by Robyn DeHart
“I couldn’t say.” She met his gaze, her chin tilting ever so slightly upward. “This is my first time riding in Hyde Park.” She shook her head. “Other than in an open carriage with my mother.”
“How is it possible you are still unmarried, Harriet? How have the men in this damned town walked past you night after night and not given in to the desire to simply touch your hand?” He grew heavy with desire; not the most comfortable thing to happen while astride a horse. “I can scarcely keep my hands off you,” he said.
She visibly swallowed. “It would appear that the men in London are immune to my charms.”
“The men in London are quite obviously idiots.” He’d leave it at that. He could say more, tell her all the wicked things he wanted to do to her body, but he sensed those admissions caused her panic as much as the desire that beckoned in her eyes. No, today he wanted to prove to her that he could behave somewhat properly, give her a chance to see him as a legitimate suitor. “I cannot say I’m disappointed.”
Her warm brown eyes widened, and her lips quirked. “Would you answer a question for me?”
“Anything.”
She seemed taken aback by that. “Truly? No matter what I asked?”
He shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.” Though now he was definitely curious about her question.
“You mentioned once having an interest in architecture. Has that always been the case, or did that come out of necessity when you found Brookhaven in need of repairs?”
“I’ve always appreciated details in buildings, arches or moldings, windows or doors. The skill came from trial and error and was, quite frankly, essential. When I inherited the title, I quickly learned that my father, wastrel that he was, had gambled or poorly invested all of the Davenport fortune. He left us with nothing save debts and ill-kempt properties.”
The little V formed between her brows. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for? It wasn’t your fault.” They had very nearly returned to her house, and he wasn’t yet ready to leave her company. “Needless to say, I had to do some cleaning up after him. Eventually, I was able to make a small investment, which I doubled. Then I did it again. I kept going until everything was paid off and I was able to right some of his other wrongs.”
“But you never stopped investing and acquiring wealth?” she asked.
“No. One can never be certain what the next day brings. I prefer to be overly prepared.” He slowed his horse, and she followed suit, her eyes rounding when she realized where they were.
“That was fast.” She bit down on her lip. “Perhaps you’d care for a cup of tea before you return home, my lord?”
He smiled. “I would, indeed.” Benedict and his mother might be right, courting Harriet could persuade her to agree to be his wife. He jumped down from his steed, careful to land on his good leg, then he moved to her and helped her down, easing her to the ground while standing so close to her that her body brushed against him on her way down.
She sucked in a breath, and her cheeks grew pink. “I shall request tea in the garden. Would be a pity to waste the rest of this beautiful afternoon sitting inside.”
He wasted no time following her inside, then out to the garden where they sat upon a stone bench beneath a trellis. A climbing yellow rosebush arched over them. He rubbed at his thigh.
“Is your leg bothering you?”
He nodded, ignoring the pang of affection that her question caused. His injury made other people uncomfortable and pity him. Not Harriet, she was seemingly neither put off by it nor did she want to ignore it. “It often does after long rides.”
“Then whatever were you thinking to suggest such a thing?” She frowned and reached forward as if to touch him, then thought better of it and put her hand back in her lap.
“I wanted to spend time with you. Riding in Hyde Park is an acceptable activity for a man and woman who are, as yet, unmarried.” He moved his hand from his leg, gripped the ball at the top of his cane instead. His pain was troublesome for her, and he didn’t want to detract from any enjoyment this afternoon excursion had brought her.
A maid wheeled a tea trolley out and parked it in front of them. “Thank you, Mary,” Harriet said. “That will be all.” The maid curtsied and went back inside through the French doors.
“Do you take sugar?” Harriet asked.
“I do. Some would say I like my tea too sweet.”
She grinned, handed him a cup, and passed over the sugar bowl.
“What is the smile for?” he asked.
“I was thinking you are greedy in every regard. That was unkind, though, forgive me.”
His insides warmed. “There is nothing to forgive. Your perception is accurate. I am a man of limited tastes, but when I find something I want, my desire for that thing is unwavering.” He settled his eyes on hers and watched the brown of her irises disappear as her black pupils expanded. Her lips parted.
She broke her gaze away and took a sip of her tea.
“Has there been any more information regarding the person intent upon destroying your Ladies of Virtue?” he asked.
“Sadly, no. We are still sorely lacking in clues to her identity.”
“You are certain it is a woman?”
Her head tilted. “Only because it was a woman who gave the story to Lord Ashby.”
He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “Harriet, you know I wish to marry you. I’m told, though, I should recognize that you are not so certain about my intentions. My mother suggested a country house party at Brookhaven.”
“Yes, she has been in contact with me about it. We have already sent out invitations,” Harriet said.
His mother worked quickly, no doubt recognizing he was not a man known for his patience.
“I have invited a lovely group of girls that I think you will approve of.”
He wasn’t interested in other girls, but he knew those words would fall upon deaf ears. Harriet would believe his actions more so than any spoken promises. He reached over and took her hand, then gently flipped it over and brought her wrist to his lips. He lingered, allowing his breath and mouth to imprint themselves upon her.
“Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Harriet. I shall see you soon.” Then he stood and walked away.
…
That evening she sat at her dressing table while Lottie stood behind doing the painstaking task of removing all the pins holding her hair up.
“The bouquet is beautiful,” Lottie said.
Harriet glanced at the vase of flowers on her dressing table. It was beautiful—a lovely collection of greenery, purple, red, and white flowers. Far too many times today she’d had to clamp down on her silly heart fluttering with every one of his blatant efforts.
“Yes, it’s lovely,” she said. “It’s customary to give a bouquet, the polite thing to do when paying a call.”
Lottie unwound Harriet’s curls from their pinned positions. “True. The selections he made, they tell a story.”
Harriet frowned at Lottie’s reflection in the mirror, then glanced back at the flowers. “I’m certain that is completely accidental.”
Lottie released Harriet’s hair and stepped closer to the vase. She fingered one of the leaves. She pinched it off, then rubbed it between her fingers and brought it to her nose. “Lemon verbena, if I’m not mistaken, means ‘you have bewitched me.’”
Harriet’s stomach fell to her toes. “I cannot imagine that Lord Davenport spent any time deciphering the mysterious language of flowers.”
Lottie reached for the large red daisy at the center of the bouquet. “Red daisies… ‘Beauty is unknown to the possessor.’”
“Or they are simply nice red flowers,” Harriet countered.
“Purple columbines mean he is resolved to win. These”—she touched the large white and purple iris—“the lady’s slipper stands for impatience.” Lottie offered Harriet a tentative smile. “These prickly things here, burdock burrs, quite rare to find them perfectly when they’re blo
oming, show his persistence.”
Harriet looked at the bouquet, and the colors blurred. “German irises represent ardor.” She swallowed.
Lottie nodded. “Yes, and red irises are said to mean, ‘I burn.’” She reached to touch the stark white flowers. “Cape jasmine,” she said. “Ecstasy.”
Heat flooded Harriet’s face, then liquefied and slid through her body. She immediately recognized the sensation as desire and was thankful she was already sitting down. Good heavens, the man had no shame.
Even Lottie’s cheeks had pinkened, but Harriet knew it was the girl’s righteous sense of embarrassment, not the baser urge Harriet herself felt. If he had meant what the flowers suggested, he was making his sexual desire for her known in a very open manner.
He had brought this into her home. Her mother had handled the flowers; had she recognized each bloom and meaning? “It must all be coincidental. He likely had the flower girl pick them out.”
Lottie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Several of them are rare and rather expensive, not the sort you’d find on the street trollies.”
“Perhaps his mother then. She could have easily selected these colors to match one another,” Harriet said.
“Harriet, I’m not certain why you are so hell-bent on proving his intentions are less than honest or honorable.” Lottie took a shaky breath. “Granted, his methods are rather brazen; he is obviously taken with you. You should consider yourself fortunate.” She moved back behind Harriet and deftly maneuvered her blond curls into a long, heavy plait. “His mother would not have selected those two red flowers in the center. They’re far too licentious. He chose each of these blooms to send you a message. You have to decide what you’re going to do with it.”
…
The following morning Harriet had risen and gotten dressed with every intention of going to the Garner townhome to practice her defensive skills. She’d send a note along to Agnes inviting her to join. The Ladies of Virtue might be on hold but she wasn’t going to allow herself to get complacent. A scratch came to her bedchamber door.
“Harriet, your mum has requested you in the front parlor,” the maid at the door said.
Harriet nodded and followed her down the stairs. She’d been shaky since she’d awoken that morning after a feverish night of heated, passionate dreams. Having that bouquet of flowers across from her bed spoke of all the wicked things Oliver claimed he wanted to do to her. She’d realized with alarming clarity that she wanted those things, from him. But conceding to his proposal would shatter any hope she had of marrying for love.
She wasn’t ready to walk away from that dream. She’d held it close for so long, it was as much a part of her as her body.
Her mother stood when she entered, a broad smile covering her face. “Harriet, Lord Davenport has sent you some gifts.”
“Good heavens, not more seductive flowers, I hope,” she said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?” her mother asked.
“Nothing.” She walked forward, then took stock of the enormous basket sitting atop the occasional table. “Is that it?” she asked, unable to keep the horror from her voice.
“It is.”
She grabbed the first item on the top of the basket, a collection of lovely hair ribbons. “This is quite nice,” she said. She found a couple of books next, one of Shakespeare’s sonnets and another collection of poems from Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron. Placing the books on the table, she dug further, uncovering a rather hideous brooch. She winced and handed it to her mother. “It’s awfully garish.”
“Darling, those gems are not paste,” her mother said.
Harriet shook her head. The rest of the basket was filled with delicious-smelling soaps and hair rinses, and then a small box of candies. She inhaled the rich aroma and offered one of the confections to her mother, who gracefully popped it in her mouth and sighed. Harriet herself chewed thoughtfully, the sugary treat melting on her tongue.
“Mother, you must send a message immediately requesting his presence. His mother can come along, but this must end.”
Her mother smiled warmly. “I think you’re upset for no reason. Look how thoughtful this is. Helen never received a basket of trinkets from any suitors.”
Harriet paused at those words. They were true enough. Helen might not have received any such gifts, but she had received a declaration of love. No matter how many gifts he bestowed upon her, Harriet knew that Oliver wasn’t a true suitor. He’d said the words aloud to her brother, he would never love her, could never love her.
“It’s rather adorable. He’s obviously quite smitten.”
“He is not smitten.” He is—what would she even call it—infatuated, in lust, insistent on making her life a confusing mess? “I am serious. If you do not send a message requesting his presence here I will go to his house alone.”
“Grab your cloak and we’ll go over there. I’ve been meaning to visit to see Claudine’s newest tapestry.”
Not a half hour later Harriet was led into Oliver’s study, their mothers agreeing to keep a watchful eye while the “couple” was alone. She wanted to remind them that they were not a couple, but knew the protest would fall upon deaf ears.
He stood when his butler announced her. “Harriet.” His silver eyes warmed at the sight of her.
“I got your basket.”
He nodded. “Did you like it?”
“I liked some of it.” She came forward, and he stepped around his desk, leaned against the carved mahogany. “This is not the way to win my affection.”
“I never said I wanted your affection. I don’t require your affection. I want you in my bed.”
“Oliver, people do not marry simply because they desire a coupling,” she whispered the last word.
“We have passion and desire between us, I can see that. Feel it. I know you feel it as well.” He reached out and took her hand, pulled her closer to him. With him leaning his weight on the desk, he was able to release his cane and put both hands on her hips. He bracketed her between his strong thighs.
Her breath stuttered. “Oliver,” she whispered.
“Tell me you feel it, too, Harriet. You desire me.” He brought her right hand to his mouth, kissed the tip of each finger, then slid her index finger between his lips.
His warm mouth and tongue laved her finger, sucking gently. The sucking pulled at the hidden spot between her thighs. She swallowed.
He pulled her closer, put one of his large hands to her cheek, and leaned her to him. He kissed her, and she forgot everything save the sensations he evoked when his lips were on hers. His tongue slid against the seam of her mouth, and she parted for him, granting him entrance. Then a slide of their tongues together poured molten desire down her body, pebbling her nipples and drenching her pantaloons.
“Harriet, tell me how much you want me,” he whispered against her lips.
When she didn’t answer immediately, he kissed her again. This time with more hunger and ferocity. When he pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. He touched his forehead to hers.
“Harriet,” he said.
“I want you, Oliver. My body wants you. You make my body want you.” Her thoughts were incoherent, and her words came out thusly.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
In that moment, she wanted to say yes. The word tickled her tongue, but she pulled herself out of his embrace. “I cannot.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled. “You are tormenting me.”
“That is not my intention, my lord.”
“There is no legitimate reason for us to not marry.”
“There is most assuredly a good reason to not marry. You do not love me.”
His features darkened, and he gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles whitened. “What you think of as love is nothing more than fantasy. People mistake desire and lust for love. That sort of love only exists within the pages of poetry and fiction.”
“Please stop sending me gifts,” she said.
&nbs
p; “It is customary for a man to buy presents for the woman he is wooing. Tokens of his affection, as it were.”
She shouldn’t ask. She knew she shouldn’t, but the words would not stop. “The flowers?”
His nostrils flared slightly. “You understood their meaning?”
“I wasn’t sure you did,” she said. “In any case, you should spend your money on something far more worthwhile. Like orphans and the like. Not purchasing me baubles I have no use for.” She winced at her own words. “My apologies, my lord, I do not mean to sound ungrateful. I am truly flattered by your attention. But it is unnecessary.”
“The country house party is this weekend,” he said.
“It is. I shall find you a wife.”
He nodded, then turned his back to her and walked to the window. “I shall see you there, Harriet.”
And with that he effectively dismissed her. She knew if she went to him, pressed her face to his broad back the way she truly desired, he’d take her. Give her all the passion her body so desperately ached for, likely right there on that plush rug before the fireplace. Good heavens, he was turning her into a complete wanton.
Chapter Nine
Were it not for Lady Davenport, this country house party would never have come together so quickly. Guests were expected to begin arriving the following day, and Harriet was full of nerves. She hadn’t seen Oliver much in the intervening time, deciding it was best to avoid him and concentrate on the planning. Thus, she hadn’t had to endure any more of his senseless flirting and wicked tongue.
She and Agnes had made certain to include members of the Ladies of Virtue so they could observe them. The first step in uncovering the mysterious Lady X’s identity would be to eliminate the possibility that she was one of their own.
Harriet and her mother and Lady Davenport had ridden up together while Oliver traveled separately. She hadn’t yet seen him since her arrival but had been instructed to meet him on the balcony off the ballroom.
He stood with his back to her, wearing only his trousers and shirt. The pants molded to his bottom and thighs and made her wonder what those muscles would look like without the hindrance of clothing. The white shirt accented the breadth of his shoulders and, when he turned to face her, revealed a swatch of bronzed skin at his throat and chest. His forearms were also uncovered, as the shirt had been pushed up to his elbows.