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“If he is married to your friend, then why bother with him when she could just as easily have helped you?”
“She did,” Harriett answered through clenched teeth. “It was Dorothy’s idea to donate the funds. He told me so himself.”
Manchester stared at her. “Don’t avoid the issue. You were clearly trying to endear yourself to him. I was there.”
“So what if I was?” she said, cornered and not liking it one bit. “The man has several unmarried friends. Did it not occur to you that I might want him to introduce me to some of them? No. You immediately thought of the worst, the lowest, the crudest possible motivation for my congeniality.”
“You don’t want to marry any of his friends.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are all like him.”
She crossed her arms and pressed her lips together in triumph. “Including you? You named him friend, so I must assume that puts you among their ilk.”
“I have known John since he was a boy. He has always looked up to me.”
“Indeed? Well, it seems to me young ‘John’ learned a great deal from observing you,” she bit out. “I know all about his affairs and mistresses. The phrase ‘birds of a feather’ comes to mind.”
“I don’t know why I bother talking to you,” he muttered. “You are as difficult to reason with as the north wind.”
“Then why don’t you stop trying? Heaven knows all I’ve wanted since the moment we met is for you to leave me alone,” she said, flinging the words at him like knives and hoping they were sharp enough to drive him away.
“That’s not all you’ve wanted, and we both know it.”
The quiet truth hung on the air between them, a tangible thing. Harriett stood, paralyzed, as he came closer.
“Lord Russell doesn’t make you feel this way, does he?” he asked softly, moving to within mere inches of her.
She ought to have been outraged, but she couldn’t dredge up the anger—because he was right. “Lord Russell is devoted to me,” she said, her voice faint in her ears. “And you, Your Grace, cannot presume to know how I feel about anything.”
“Perhaps not, but I can venture a very good guess at the moment.”
He leaned toward her, and her whole body strained upward of its own accord, the craving of his closeness like some dreadful thirst that could only be assuaged by his kiss. As his lips covered hers and his arms wrapped around her, something inside her eased.
Heaven help her, she’d wanted this that day in the cemetery—to hold him and be held, to feel his strength against her, to feel the breath and life in him and have it drive away the cold and the grief and the ache of loneliness.
Drugging warmth spread into every limb as he gentled his hold, as his mouth moved over hers with sudden, unexpected tenderness. It was as if the sun had come out to shine full upon her, filling her with blessed heat that sank right down into the marrow of her bones. She hadn’t realized how chilled she’d become until he’d touched her and set her ablaze.
Though her desire for the man in her arms—for her arms had indeed risen to return his embrace—was insistent and demanding, part of her registered that it wasn’t only lust she was feeling. Every bit of her, every last infinitesimal mote, knew a sense of completion unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
For the first time ever outside the Hospital walls, Harriett felt as though she belonged.
Fifteen
When Harriett’s hands crept up to cradle Roland’s face, the shock wave of her touch rippled throughout his entire being. He could hardly breathe for the sudden tumult in his chest. Her slender fingers stroked the hair at his temples, grazed the planes of his cheeks, and her smooth palms cupped the sides of his jaw. So soft and tender was her touch, like feathers brushing against his skin.
The kiss they’d shared at the masque had been different, tempestuous, almost defiant. But there was no defiance here, only a slow surrender to sweetness. She was pliant in his arms. If he were to open them, she would fall. He tightened his hold a little, the ache of desire intensifying as her soft form molded to his own.
After a long, blissful moment, he pulled back—not because he wanted to stop, but because he had to. If he did not, they would both be in serious trouble. And not because of the chaos stirring in his breeches, but because of the chaos stirring in his breast.
Of a certainty, her response to him was instinctual and had nothing to do with what her heart desired. Unfortunately, his own heart had just betrayed him by deciding what it wanted—what it could not have. Acute, physical pain struck him as he looked down and saw tears streaming from beneath her lashes.
His plan had gone all wrong. Watching her with Russell today had quickly grown from being unpleasant to downright unbearable. Seeing her flirt with John had just about driven him mad. He’d wanted to punch the man. And now she was crying. He didn’t have to ask why. He could think of only one man for whom Harriett Dunhaven would shed tears, and he was far beyond the reach of any fist.
Jealousy. He’d teased her about trying to incite him into it just now, not realizing that he was already the victim of its cruel caprice. He waited until she regained her balance before releasing her. Her eyes were glazed, bewildered, as if she’d awakened from some dream to find reality completely different.
It was. They were enemies. She loathed him. And I am not her William...
