Chapter Eight

Harriet started at the knock on her bedchamber door. “Come in.”

Her mother poked her fair head in. “Care for a chat?”

“Always.” They had a special bond, the two of them. Her mother was close to all her children, but there was something unique about their bond. She came inside and closed the door behind her, moving to sit on the small settee Harriet kept under the large window that overlooked the gardens behind their corner townhome.

Harriet joined her mother. She knew why she was here. And she’d been tempted to tell her no, that she didn’t particularly care for a chat, but this was her mother. She’d never kept secrets from her before. Well, not until Harriet had joined the Ladies of Virtue. That she had to keep from her mother else Harriet would be forbidden to participate.

Her mother picked at a string that had come lose from a button on the settee. She wound the string around and around the button until it disappeared.

“I know what you want to discuss,” Harriet said. She’d rather get this entire ordeal over with. She could kill Oliver for bringing this jest or whatever game he played into her family, into her home.

Her mother nodded. “Oliver has expressed his interest in marrying you.”

Harriet snorted. “That is what he says, but it is not the truth. There is something he’s after. I’m not certain if it’s to humiliate me or what, but I’m on to him.”

Confusion sparked over her mother’s features. “I’m not so certain, my pet. According to Malcolm he was quite serious. Not even so much as seeking a blessing or permission as he was making a claim.”

Those words seemed to rattle through her heart, shaking it up and starting it beating as if it had been still and silent in her chest for so very long. Making a claim. On her?

“You believe I should agree to his ridiculous proposal?” Harriet asked.

“I have always thought the two of you would be a good match, but you know that Claudine and I have been friends nearly our entire lives. Being connected by a marriage between our children has been a dream for us for many years. This isn’t about me, though. This is about you and what you want.”

Harriet stood and paced the small area of her room that wasn’t crowded with furniture. “Everyone believes I should simply accept. That I should be thankful he lowered himself to offer for me, because this is the only proposal I’ll ever get. That he’s the best I can do, the only option for me.” The words broke through as if she’d been holding them back for too long.

Her mother said nothing, merely nodded and listened.

“No one has stopped to ask what I want.”

“What is it that you want, my pet?”

What did she want? For Oliver’s proposal to be authentic? For this entire ordeal to not be a jest on his part?

“I want the love match that you and father had, the love that Helen and Bradley share. I would rather be a spinster than marry someone who could never love me. Do you know that’s what he told Malcolm? I heard it with my own ears. That he could never love me.” She did nothing to hide the tears that came then. “I am the only one to see this as some manipulative game he’s playing. I am the one who will be hurt, no one else.”

“You are quite right,” her mother said. “I think wanting to marry for love is perfectly acceptable, but I do need to correct you on one fact. Your father and I did not start out in love.”

Harriet stopped pacing and stared at her mother.

“I should say I did not love him initially. He professed his love for me for weeks before I even agreed to become his wife, and even then it took me another two years before recognizing that I’d fallen in love with him in return. He was very patient with me.”

It didn’t change anything, though, because her father had always loved her mother. And Bradley and Helen had married for love. It was what Harriet wanted, and it would keep her from the rejection and humiliation she’d felt six years ago when she’d offered herself to Oliver. “I never knew.”

“Well, it hardly seemed important. By the time you children came around, we were both besotted fools, and we stayed that way until he passed, God rest his soul.” She smiled wistfully. “I miss that silly man every day.”

“I do too.”

“You said that everyone believes you should accept his proposal,” her mother said. “Who is everyone?”

“You and Malcolm and Agnes. My everyone is limited, but still…”

“You feel the pressure?”

“Yes.” She’d had her heart set on a love match for as long as she could remember. Her parents had adored each other; everyone who had ever been in the same room with them could see it. And then she’d watched her sister marry for love, and it felt like a sign. But what if she never found her love match? Was she willing to be the favorite spinster aunt and live off her brother’s good fortune the rest of her life?

“I believe you’ll find that love you seek,” her mother said, as if reading her thoughts. “It might not come precisely as you imagine it, though, and I want you to be open to possibilities. Love does not always look like what you’re expecting.” She grabbed Harriet’s hand and squeezed. “Can you promise me that?”

Harriet nodded.

“In the meantime, Claudine has suggested that they host a ball at their estate, Brookhaven, and you can invite prospective brides for him to meet. If his proposal is nothing more than a jest, as you suspect, then introducing him to other women should solve that problem.”

And if not… The unsaid words hung in the air as if living, breathing things. But she knew she was right. He’d had his chance to marry her, and he’d rejected her. Then he’d said plainly today that he could never love her. His proposal was a joke and nothing more.

“I’ll find him a wife.”

“And I believe you’ll find the love you are seeking. Do not give up yet.”

…

That evening, Oliver found himself back at Benedict’s. He’d stayed away from the gaming tables longer than usual because he’d attended so many balls and parties as of late. Tonight, he would also skip the cards, as he’d returned for more advice.

He waited in Benedict’s private offices, knowing his friend would find him eventually. As expected, it didn’t take Benedict long to enter the room.

“Hiding back here drinking my good Scotch?” He poured himself a drink and took a seat on the opposite end of the large leather sofa.

“I’m tired of people,” Oliver said.

“You have been far more social in the last few weeks,” Benedict said, nodding.

“It turns out finding a wife is damned hard business.” Oliver swirled the glass of Scotch, then took a swallow.

“I thought you’d already selected one,” Benedict said.

“I have. She said no.” He drained his glass. “In fact, she’s said no more than once.”

Benedict laughed a full belly laugh.

“I don’t see the humor.” He didn’t understand any of it. If he didn’t want Harriet so badly, he’d seriously consider retiring to the country.

His friend stood and grabbed the bottle of Scotch and brought it back to the sofa, pouring Oliver another two fingers. “What is your plan now?”

“Evidently, I need to court her.” Oliver leaned his head back and pressed his neck against one of the buttons stitched into the leather.

“She is worth the trouble?” Benedict asked.

“She doesn’t scream or flinch whenever I come near her. She’s intelligent, well read, appreciates the aesthetics of architecture. She’s so damned pretty that if she’s in the room, she might as well be the only one, as none of the other women come into focus.” He glared at the glass in his hand. “This Scotch is making me too damn sentimental. I want the chit in my bed. I know she wants me, too, but won’t admit it.” He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What can you tell me about courting?”

“What the devil made you come ask me?” Benedict asked.

“You watch people. See more than most.” Oliver shrugged. “I thought it was likely you’d picked up on a few tried-and-true methods.”

“Oliver, you know all about courting. You have forgotten only because the bitch ruined it all for you.”

Oliver snarled. “I saw Catherine the other evening, from across a ballroom.”

“Forget I mentioned her,” Benedict said. “Have you taken your lady riding in the park? Or bought her any presents? Given her flowers?”

“I have done none of those. But they are all decent ideas and wouldn’t require too much of me.” Oliver considered his options. He could buy her practically anything she desired. “Flowers are a good starting place, I should think.”

Benedict held up a finger. “Do not be hasty with your flower choices; you know there is an entire secret language behind each damned bloom, some differentiate by color. It’s all quite tedious.”

Oliver nodded. Yes, he’d heard about the flower meanings. He’d be certain to send her a message she would understand quite clearly. “What about books?”

“If she enjoys reading. Confections is another respectable choice,” Benedict offered.

Oliver was silent for several moments.

“You know if you keep coming here soliciting my advice, I might have to start charging you by the hour.” He nodded toward Oliver’s hand. “Or at least by the glass.”

…

“Lady Harriet, you have a caller in the front parlor,” the butler said. Harriet looked up from her book and eyed her mother.

Her mother set her embroidery aside and stood. “Shall we see who it is?”

Harriet had a sinking feeling she knew precisely who it was, but she smiled and nodded. Following her mother into the parlor proved her instinct right when she saw Oliver’s tall frame stand from one of the heavy buttoned chairs. He inclined his head.

“Lady Lockwood, Lady Harriet.” He brought his hand forward, revealing a cluster of purple, red, and white flowers. “These are for you.” His steel-blue eyes met hers.

Her cheeks warmed, and she took the flowers. “Thank you. I’ll have them put into water.”

“That’s not necessary, dear, I’ll do it,” her mother said. “I’ll ask for tea as well.”

Harriet stared after her mother, shocked and somewhat horrified that the woman left her alone with a gentleman. Granted, she’d return shortly, and she had left the door open. But, considering Oliver had already taken liberties with her, she best keep her distance. She took a seat as far away from him as possible.

“I was hoping you might ride with me in Hyde Park,” he said.

“Today?” she asked. Her heart thundered, and she wanted to swat at it. The silly thing seemed to have a mind of its own these days, reacting foolishly to his misguided courtship attempts. Thankfully, her actual mind was keen as ever, and she was on to him.

He gave her a lopsided grin. “That is the general idea, Harriet.”

She took a deep breath. “Lord Davenport.” She used his title to emphasize propriety. “Since we’re not actually in a courtship, going riding with you in Hyde Park would serve only to create rumors that would serve neither of our purposes. You are looking for a wife.”

“I have found her.”

She rolled her eyes. “Would you stop that?”

“The only reason we are not officially courting is because you refuse to allow me to do so,” he said. “It is a lovely afternoon. A ride would do you some good.”

“I must agree with his lordship,” her mother said, sweeping back into the room.

Harriet frowned. “I don’t think this is a good—”

“Nonsense,” her mother interrupted. “Go and change into your habit, Harriet. I shall entertain Lord Davenport while he waits.”

It was quite evident that she had lost this battle, and from the smug expression on Oliver’s face, he was relishing that fact. She left the room and childishly stomped up the stairs to her bedchamber. She didn’t want to do this. That wasn’t precisely the truth. She desperately wanted to; she enjoyed his company and his attention. Too much. That’s what was so bothersome about the entire ordeal.

She rang for Lottie and asked for her habit. “What am I to do, Lottie?”

“About what?” Lottie finished unbuttoning her dress and helped slide it off Harriet’s shoulders.

“Lord Davenport’s mockery of a courtship.”

“Perhaps he is serious.”

“Serious about tormenting me. It is as if he is exacting some manner of revenge against me, but I cannot fathom what for.”

“Perhaps he truly wants to marry you,” Lottie said.

“Pishposh.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later, Harriet. You’re a delightful person. Everyone likes you.” Lottie finished fastening the habit in place, then pinned on Harriet’s topper. “You look rather smart in this.”

Harriet glanced down at the dark sapphire habit. It was an attractive confection, she could agree with that. But it fit her too tightly, and she’d never found habits particularly comfortable. “I am not accustomed to going riding.”

“You are not accustomed to being properly courted, but it would seem his lordship is tenacious,” Lottie said.

“I had never before equated tenacity with irritation.” In truth, was she actually irritated? There was a huge part of her that relished the attention he was pouring on her. The starved part of her that had so desperately longed to meet a man and fall in love. The rational part of her, though, recognized his plot for what it was, and she did her level best to keep that part in control of the rest of her fickle self.

She made her way back down to the parlor, and he stood when she entered. His eyes devoured her, making her feel as if she wasn’t truly covered head to toe in lush blue wool.

Her mother smiled, and Harriet could have sworn she saw tears gleaming in the woman’s eyes. Harriet tugged on her kid gloves, then slipped her wrist through the loop at the bottom of the long skirt. Her nerves were rattled enough she wouldn’t even need the excuse of the habit’s length to stumble.

“I took the liberty of selecting a gentle mare for you. She’s saddled and ready, waiting with my steed,” he said.

True to his word Oliver had brought along a beautiful gray mare. He assisted her up on the horse, and she straightened her skirts to cover her legs.

“Shall we?” he asked.

She nodded and together they cantered in the direction of Hyde Park. They rode in silence for a few moments before she finally spoke. “I must commend you, my lord, on your proper courtship techniques. Did you learn them in a book?”

“There’s a book about courting?” He gave her a wry smile. “I wish I had thought to look, but no, I sought the advice from a friend and my mother, of course.”

Oh dear. He’d asked his mother. Mayhaps he was serious in his intentions. The thought bumbled around in her mind, but she shoved it aside. “What all did they tell you to do?”

“I cannot give away my secrets else they may not be effective.” He winked at her.

She watched him warily from beneath her topper. He rode with ease; his large frame sat perfectly astride his gleaming black steed. He was the very picture of masculinity. Her mouth dried, and her hands felt too warm encased in her soft gloves.

Oh, how she wished this was, indeed, a real courtship. That they had met at a ball, locked eyes across the room. He would’ve come up and asked her to dance, or explained why he couldn’t dance and instead offered to take her to the refreshments table. They would’ve laughed, enjoyed each other’s company. They would have gone riding, much as they were today, perhaps a picnic or two. Then they would have fallen in love the way that she’d always dreamed.

But none of that was how they’d gotten where they were today.

She hated that he made her want more. More from her life. More from him. Especially from him.

…

Oliver watched Harriet chew at her bottom lip as they rode through Hyde Park. She smiled and spoke when they passed someone she knew, which was often. On more than one occasion, the passersby were unable to hide their surprise.

“People seem surprised that I’ve crawled out of my cave during the daylight hours,” he said.

She smiled at him. “I doubt that.”

“Then they often wear those expressions while greeting fellow riders?”

“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 blooming, 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.

“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.