“What you do or do not believe doesn’t signify. If it did, I would assure you that Lady Alexander has an uncommon disinterest in my wealth and, in fact, in marrying me in general.”
“Perhaps she’s heard the truth of your parentage and worries for her own offspring.”
Alexander would have loved to see the look on his father’s face when he found out the marriage hadn’t been consummated and never would be. Instead, he sat in silence, clenching and unclenching his fists. It had been almost a decade since he’d let his father dictate his mood. He felt all the worse for giving in now.
The duke had no need for Alexander’s input in the conversation, which was really more of a lecture, strictly speaking. “I have hope that this marriage marks a new epoch for you. I was growing ever so fatigued by your attempts to confound me. Your rakehell reputation was starting to wear thin. Lord knows you meant to taunt me with your strumpets and your birds of paradise. An embarrassing display all around, and a rather unsuccessful one, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I encourage you to disabuse yourself of the notion that I factor your opinion into any of my actions. Past, present, or future. Not once in the thousands of hours I’ve spent in the company of women have I given even a passing thought to you. It would have been entirely antithetical to anyone’s arousal.”
“Either way,” the duke continued, revealing no hint of displeasure at Alexander’s words, “marrying the girl was for the best. Being my heir can only buttress your reputation so much. It’s past time you make a gesture at respectability, even if it doesn’t come naturally to one such as you. You may play at a disdain for aristocracy all you’d like, butyouare the stain, not them. You know as much. I’m glad you’ve chosen the mature path. I can’t pretend to be happy you’re my heir, but I can decide what sort of dukedom you are left with. Be careful.”
His father was correct that the marriage would smooth over some men’s—men like Lord Holden—fears of engaging with Alexander. It was uncouth enough being a bastard, one didn’t have to be so indecorous as to also be a debauchee. Lord Holden was a shrewd businessman, but remarkably devout, and a great champion of the institution of marriage. He answered to his wife first and God second. Harriet’s existence would go far.
Alexander said none of this to his father, who was instructing a footman on how precisely to pour his brandy, as if there was a method required. It was as good a time as any to attempt escape. The meeting could have no purpose other than criticism, which had been given already. Alexander tossed back the rest of his scotch and stood.
“Your Grace,” he said with a stiff nod, declining to give a reason for his departure.
The trip to White’s had done nothing to ease his stress. His father had only sunk his mood lower. Alexander waved off his driver and began walking.
The bracing chill of the early March weather cleared his mind as he wandered through the busy streets, nodding at acquaintances, smiling at shop women. When his fingers finally protested the temperature even through his gloves, it became clear that he was going to have to return home.
Even if she was there.
Chapter Eighteen
LIVING INALEXANDER’S HOUSE WAS PROVING DELETERIOUS TOHarriet’s mind. For all the wonders it had done for her sleep, having a room to herself had led embarrassingly to temptation. Or perhaps that was a product of being in such proximity to Alexander, knowing he was only a few yards away.
Yesterday, she’d been left alone in the bath only to find her hand dipping under the water and diving between her legs to try to sate the ache there. It hadn’t worked. It had felt nice, of course, to touch herself. But it hadn’t slaked her need. She hadn’t reached her peak. If anything, she’d gone down to dinner even more bothered than before.
As with the previous night, tonight’s meal had been pleasant, their conversation amiable. Nothing had occurred that might inspire anything other than friendship. Unfortunately, spending two hours in Alexander’s company was unduly arousing. The wine they drank with dinner didn’t help matters; it—along with his ungloved hands—had warmed Harriet’s insides and conjured all kinds of unseemly thoughts. She had done her level best to tamp down any reaction that might betray the immodest direction of her mind.
She tried to meet his playful banter with a staid politeness and endeavored to remember that any flirtation from him was done unthinkingly. It came naturally for him to be charming, to ask questions, to watch a woman’s mouth as she talked. Those were little habits he had cultivated long ago, ones she would do well to inoculate herself against, lest she end up in a puddle on the floor, begging for his touch. Or worse, his affection.
If he insisted upon wearing such finely cut clothing, on leaving books at her bedside, on knowing she took two sugars and a splash of milk, on smelling so divine, she was in grave danger of reneging on her personal marital vow—the one she made tonotconsummate their union. Better to dissemble a bit.
Tonight her behavior had bordered on coarseness. At least a dozen times, she had prevented herself from speaking, answering only when he asked direct questions of her. He must think her churlish and ungrateful, only she feared allowing herself to enjoy his company overmuch.
Now, having bid him good evening, Harriet lay in her bed, the copy ofThérèse Philosophehe’d left on her nightstand abandoned spine-up next to her—she had a terrible habit of leaving books splayed out like dead birds. The book was famously erotic, wicked even. She found herself blushing through passages. Why had he chosen it for her? Had he read it before? She scolded herself for her lack of focus and went back to reading. At this rate, if she allowed her mind to wander so, it would take an entire year to finish a book.
Evidently, being near the man was degrading her intellect.
Harriet picked the book up once more; as she turned the pages, something thrilled within her. Blood rushed through her and pooled between her legs. Her breasts felt heavy, and sensitive. Her entire body was throbbing. She had the oddest desire to lick something. Anything.Him. She did her bestnotto touch herself as long as possible. There hadn’t been enough of a preamble in the bath yesterday, she decided. That was the problem. If she could tease herself, deny herself, perhaps she could get there.
Her mental image of The Count in the book bore an uncanny resemblance to Alexander. But really, who else was she supposed to use as a male model for her yearning? Roman statues?
Until last month, if she ever allowed herself to imagine a husband, she envisioned a man like Mr. Dawkins. Someone staid, rational, and academic. The opposite of her father. She had pictured sweet, simple kisses, the sort you might see at an altar; intellectual discussions; nights in a warm, unassuming house with children gathered around.
Her fantasies had been decidedly less … carnal … in nature.
She refocused and tried again, picking up where she left off: The Count was in his beloved’s chamber only a short distance down the hall from her intended. The plot scandalized and aroused Harriet, even as it failed to distract her from Alexander. She scolded herself. The entire point of the exercise was to move on from her hunger for him.Focus, Harriet!She set her mind to the task, redoubling her efforts.
She imagined—or perhaps remembered—Alexander’s hands on her. The way every single cell in her body seemed to burn underhis touch. The way he’d seemed excited too. She wondered what it would be like to touchhim. Her hand found its way back to her center and she rubbed herself leisurely, steadily, building a rhythm as Alexander had. It felt exquisite. Her fingertips traveled farther up, brushing across her sex. She repeated the movement, trying to replicate what he’d done. Harriet was diligent. Methodical.
A sound startled her.
Harriet’s heart stopped and then, worse, beat madly. Someone was next door. Well, not someone. There was onlyoneperson who would be in the adjoining room at this hour. The thought of him overhearing what she was doing—although the act was virtually soundless—made her entire body burn. Unbidden, an image flashed in her mind of him somehow catching her in the act. Of him watching her. She felt more frantic than ever. Knowing that he was nearby, in his dressing room, perhapsundressedhimself, made her crazed. She needed release; she was both farther away and nearer to it than she’d ever been.
The answer to her problems was so close. And friends did favors for one another, did they not? Who else was she supposed to ask? Hewasher husband.
