Page 24 of The Marquess and the Maiden

“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.

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