attempts to piece the rubble together like a puzzle.
“Whatever are you doing?” Harry asked. She sounded reluctant to even address his odd behavior, almost as if she was compelled to do so against her will. Roger understood all too well. Many was the time that he’d wanted to walk on by but the same morbid curiosity had gotten the better of him, too.
“Oh, just trying to determine what caused the explosion,” Hil explained, dusting his hands off and coming around his desk with a polite smile.
“What explosion?” Harry asked, her voice full of dread.
“The same note you mentioned as we hied ourselves to Manchester Square this morning?” Hil asked Roger, now wiping the dust from his coat with a handkerchief. As usual, he’d avoided answering specific questions about his latest secret project.
“Yes,” Roger said. He held out his hand to Harry and she moved with him toward a seating area in the middle of the room. She looked damned fine in the day dress she wore, which was various shades of blue with lots of beads and ruffles. It was very sophisticated and cut to show off her exquisite curves while still remaining demure and perfectly respectable. He was terribly proud to show her off to Hil, which was ridiculous because she wasn’t his to show off, not really. But there was a certain pride he couldn’t extinguish that a woman like her wanted him. He brought his thoughts back to the reason they were there. “I know that you’ve done some work with written evidence before, haven’t you?”
“Certainly,” Hil told them as they all sat down, with Hil facing the two of them. He held out his hand. “If I may?”
Roger pulled the folded note from the pocket of yet another borrowed coat. “Harry said she doesn’t recognize the handwriting, although it’s the same writing from previous notes.”
“Previous notes?” Hil immediately asked, his eyes sharp and assessing Harry.
Harry looked quite guilty as she blushed furiously. “Yes, about four or five, I think. I didn’t keep them. But they weren’t threatening like this one. They were simply warnings about the dangers of London, that sort of thing.”
“That many?” Roger asked, alarmed. “I assumed one or two others. What sort of dangers?”
“Yes, my dear,” Hil encouraged her. “It would help a great deal if you could remember exactly what they said.”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” she quickly claimed, not looking at him as she gazed around his impressive library. “I didn’t memorize them, of course. Simply tossed them on the fire as a nuisance.”
“You didn’t find it odd, or alarming, that an anonymous stranger was sending you these notes?” Hil asked curiously, not an ounce of suspicion or accusation in his tone.
Harry shrugged. “No, not really. I’d always been told London was full of odd people.”
Roger was so astounded, he could do no more than sit there blinking repeatedly as he tried to digest that clanker.
“I see,” Hil said blandly, without meeting Roger’s incredulous look. “Well, let’s have a look at this note.” He frowned as Roger held it out and the
n plucked it from his grasp delicately with two fingers. “Oh, dear,” Hil said, holding the rumpled paper up closely in front of his face, turning it slowly to assess both sides. “Rather ill-used, isn’t it?”
Roger coughed in embarrassment. “Harry didn’t realize the physical condition of the paper itself could be a clue,” Roger explained, leaving out his part in ravaging the note. He really ought to have thought twice before crumpling it in his fist. Twice.
“Hmm,” Hil said as he went back to his desk. He opened several drawers until he found what he was looking for and then went to a table directly in front of a window. Roger and Harry exchanged a look and then rose and joined Hil at the table.
He was bent over the paper, examining it with a magnifying glass. Roger leaned over his right shoulder while Harry leaned over his left. “What do you see?” Roger asked.
“Just a moment,” Hil murmured, turning the paper gently. He perused the blank side as carefully as he had the written one, humming in satisfaction several times as he did so.
Harry was fidgeting nervously, and as she wrung her hands and twisted her arms just so, she jostled Hil’s hand holding the magnifying glass. Hil turned and gave her a rather severe look. “If you don’t mind,” he said politely, and Harry quickly backed up with a muttered apology.
Hil took several more minutes to examine the note as Roger watched him and Harry paced behind them. Roger grimaced when Hil picked up the paper and touched his tongue to one corner, tasting it. Hil shook his head and examined it again. Finally he straightened and picked up the paper without his previous care. “There is little to no evidence on the paper itself anymore, if there ever was. I can only assume the finger smudges could as likely be from one or both of you as from the writer. They taste like cake.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” Harry said, sounding as if she meant the opposite.
“Yes, too bad,” Roger agreed mildly. “But there must be something you can tell us about it.”
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