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She nodded against his shoulder, loving the wild, uneven sound of his voice. Loving him. Allowing him to set the rhythm, she rode the mounting tide. Everything was driven from her mind save the feel of his hard body, the heat of him filling her with every long stroke, and the ragged sound of her name whispered at her ear over and over.
With a groan, he pressed hard up into her, his muscles trembling beneath her hands as he seated himself so deeply she swore their very souls touched. The tension gathering in the place where they were joined detonated with sudden violence, wrenching a hoarse cry from her lips. Pleasure more acute than anything she’d ever experienced tore through her in mounting waves. Shuddering anew with each, she clasped him tightly and tumbled over the precipice into ecstasy.
~ * ~
Harriett waited until his breathing evened out into the unmistakable rhythm of unconsciousness before attempting to disentangle their limbs. She hated to leave, but staying was out of the question. With great care, she lifted his arm and moved it aside, watching him to be sure he remained insensate. She rose from the floor where they lay and looked down at him. His usual wariness and cynicism were erased by slumber, leaving just the man in his raw state.
She’d never allowed herself to simply gaze at him before. She memorized him now. His tousled sandy locks. The slightly darker crescents of his long eyelashes and sweeping brows. The curve of his lips. She longed to see his warm, honey-brown eyes look at her again with want, but that would never happen again. His inhibitions had been removed by the liquid in that half-empty decanter there on the desk, but sobriety would erect them again.
For a moment, she let herself dream otherwise. He would awaken to find her here and he would declare, fully sober and himself, that he loved her. And she would confess her love for him. They would marry, and she would know the bliss of his touch every day for the rest of her life.
Logic quickly reasserted itself, as it always did when one dreamed the impossible. He might marry her out of obligation but he didn’t love her, and he would hate her for ensnaring him so, for taking advantage of him in his moment of weakness. He would never believe she truly loved him. No. A lifetime of misery stretched ahead for them both along that path. The idea that they could marry and be happy together was ludicrous.
She stared down at him, her heart aching. Then, steeling herself, she bent and attempted to set his clothes to rights, her previously agile fingers now clumsy as she tugged and refastened. The pattern of his breathing remained unchanged, and she blessed the brandy for allowing her to complete her work undetected in spite of her ineptness. She looked about. The office was a mess, but there was no evidence that she’d ever been here or that they’d made love.
The bottom dropped from her stomach as her gaze lit upon the mantel clock. Papa would be furious! It was time to go. Now.
As she turned, William’s forgotten, liquor-stained portrait caught her eye. Shame made her flush as she met the painted gaze of her former betrothed, the man she’d thought she’d loved. The warm, approving presence that had always imbued the image was now gone. It was nothing more than an artist’s lifeless rendition, like any other painting.
Unable to bear it, she fled.
Twenty
Roland awoke to a splitting head and stiffness in his back that told him he’d passed out on the floor and had been there for quite some time. Opening his eyes, he took in the flat, vaguely pattered horizon, confirming his assessment. At least he’d landed on a softer surface than bare stone or unyielding wood. He lay unmoving for several moments, not looking forward to the torment that would doubtless strike him like an axe blade to the forehead upon attempting to rise.
Eventually, however, he had no choice. He needed a chamber pot, and fast. Holding his head with one hand, he levered himself up with the other and sat, staring at the disaster that was his office. The dim light of the lamp, which had burned quite low, revealed books and papers scattered everywhere and broken glass all over the floor. The smell of brandy permeated the room.
God above, what a night he must have had. The remnants of his dreams still lingered, some of them quite awful. All but one, in fact. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on it alone, hoping to bring back the feeling of joy. So real was it, he swore he caught the faint scent of lavender on the air. After a moment he opened his eyes, frustrated. Such dreams had no substance and no place in his life now.
Gripping the edge of his desk, he staggered to his feet and took up the lamp, adjusting the wick. The urgent need to piss wrung speed from his stiff, sluggish limbs as he opened the door and made his way across the foyer to the necessary closet. It was pitch black beyond the dim circle cast by the lamp. “What the hell time is it?” he muttered, setting it down.
He began to unbutton his flap and paused mid-action. Something wasn’t right. Looking down, he saw the buttons had been put through the wrong holes all down one side. Dismissing it, he made to relieve himself—and at once encountered a problem. A bewildering problem. One typically only experienced upon trying to make water right after having had...
Sobriety hit all in an instant, galvanizing him. He didn’t even bother to refasten his flap all the way before bursting out of the closet and running back across the foyer. As he skidded through the door to his office, his foot struck something, sending it sliding across the floor. The edge of the rug he’d been laying on stopped it. Walking over, he bent and picked up a set of keys.
Harriett’s keys.
It hadn’t been a dream. It—she—had been real. She had been here. They had made love. And she’d told him she loved him.
Or had that been a delusion crafted by brandy and desire? He shook his head to clear it. No. That had been real as well. As had her cry of pain when he’d broken her maidenhead.
A thrill of elation shot through him, followed by crushing despair. The office was a catastrophe. He remembered yelling, throwing things at the walls. Looking up, he saw that William’s portrait had been damaged. There were stains all down it and a small gash across his brother’s right cheek, no doubt caused by the glass that now lay in shards all over the floor beneath.
Memory flooded back with unexpected clarity considering the level of the fluid remaining in the decanter on his desk. He’d opened the door to find Harriett there, staring wide-eyed at the monster who now resided in her precious William’s office. They’d argued about something—he couldn’t remember—and then he’d kissed her.
There had been pleasure after that—for them both.
I’m sure I could change your mind quickly enough. The words he’d spoken to her at the masque ball echoed back at him. Apparently, he had done just that. And she’d run away.
He had to find her. Now. He started to leave, but then remembered his breeches. And the need to piss. He went back and took care of the latter then with shaking hands
righted himself. Going back to his office, he glanced at the clock and was astounded to find that it was almost three in the morning. There would be no seeing her at this hour. Not without an enormous uproar and subsequent scandalbroth.
He would go to see Lord Dunhaven at first light. No. First he would procure a special license and then go and see him. No, wait. Better to see Dunhaven first and then speak to Harriett. Then he would get the license. Back and forth these thoughts came and went as he turned the key on the lamp, dousing the light and plunging the room into darkness.
Going to the front, he let himself out. But as he faced the street, he belatedly realized there was no carriage waiting to take him home. His driver had given up long ago and had gone back without him. Cursing, he cast about, but the street was empty. A fog had rolled in, and he could see little beyond the first streetlamp. There was no sound of wheels on cobblestones, no clippity-clop of hooves. All was silent.
Whispering a steady stream of invective, he turned around once more and went back in. He would have to wait until bloody dawn! And he couldn’t go to Dunhaven looking—or smelling—as he did. He would have to go home first and make himself presentable.
