It was humiliating.
It was exhilarating.
Jem swung the rapier above his head like some sort of conquering warrior. She could see him in a Viking’s leather breeches, scarred from many a fight on his longboat, his hair blowing in the ocean wind…
Her eyes were glazing over so she pulled herself back to the move he was showing her. It was an impossibly dizzingly series of deft movements, darting forward and back.
“Are you watching, Harry?” he shouted at her. He raised those golden shoulders again, and Harriet slowly nodded her head. She was watching.
“Want to try it yourself?” he said, pausing.
“No,” she said, and her voice didn’t even sound like her own voice. It sounded lethargic and sweet, like a trickle of honey.
His eyes narrowed and his mouth opened, but thankfully the door opened and Povy bustled in. “A bowl of water, my lord, and dish of soap. May I enquire as to the injury?”
“Just a blister, Povy,” Strange said. “I can take care of it myself.”
He was still standing in the middle of the gallery floor, looking as if he didn’t even know that God had given him the kind of body that women dream of. Well, not that Harriet had ever dreamed of a man’s body, because she hadn’t.
She’d dreamed of love. Of affection and kisses. Once she’d married Benjamin, those dreams had clarified: she’d started imagining a man who would look interested when she spoke to him, who would show concern if she were ill, or sad, or just plain tired.
But she didn’t think about the bed. Well, perhaps only a little bit. If Benjamin won an important game, he was always happy and smiling, and generally he would come to her bed. They would make love, and then he would tell her the entire game, playing the moves out on her breasts as if she was a chess board. Sometimes they wouldn’t even finish consummating the act before he started recounting his triumphs.
“His development was slow,” Benjamin would say, rearing over her with a little grunt. “He couldn’t find a good square for his Queen’s Bishop”—grunt—“I made sure his bishop never got to King’s Knight Two.” Grunt.
The memory made her feel a great deal cooler.
Jem was a much prettier package than her late husband. He even seemed to listen to her—but he thought she was a man. And if he knew she was a woman, would he be teaching her fencing?
Not likely. Or, as Harry Cope might say, “Not damned likely.”
Povy left and Jem said, “Now we’ll clean your blister.”
“I can do it by myself,” Harriet said. She washed her hand carefully, with soap, and dried it on the fresh towel Povy had left.
“We can’t play our match unless you bind up that hand,” Jem said.
“It hurts at the moment,” she said, shrugging. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“You’re not worried about a little blister, are you? All we have to do is bind it up.”
“We don’t have any cloth,” she began but he was circling her, rapier in hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked, not really alarmed. There was a dancing light in his eyes, a deep sense of laughter that made her treacherous heart thump.
“Looking for bandages.”
“I can’t imagine—”
Flick! His rapier sang through the air and one of the buttons on her shirt skittered away across the floor.
Her mouth fell open.
Flick!
Harriet put her hands on her hips and gave him a ferocious scowl. “Just what do you think you’re doing? If you’re planning on cutting up my shirt, I volunteer yours instead!”
“Can’t do that,” he said promptly. “My shirts are specially woven for me in the Caucasus mountains by three-legged goats.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Nevertheless, my shirt is not bandage-making material, for all it’s made of English linen.”
“Soft, white, easily cut,” he said. “Why—”
And with one flicker of his rapier, he cut a slash down the front of her shirt.
Quick as she could, Harriet clutched together the two sides. “How dare you!” she shouted furiously. “No one unclothes me without my express permission. Are you mad?”
He had two responses to that. First he threw back his head and laughed. And then, rather more ominously, he turned the key in the lock.
Harriet fell back a step, suddenly remembering that she was Mr. Harry Cope, and that apparently Jem had decided to broaden his horizons by—by—she could hardly think. This couldn’t be happening. Why, she was certain he was just joking.
Jem prowled toward her, silent in his stockings, a flicker in his eyes telling her that he was still laughing, inside. Apparently this situation made him feel happy.
Harriet waited one more step and then made a break for the door.
She didn’t even feel the slash that separated her shirt in the back. She only felt the swish of cool air and then the billowing of her shirt. She shrieked, the enraged shriek of a female Viking and swung around into fighting position, wishing she had her rapier in hand.
“How dare you destroy my clothing!”
But he was laughing at her again. “You’re such a very odd man, Harry.”
“That’s none of your business,” she retorted, stepping back one step so that she was almost within reach of the key. “You, sir, are a wanton reprobate. I know what you’re thinking and I assure you that I have no interest in—in being the object of your interest. You may wish to broaden your horizons, but I, sir, do not!”
“But Harry,” he said softly, his gray eyes gleaming with something like excitement, something like joy, something that—that she didn’t know how to identify. “I’ve decided that I truly love men. Shamefully, I never joined those they call mollys. Now I see the error of my ways.”
“You can do whatever you wish, but not with me,” Harriet managed. She had her hand on the key, but she kept her eyes on him, not knowing what would happen to her poor shirt if she turned around once more. As it was she could feel cool air all over her shoulders, though the bandages protected her breasts.
“But I only want you,” Jem said.
“Women are so boring,” he said softly, his thumb rubbing the line of her jaw. She jerked her head away. “I had no idea how arousing it was to fence with someone…with you. It made up my mind. I never thought I was that sort of man, but for you, with you, I’m going into new territory.”
“Not with me,” she said though clenched teeth. “I’m not interested.”
“You won’t be the Prince Charming who will lead me into a whole new world?”
“No!” she spat. She had her hand on the key, but there was something in his eyes that made her stop. He had a rapier in his hand and he was menacing her with God knows what kind of obscene behavior and yet her heart was fluttering like a debutante’s at her first compliment.
“Look, I’m dropping my weapon,” Jem said. “The one that doesn’t matter, anyway.”
It happened very fast. He reached out a hand and wrenched.
The English linen failed her, fell into two pieces and off her shoulders as if it were nothing more than a rag.
Heat flashed through her body like a gift.
“What have we here?” he asked, desire making his voice husky. Those long fingers curled around the top layer of her bandage. Before she could stop herself, her hand came up and covered his.
“Bandages,” he said quietly. His gray eyes drifted over her, claiming her, knowing her. Suddenly he fell back a step. “Don’t tell me! I’ll never get to broaden my horizons now, will I?”
Her mouth fell open and then she saw the lines by his mouth deepen and realized with a giddy wave of pleasure that she, Harriet, knew what Lord Strange was feeling, even if no one else did.
He was laughing.
“When did you find out?” she demanded.
“Mmmmm,” he said. “I always knew.”
“You didn’t!” she said, shivering, trying to ignore the touch of those clever long fingers as he u
nrolled the cotton from her breasts, around and around.
“It’s like the best present I never had,” he murmured.
“When did you find out?” she persisted, trying to stave off nervousness. What if he expected more than she had under those bandages? Someone more endowed?
“I guessed in the stables,” he said, grinning at her. “And Villiers confirmed it.”
“Villiers!” she cried. He unwound another circle and then she realized. “The Latin!”
“Latin,” he agreed. But he didn’t sound interested. His eyes very dark, very intent, he gently took away the very last winding of bandage.
When Benjamin first saw her breasts, on their wedding night, he said that they were small but that small was just as good as large, and he hoped she agreed. She had agreed, because she was just grateful to discover that he wasn’t disappointed. Harriet looked down at herself, trying to see her breasts through Jem’s eyes.
They were small. But they were perfectly shaped, like teardrops, Benjamin had said. It made her feel odd to even think of Benjamin, so she banished his name from her mind.
“It must be my birthday indeed,” Jem said softly. And then he reached out for her.
She thought he would take her breasts in his hands and rub them. That was what Benjamin would have done.
But Jem didn’t touch her breasts. He pulled her against him and his tongue curled into her mouth at the same moment. Harriet went rigid with surprise. Benjamin kissed her. Of course he did.
But he never—
Sensations raced through her body as his tongue played a lazy game with hers. He was tasting her.
“What are you doing?” she managed.
He looked down at her. “Kissing you.” He took her mouth again, cupping her face in his hands, and she was ready this time and melted toward him. But he licked her lips, as if she were a delicious sweet, savored her, finally came to her like an old friend, like a cool drink.
That kiss…
The kiss changed Harriet. She could feel it, changing her sinews and her bones, changing the essence of who Harriet was: a sad, tidy little widow from the country. But with that kiss singing in her bones, she wanted to dance. It raced through her blood and made her want to scream.
She kissed him back.
And this time it was he who pulled back, breathing heavily. “Damn, Harry,” he said, whispering it, his voice a silken rasp in her ears. “Tell me—not that I’m fooling myself that it will make a damn bit of difference—tell me you’re not a virgin.”
She cocked up a corner of her mouth.
He kissed her again, hard, and she could taste his gratitude. She felt it too. It hadn’t been fun, being a virgin. In the first few months of marriage, she used to stay at balls and musicales until she had black circles under eyes, until Benjamin was tottering with drink. She challenged him to teach her chess and would listen for hours, prompting him to replay master moves with her, all to avoid the bedroom.
Because it hurt.
Even once it did get better, there had never been anything like the fierce desire that burned along her legs now, when Jem hadn’t even touched her.
So she pulled his head down to her and threw herself into learning the new sport, the kind of kissing that’s done with tongues and wet mouths and intimacy.
“It feels as if we’re talking,” she murmured some time later.
“We are,” he said, kissing her sweetly. And then hard, fierce, so that she trembled, felt all female, every inch soft and desirous.
And still he didn’t touch her.
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “If you’re not a virgin, Harry, you sure as hell haven’t had much experience kissing.”
“I’m a fast learner.” She brushed her lips over his. How dare a man have that full lower lip? It tantalized her.
“So,” he said, “I just want to understand the rules.”
This was pure Jem.
“Useful knowledge?” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“No back talk from you, young Harry,” he said. “What is your name, by the way?”
“Harriet.”
She saw the name settle in his mind, grow into a smile. “I like it,” he said.
“I like Harry better.”
“You’re a virgin kisser,” he said, “but not a virgin otherwise.”
“I kissed before! Many times. Just not—not that kind.”
“That kind?”
She had to show him what kind she meant, and they got distracted. Still he didn’t touch her, though, so she brazenly pulled him close and put her body against his. He was speed and muscle and smooth skin. And she felt soft and curvy and delicious.
More so than ever in her life. More so than her wedding day, than her wedding night.
“Harriet,” he gasped.
“Harry to you.” She wiggled against him.
“I’m curious about the amount of experience you’ve had. That is,” he gasped a little as she managed to rub against something that was making a lump in his breeches. And it wasn’t a rolled-up sock either. “That is, are we talking about once or twice in a hay loft? I’m just wondering—”
He broke off, probably because she was tired of him not touching her and it occurred to her that no one said there was a law that she shouldn’t touch him. So she cupped him there.
“I was married for years,” she told him, loving the hardness, even through his breeches, the strangled noise he made in his throat, the way his hips arched a little toward her. “There’s nothing I don’t know about men.”
He froze. “Still married? Because I am absurdly old-fashioned…”
“You? You, the owner of a house known for its affaires?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Luckily, I’m a widow.” She ran her hand down the front of his breeches again.
“Good,” he managed. “Excellent. I mean, I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.” And with that his hands came down from the door and slid down her back, leaving a trail of fire. “You are a beautiful woman,” he said. “I knew you were beautiful. I thought you were the prettiest boy I ever met. But then when I realized you were a woman I knew you were the most beautiful woman I ever met.”
It was so ridiculous that Harriet didn’t even listen. Besides, he was stroking her, dragging his fingers over her flesh in little circles and movements that made her shiver and gasp. Especially when he finally made his slow way to her breasts. He didn’t grab them with endearing, if puppish enthusiasm, the kind of caress she was used to.
Instead he stroked them with his fingertips as if she were made out of glass, as if her skin were the most delicate silk in the world. His fingers sang across her skin.
Just like that, she lost the strength in her knees, but his arm was there to hold her up. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “but I have to have a taste.”
“Ah—”
And then she was on the ground, being gently laid backwards on a little pile of discarded clothing: her ruined shirt, their jackets, his shirt. When his mouth touched her breast, it was as sleek and fiery as his fingers.
She moaned, head back, her fingers burrowing into his thick hair and pulling it free from its ribbon.
He paid her no mind, kissing her over and over, lips brushing her bare skin until the caress was too much, until she started feeling as if she might start begging soon, crying.
“It’s time,” she gasped, pulling him up.
He laughed down at her. “Married, and still so quick to draw?”
She arched backward and said, “Please. Jem.”
“How long were you married?” he asked, not touching her.
“Years,” she said impatiently.
“Years with no child?”
And she knew what he was saying. It was only a pulse of sadness: a second that passed. “No need for a French letter,” she said, making her voice cheerful.
So he came to her, braced above her, hair falling forward like silk around her fa
ce.
Harriet was used to making love: to the dry pull at the beginning that sometimes stung and hurt a little, giving way to a warming friction, to the delight of it. To the way a man’s body felt in her arms, hot and slightly sweaty.
This was entirely different.
For one thing—
“I’m not sure about this,” she gasped. “Wait a minute!”
“Anything for a lady,” he said, leaning down to capture her lips again.
But she raised her neck and peered down between their bodies instead. She was right.
“Um, Jem?”
He managed to capture her in a kiss so fierce and sweet that she almost didn’t notice what he was doing with his hips, but her body did.
“Stop,” she ordered. “Wait!” She was feeling—she wasn’t even sure what she was feeling.
She peered down there again. “What is that?”
“Last time I checked,” Jem said, “it was my favorite body part. Happiest body part. Dare I say it—my best body part.”
“It’s—” She shut her mouth. What she was thinking was disloyal. But still…she peeked again. It had to be twice the size of Benjamin’s. “I’m not sure…”
“It will,” he said. He did a little hip dance that made her gasp. “Please, can we try?”
“Yes,” she said.
There was no dryness, no pinch, no pain.
He came all the way inside her and then stopped.
“We fit,” she said, rather dazed. “We fit like puzzle pieces.”
Jem looked a little agonized. “You’re small,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
“I know. My breasts are small too.” She smoothed her hands over his shoulder muscles.
“Believe me,” he gasped. “It’s not a problem.”
And he thrust deeply. This was Harriet’s favorite part of making love: this part. It made her feel adored. Important. She wiggled a little, getting herself set to be a proper bed for him, a lifting platform for his work. The man’s part seemed like work; Benjamin’s face always turned a light purple color. “I’m ready,” she said.
Jem’s face wasn’t purple. He was looking down at her, eyebrow raised. “I’m getting some very strange ideas about your marriage, Harriet.”