Chapter Ten

The silver lace lay against her bosom as luxuriously as it had the first time she wore it. The silken layers of the skirt brushed lightly against her hands as she moved gracefully down the stairs toward the dining room. Surprisingly, her hair was down, dancing against her smooth, exposed back.

Every servant she passed in the hall stared at her. Every one of them, fighting a smile. They may not know specifically what was going to happen—Felicity trusted Mrs. Smith’s discretion—but they knew that something important was going to take place. Mrs. Smith had ordered supper completely rearranged—crème soups, orange preserves used to dress pheasant, the richest wine—all to seduce Harris into a more extravagant frame of mind.

The silver had been polished, Mrs. Smith reported, the china was pristine. The warm candles turned the crystals sewn onto Felicity’s dress into starlight.

All she had to do now, was go through with it.

Felicity paused before turning the corner, where footmen waited to admit her to the dining room. Her resolve could not fail her now.

“I wish . . . I wish I was brave,” she whispered to herself, her fingers playing with the topmost layer of her skirt as she did so. “Please make me brave.”

But she could not stay in the darkened hallway, wishing for bravery, she knew. She had to bring her head up, square her shoulders, and move forward. And that’s exactly what she did.

Turning the corner, she nodded regally to the footman waiting to attend her. He pulled open the door to the dining room, she held her head high in the air as she stepped inside, and . . .

No one was there.

This . . . this could not be right. Felicity glanced about her, checking the corners of the room. The impressive repast was laid out on the table, its silver trays and candlesticks shining, the food succulent, the wine poured, the fire easy in the hearth. She gave a brief glance to the clock on the mantelpiece. She was a quarter hour late for supper, as planned.

Harris should be here.

“Excuse me”—she turned to the footman who still held the door. “Where is Lord Osterley?”

“He asked for a tray, earlier, miss,” the footman replied nervously, and Felicity automatically corrected her speech to be less intense. No need to frighten the poor man.

“He did?” she asked, as casually as she could manage.

“Yes, miss. Told everyone he did not wish to be disturbed. Locked the door, even against Mr. Firth, who you know has been actin’ as his valet.”

Locked the door. Did not wish to be disturbed. Well, Felicity had come too far to let him put her off that easily.

“That coward,” she swore under her breath. Then, without a second glance to the footman, she turned around and marched out the dining room, through the hall and to the study.

The fire that had burned so high that afternoon was out now, and Felicity grabbed one of the candles from the hall to see properly.

“You may lock everyone else out,” she grumbled to herself, as she located the hinge and catch of the door that hid a secret staircase leading directly up to Harris’s bedchamber, “but not me.”

*  *  *

He paced the carpet like a tiger in a cage. The tray of food brought up for him had long gone cold, and all he could think about was Felicity, downstairs, having supper. Harris’s eyes flicked to the clock—she would be down there now, had been for twenty minutes. His feet took him to the door, his hand reached out.

Wait. No. He stopped himself. He would not go down there. He had told everyone he wanted to be alone. He was in his shirtsleeves and socks, for God’s sake! No matter how much he wanted to see Felicity—dreaded seeing Felicity—he knew it was better this way. Things had become too intense. It had all become too much. He would leave in the morning.

Besides, he thought glumly, returning to his pacing, she likely hated him now.

She would hate him, for his rejection of her. Felicity . . . well, to his knowledge, had never known rejection before. And why should she? She was all light and happiness. All enjoyment and life, beautiful to boot. He could not tie her down to him, to his guilt, to the hard work it had taken to get Croft Park back on its feet, to the seriousness of being Osterley.

Yes, she would hate him, he decided. And he would go back to London with her hating him, and order would be restored to his mind, to his life.

It would not hurt to lose her, because she had never been his to lose.

The moment he came to this conclusion—and wanted to weep from it—Harris felt it. A slight movement of air behind him. He whirled, tensed for attack.

And there she stood.

“I was wondering when you would stop pacing,” she said softly. “You’ve likely trod a path into the carpet.”

She stepped into the light, and his entire body, already as tight as a drum, practically vibrated at the sight of her.

She is wearing that dress. That dress that had made him lose all reason little more than a week ago. That dress that made her look like a woman borne of silver fire.

His traitorous heart sped up. He almost smiled.

He was just so damned glad to see her.

“You are covered in dust.” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

She touched her hair self-consciously. “The hidden stairway”—she waved her other hand behind her, and he finally noticed the dark cavern that had appeared in his wall—“hasn’t been cleaned in a while.”

Then she dropped her hand, squared her shoulders, and left any and all self-consciousness behind as she advanced on him. He could only stare in wonder.

“You’re here,” he said numbly. “In my bedchamber.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“In that dress.”

“Yes.”

“Good God, Felicity, are you trying to break me?”

“Yes.” She smiled shyly. She was close enough now, close enough to touch. But she didn’t reach out to him. “If that is what it takes.”

He let out a ragged breath. “Do you have any idea what you are asking of me?”

“I do.” She met his eyes. “I’m asking you to let go. I’m asking you to be happy. And to . . .” She searched for the words. “And to take me with you.”

He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, before he grabbed her by the forearms and pulled her to him.

“Thank god,” he whispered harshly, before crushing his mouth against hers.

Glory. That was the only word for it. He gloried in her lips, playfully nipping at their corners. He gloried in her skin, so soft yet strong underneath his hands. Gloried in her hair, thrusting his hands through their luscious depths. Gloried in the feeling of finally, finally letting himself go.

And claim what was his.

Mine.

They moved across the floor together, as if dancing. He led, and Felicity learned the rhythms and followed beautifully. He gripped her waist, bunching his hands in the soft silk. He wanted to touch her, all of her, wanted to let go and allow himself those pleasures.

And, he finally decided, he would.

Their lips came apart briefly when his legs hit the back of the high, four-poster bed. He wanted her eyes then, wanted to make certain that this was real. Needed to know she wanted him, too.

He met her gaze, and saw no doubt in them.

“Felicity . . .” he breathed.

“Osterley,” she replied, with a teasing grin.

“No.” He smiled back. “Harris. Just Harris.” And he bent down, and lifted her easily into his arms. Reverently, gently, he placed her on the bed.

Felicity thought she had known what she was getting into. She was not a green girl after all, and had spent enough of her formative years in the country to know what passed between the male and female of any species. But she had not expect to feel so . . . cherished. So powerful. So wonderful.

He laid her on the bed, and he came to lie beside her. But that would not do. So she pulled him to her kissing him, holding him, letting her fingers play with the strands of thick blond hair that came to fall over his ears. But still it was not enough. She wanted his weight.

“Oof!” He groaned as she pulled him on top of her. “My darling girl,” he said, his breathing heavy as he came up on his elbows. “Don’t you think we are moving a bit fast?”

“Not fast enough in my opinion,” she replied, and pulled him down again.

Then there were no words. Only Harris, and Felicity, and the wonders of exploration.

Her hands traced the lines of his back, as she pulled his shirt over his head.

His mouth found the crook of her neck—she nearly cried out from the pleasure of it.

The buttons of her silver dress fell free under his nimble fingers, both of them laughing, surprised by his skill.

Her nipples hardened into peaks beneath his hands, making her gasp at the sensation.

Little kisses on her shoulder, on her breast, on the inside of her elbow. All of it making her feel as if they were the only two people in the world, and all the time was theirs, to do with as they pleased. She was truly drugged by his touch.

But, if Felicity was fluid, glowing, Harris was holding onto his control by the thinnest tether. Undoing the buttons of that dress revealed that she was not wearing a corset. Indeed, it seemed she was not wearing anything under that dress.

Thank God he was still wearing his trousers, otherwise he would have slammed himself into her then and there.

He forced himself to slow his breathing, his pace. For all of her passion, Felicity was still new to this, and that, more than his own needs, was at the forefront of his mind.

The dress slipped to the floor. He covered her with his body, his instincts to keep her warm, but also, his hardness sought her softness. Pressing himself into her, he heard her gasp of breath and smiled against her lips. Her fingers slid beneath the waistband of his trousers, and eased them down.

“I want all of you, Harris,” she whispered.

He was more than happy to oblige.

The trousers fell away as easily as the dress. His socks, her stockings. His drawers met the floor in the same heedless pile. Until there was nothing between them but air and the thudding of their hearts.

And then . . . there was nothing between them at all.

Heat rushed through her body, delicious slides of sensation emanating from her core. He was so careful with her, Felicity realized. He was moving so cautiously, so reverently. But she could tell that he was straining against himself. That war was still going on.

“Just let go,” she whispered in his ear. And felt him push inside of her.

It hurt. It was unavoidable. But she did not cry out. She took some small pride in holding herself apart from such indignity. But Harris felt her stiffen, and was immediately up on his forearms, desperately searching her face.

Instead of answering him with words, she leaned up and kissed him.

Everything Harris had ever feared, every terrifying consequence—that he could hurt her, that he could scare her—fell away with that kiss. And as she pulled him to her, his body moved within her, and she moved with him.

They gave themselves over to a dance as old as time. Legs held flanks, steadied him against her. The push and pull that was as engrained in them, as it was in every man and woman, stoked a fire that Felicity did not fully understand, but knew she wanted.

She wanted that ride. She wanted to know what her body was craving. She wanted . . .

“Felicity,” he whispered in her ear. “Just let go.”

Ripples of pleasure coursed through her body, leaving her breathless, panting. It was almost too much, the way it crashed against her, but she knew it was all right, because she was safe.

She was in Harris’s arms.

And as she floated back down to earth, she clutched him to her tightly. Holding him as he lost himself, as completely as she had.

“Oh, my love.”

She whispered it, against the thrumming of her heart, she couldn’t know if he heard her. But it didn’t matter. She mouthed it, again and again, until he brought himself up on his arms one last time, and kissed her quiet.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

And when Felicity awoke in the morning, he was gone.