Page 21 of Tempting Harriet
“Put that disgusting piece of raw flesh into your mouth,” the Duke of Tenby, said, getting resolutely to his feet, “andswallow it, Bruce. We are going to Tattersall’s, as planned.And if you say another word”—he held up a staying handas his friend opened his mouth to speak—“I shall ram itback down your throat with my fist.”
Lord Bruce ate the final piece of steak in philosophical silence, washed it down with the inch of ale that was left inhis cup, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and got to hisfeet. “I shall find out for myself, anyway,” he said as if tohimself as he followed the duke from the room. “All itneeds is to remember every lady with whom you have conversed apart from Lady Phyllis since the Season began.There have not been many, have there, Arch? Indeed, I canthink of only one below the age of forty. Interesting.” Hechuckled.
The Duke of Tenby chose to ignore him.
He appeared not to be in a good mood. After his initial greeting when his coachman had lifted her into his carriage,he had sat in silence beside her all the way to his love neststaring gloomily out of the window. Except that the curtainhad been drawn across it. Now, inside the bedchamber, hehad drawn her hard against him and was undoing the buttons of her dress without kissing her or saying anything remotely tender. Almost as if she were no more than a bodyto him.
She was probably not.
She wished she had done what she had promised herself all weekend that she would do. She wished she had neglected to meet his carriage. It would be as easy as that toend the affair, she felt sure. He would not come after her ifshe did. She had been miserable with guilt for four daysand even more miserable over the lies she was going tohave to think up to tell Amanda on Monday afternoon. Shedid not want to continue the affair.
And yet it seemed that her body had become quite separate from either her mind or her emotions. And stronger than either. When Monday luncheon came and was overand Amanda had suggested a stroll in the park before it became too crowded, she had excused herself, claiming thatshe had promised to accompany Lady Beaconswood on avisit to another lady. She must not use Julia on Thursdaytoo, she thought. She must think of another excuse for leaving home alone.
Her body had ached with the knowledge that it could be loved by him again during the afternoon, though she usedthe word “love” in her mind only because she did not knowany of the coarser words that men knew. What would happen to her body had nothing to do with love. But she hadknown too that she would not be able to resist the temptation to continue the affair for at least one more afternoon.After all, it must become easier with time. She was notquite sure what she meant byit.
And so she was here, to find him silent and rather morose. He drew her dress and her chemise off her shoulders and down her arms, watching what he did, examining herbreasts with cold, clinical eyes. There would be no romance, he had said. She had accepted that. But she had notrealized that a sexual relationship might be entirely without—tenderness. Without any closeness at all beyond thephysical.
“We are going to have to be doubly careful,” he said. “My grandmother and my aunt are coming to town tomorrow or Wednesday. I’ll not have my grandmother’s namesullied by any sort of scandal of mine.”
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked. “Climb onto Sir Clive’s roof and shout out the glad tidings?” The sarcasm in her voice shocked her. She was never sarcastic.
His silver eyes regarded her coldly. “Shrew,” he said quietly, his hands cupping her breasts. He removed his hands and set one at her back to guide her toward the bed.
She lay down and looked up at him as he undressed. His grandmother was coming? “She has been pleased by yournews concerning Lady Phyllis?” she asked. “And is comingto see for herself?”
“I suspect that is her real reason,” he said, frowning. “She will try to hasten our betrothal. I don’t want it hastened. There are two months until the end of the Season. Iwant to be free to enjoy you during those months. Indeed, Iwill insist on doing so. But it will not be easy. She has awill of iron.”
So his bad mood had not been occasioned by any desire to end their affair almost before it had begun. Quite thecontrary. He wanted to enjoy her for two months. Enjoy.There was no tenderness in the word. She did not knowwhy she looked for any.
“But let’s not waste time,” he said. “These four days have been endless, Harriet. I am ravenous. Are you?”
“Yes.” She reached up her arms for him as he came down onto the bed beside her.
“I would kill to have you daily,” he said. “I hope you are prepared for an hour and a half of bodily pleasure.” Hismouth came against hers. “That is what you are going toget.”
“Yes, Archie,” she said. “That is what I came for.”
It was not really, she discovered over the next hour and a half. She had come for sexual activity, of course. She wasquite prepared to be honest with herself, since she knewthere was no real excuse for her behavior. But even thoughshe had known there would be no more, even though hehad said so from the start and she had known he spoke thetruth, she knew too that she had come looking for more.Hoping for more. For some affection, some tenderness, ifnot love. For some awareness of each other’s personhood.She wanted to know—she longed to know—that he wasaware of her as Harriet.
He had promised an hour and a half of bodily pleasure, and that was precisely what he gave her. She realized todaythat the last time he had made allowances for her inexperience, her skittishness. Today he made no such allowancesbut made love with her—or made pleasure with her—withfierce demand for both her own response and his own release. The last time he had been prepared to treat her as anovice, allowing her to remain essentially passive except inher response. Today he began to teach her what he wanted,and demanded that she give it to him. And today he usednew, more intimate touches on her and taught her differentpostures that could heighten sensation until she realizedthat the boundaries of pleasure could be pushed back to infinity and beyond.
There was not a moment for sleep and very few for relaxation. When he had said he was ravenous, he had spoken the truth. He took her as if he could not possibly haveenough of her. And yet as she lay panting and damp againsthim at the end of the hour and a half, waiting for him to getup from the bed, she felt far, far away from him. There hadbeen a sense of impersonality about everything that hadhappened between them on the bed. It had been a powerfuland exhausting physical performance, something fromwhich their real selves had stood back and hidden.
She closed her eyes. She longed for those selves to touch even if for just one moment. “Archie,” she whispered.
He lifted her chin with one hand and kissed her languidly and lingeringly. “Time to be up and on our way,” he said.“It was an adequate meal, Harriet? Your appetite has beensatisfied?”
“Yes,” she said. It was true. Her body was satisfied and contented. “And yours?”
“Utterly,” he said. “Unfortunately I do not like having to go three or four days without any meal, at all, but there isnothing we can do about that, is there?” He pulled awayfrom her, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and satup to begin dressing. Harriet got out at the other side.
He kissed her before they left the room. “You really are very good, you know,” he said. “You learn fast and well.You are the best I have had, Harriet.”
She did not want to be the best. Being the best meant that she had been compared. She did not want to be compared.She wanted to be unique. How foolish! “I suppose,” shesaid with a smile, “you would not tell me if I were notwould you?”
He kissed her hand and then watched as his coachman lifted her down from the carriage. As on the last occasion,she did not look back. He closed his eyes and set his headback against the cushions as the carriage moved on again.He was exhausted. He was going to have to sleep for anhour or two when he got home.
He swallowed and realized in some surprise that he was on the verge of tears. He could not remember when he hadlast cried. Certainly not at his grandfather’s death. Perhapsit was at his father’s. He could remember crying his heartout when his father was carried inside from a morning ride,his neck broken. And sniveling all through the funeralwhen he should have been comforting his mother and behaving like a man and a future duke—as his grandfatherhad pointed out to him sternly afterward and even emphasized with a cane swished painfully five times across hisbackside as he was bent over a desk. He did not believe hehad cried since.
