As it was, it provoked even more of a reaction from Harry than she’d expected. He gripped her jaw, his hand closing in a strong, not-quite-painful vise, his eyes flaring with fury. She stared back at him defiantly, almost willing him to do something awful, to prove that he was as contemptible as she thought him.
But Harry’s voice, when he finally spoke, was scrupulously controlled. “Then I’ll see if I can put him out of your thoughts.” The bedclothes were pushed away with ruthless insistence, robbing her of any means of concealment. She started upward, but he pushed her back down. His hand curved beneath her breast, plumping it upward, and he bent until his breath fell against the peak in light, repeated shocks.
He traced the aureole with his tongue, caught it tenderly with his teeth, playing with the sensitive flesh. Delight fed into her veins with every swirl and lick and soft tug. Poppy’s hands clenched into fists as she tried to keep them by her sides. It seemed important not to touch him voluntarily. But he was skilled and persistent, arousing deep and writhing impulses, and her body was apparently inclined to choose pleasure over principle.
She reached up to his head, the dark hair thick and soft between her fingers. Gasping, she guided him to her other breast. He complied with a hoarse murmur, his lips opening over the heat-stung bud. His hands glided over her body, charting the curves of her waist and hips. The tip of his middle finger circled the rim of her navel and wove in a teasing path across the flat of her stomach, along the valley where her legs pressed together . . . from her knees to the top of her thighs . . . back again.
Stroking gently, Harry whispered, “Open for me.”
Poppy was quiet, resisting, panting as if each breath were being torn from her throat. The pressure of tears rose behind her closed eyes. Experiencing any pleasure at all with Harry seemed like a betrayal.
And he knew it. His voice was soft against her ear as he said, “What happens in this bed is only between us. There’s no sin in submitting to your husband, and nothing to gain by denying what enjoyment I might be able to give you. Let it happen, Poppy. You don’t have to be virtuous with me.”
“I’m not trying to be,” she said unsteadily.
“Then let me touch you.”
At her silence, Harry pushed her resistless legs apart. His palm coursed along her inner thigh until his thumb brushed soft, private curls. The ragged rhythms of their breathing rustled through the quiet room. His thumb nestled into the curls, grazing against a place so sensitive that she jerked with a muffled protest.
He gathered her closer into hard muscle and smoothness and crisp hair. Reaching down again, he teased the yielding flesh apart. An irresistible urge came to press upward into his hand. But she forced herself to lay passive, even though the effort to hold still was exhausting.
Finding the entrance to her body, Harry stroked the softness until he had elicited a slick of hot serum. He fondled her, one of his fingers nudging inside. Startled, she stiffened and whimpered.
Harry kissed her throat. “Shhh . . . I’m not hurting you. Easy.” He stroked within her, his finger gently crooking as if to urge her forward. Over and over, so patiently. The pleasure acquired a new tension, her limbs weighted with thickening layers of sensation. His finger withdrew, and he began to play with her idly.
Sounds climbed in her throat, but she swallowed them back. She wanted to move, to twist in the restless heat. Her hands itched to grip the flexing muscles of his shoulders. Instead, she lay with martyred stillness.
But he knew how to make her body respond, how to coax delight from her unwilling flesh. She couldn’t stop her hips from riding upward, her heels delving into the cool pliancy of the mattress. He slid along her front, kissing lower and lower, his mouth measuring tender distances across her body. When he nuzzled into the soft, private curls, however, she stiffened and tried to move away. Her mind was reeling. No one had told her about this. It couldn’t be right.
As she wriggled, his hands slid beneath her bottom, gripping her in place, and his tongue found her in wet, fluent strokes. Carefully he guided her into a deliberate rhythm, urging her upward, and again, while he stroked in voluptuous countermeasure. Wicked mouth, merciless tongue. Hot breath, flowing over her. The feeling built and built, until it came to a startling summit and flared in all directions. A cry escaped her, and another, as dense spasms rolled through her. There was no escaping, no holding back. And he stayed with her, prolonging the descent with soft licks, extorting a few last twitches of pleasure as she lay trembling beneath him.
Then came the worst part, when Harry took her into his arms to comfort her . . . and she let him.
She could hardly help but feel how aroused he was, his body taut and solid, his heartbeat swift beneath her ear. He ran his hand over the supple curve of her spine. With a pang of reluctant excitement, she wondered if he would take her now.
But Harry surprised her by saying, “I won’t force the rest of it on you tonight.”
Her voice sounded strange and thick to her own ears. “You . . . you needn’t stop. As I told you—”
“Yes, you want to have done with it,” Harry said sardonically. “So you’ll have nothing left to dread.” Releasing her, he rolled away and stood, adjusting the front of his trousers with casual unconcern. Poppy’s face flamed. “But I’ve decided to let you dread it a bit longer. Just remember that if you have any idea about requesting an annulment, I’ll have you on your back and divested of your virginity before you can blink.” He drew the covers over her and paused. “Tell me, Poppy . . . Did you think of him at all just now? Was his face, his name in your mind while I was touching you?”
Poppy shook her head, refusing to look at him.
“That’s a start,” he said softly. He extinguished the lamp and left.
She lay alone in the darkness, shamed and sated and confused.
Chapter Fourteen
Sleep was always difficult for Harry. Tonight it was impossible. His mind, accustomed to working on multiple problems simultaneously, now had a new and endlessly interesting subject to ponder.
His wife.
He had learned a great deal about Poppy in one day. She had shown that she was exceptionally strong under duress, not a woman to go to pieces in a difficult situation. And although she loved her family, she had not run to them for shelter.
Harry admired the way Poppy had dealt with her wedding day. Even more, he admired the way she had dealt with him. No virginal theatrics, as she had put it.
He thought of those blistering minutes before he had left her, when she had been sweet and yielding, her beautiful body blazing in response. Aroused and restless, Harry lay in his bedroom, on the other side of the apartment from hers. The thought of Poppy sleeping in the place where he lived was more than sufficient to keep him awake. No woman had ever stayed in his apartments before. He had always conducted his liaisons away from his residence, never spending a full night with anyone. It made him uncomfortable, the notion of actually sleeping in a bed with another person. Just why that seemed more intimate than the sexual act was not something Harry cared to ponder.
Harry was relieved when daybreak approached, the sky’s low roof enameled with dull silver. He arose, washed, and dressed. He let in a housemaid, who stirred the grate and brought freshly ironed copies of the Morning Chronicle, the Globe, and the Times. As per their usual routine, the floor waiter would arrive with breakfast, and then Jake Valentine would deliver the managers’ reports and take his morning list.
“Will Mrs. Rutledge want breakfast as well, sir?” the maid asked.
Harry wondered how long Poppy would sleep. “Tap on her door and ask.”
“Yes, sir.”
He saw the way the maid’s gaze darted from the direction of his bedroom to Poppy’s. Although it was common for upper-class couples to maintain separate bedrooms, the maid evinced a touch of surprise before she schooled her expression. Vaguely annoyed, Harry watched her leave the dining area.
He heard the housemaid’s murmur, a
nd Poppy’s reply. The muffled sound of his wife’s voice caused a pleasant ripple of awareness across his nerves.
The housemaid returned to the dining area. “I’ll be bringing a tray for Mrs. Rutledge as well. Will there be anything else, sir?”
Harry shook his head, returning his attention to the papers as she left. He tried to read an article at least three times before finally giving up and staring in the direction of Poppy’s room.
Finally she appeared, wearing a dressing gown made of blue taffeta, heavily embroidered with flowers. Her hair was loose, the brown locks shot with gleaming fire. Her expression was neutral, her eyes guarded. He wanted to peel the intricately stitched garment away from her, kiss her exposed body until she was flushed and panting.
“Good morning,” Poppy murmured, not quite meeting his gaze.
Harry stood and waited until she came to the small table. It didn’t escape him that she tried to avoid being touched by him as he seated her. Patience, he reminded himself. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” It was clear that politeness rather than concern motivated her to ask, “And you?”
“Well enough.”
Poppy glanced at the variety of papers on the table. Picking one up, she held it so that any view of her face was obstructed as she read. Since it appeared that she was not inclined to converse, Harry occupied himself with another paper.
The silence was broken only by the rustling of flimsy news pages.
Breakfast was brought in, and two housemaids set out porcelain plates and flatware and crystal glasses.
Harry saw that Poppy had asked for crumpets, their flat, porous tops gently steaming. He began on his own breakfast of poached eggs on toast, cutting into the condensed yellow yolks and spreading the soft insides across the crisp bread.
“There’s no need for you to awaken early if you don’t wish,” he said, sprinkling a pinch of salt over his eggs. “Many ladies of London sleep until noon.”
“I like to rise when the day begins.”
“Like a good farmwife,” Harry said, casting her a brief smile.
But Poppy showed no reaction to the reminder, only applied herself to drizzling honey over the crumpets.
Harry paused with his fork held in midair, mesmerized by the sight of her slim fingers twirling the honey stick, meticulously filling each hole with thick amber liquid. Realizing that he was staring, Harry took a bite of his breakfast. Poppy replaced the honey stick in a small silver pot. Discovering a stray drop of sweetness on the tip of her thumb, she lifted it to her lips and sucked it clean.
Harry choked a little, reached for his tea, and took a swallow. The beverage scalded his tongue, causing him to flinch and curse.
Poppy gave him an odd look. “Is there anything the matter?”
Nothing. Except that watching his wife eating breakfast was the most erotic act he had ever seen. “Nothing at all,” Harry said scratchily. “Tea’s hot.”
When he dared to look at Poppy again, she was consuming a fresh strawberry, holding it by the green stem. Her lips rounded in a luscious pucker as she bit neatly into the ripe flesh of the fruit. Christ. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, while all the unsatisfied desire of the previous night reawakened with a vengeance. Poppy ate two more strawberries, nibbling slowly, while Harry tried to ignore her. Heat collected beneath his clothing, and he used a napkin to blot his forehead.
Poppy lifted a bite of honey-soaked crumpet to her mouth, and gave him a perplexed glance. “Are you feeling well?”
“It’s too warm in here,” Harry said irritably, while lurid thoughts went through his mind. Thoughts involving honey, and soft feminine skin, and moist pink—
A knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Harry said curtly, eager for any kind of distraction.
Jake Valentine entered the apartments more cautiously than usual, looking a bit surprised as he saw Poppy sitting at the breakfast table. Harry supposed the novelty of the situation would take a little getting used to on all sides.
“Good morning,” Valentine said, uncertain whether to address only Harry or include Poppy.
She solved the dilemma by giving him an artless smile. “Good morning, Mr. Valentine. I hope there are no fugitive monkeys in the hotel today?”
Valentine grinned. “Not that I’m aware of, Mrs. Rutledge. But the day’s still young.”
Harry experienced a new sensation, a poisonous resentment that crept all through his body. Was it . . . jealousy? It had to be. He tried to suppress the feeling, but it lingered in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Poppy to smile at him like that. He wanted her playfulness, her charm, her attention.
Stirring a lump of sugar into his tea, Harry said coolly, “Tell me about the staff meeting.”
“Nothing to report, really.” Valentine handed him the sheaf of paper. “The sommelier asked that you approve a list of wines. And Mrs. Pennywhistle raised the problem of cutlery and flatware disappearing from trays when guests request food in their room.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not an issue in the dining room?”
“No, sir. It seems that few guests are inclined to take the flatware straight from the dining room. But in the privacy of their own rooms . . . well, the other morning, an entire breakfast service went missing. As a result, Mrs. Pennywhistle proposed that we purchase a set of tinware to be used strictly for private dining.”
“My guests, using tin knives and forks?” Harry shook his head emphatically. “No, we’ll have to find some other way of discouraging petty thievery. We’re not a damned coaching inn.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Valentine watched Harry leaf through the top few pages. “Mrs. Pennywhistle said that whenever Mrs. Rutledge prefers, she would be honored to escort her around the hotel offices and kitchens, and introduce her to the staff.”
“I don’t think—” Harry began.
“That would be lovely,” Poppy interrupted. “Please tell her that I will be ready after breakfast.”
“There’s no need,” Harry said. “It’s not as if you’ll have a hand in running the place.”
Poppy turned to him with a polite smile. “I would never dream of interfering. But since this is my new home, I would like to become more familiar with it.”
“It’s not a home,” Harry said.
Their gazes met.
“Of course it is,” Poppy said. “People live here. Don’t you consider it your home?”
Jake Valentine shifted his weight uncomfortably. “If you’ll give me my morning list, Mr. Rutledge . . .”
Harry barely heard him. He continued to stare at his wife, wondering why the question seemed important to her. He tried to explain his reasoning. “The mere fact of people living here doesn’t make it a home.”
“You have no feelings of domestic affection for this place?” Poppy asked.
“Well,” Valentine said awkwardly, “I’ll go now.”
Neither of them took notice of his hasty departure.
“It’s a place I happen to own,” Harry said. “I value it for practical reasons. But I attach no sentiment to it.”
Her blue eyes searched his, curious and perceptive, oddly compassionate. No one had ever looked at him that way before. It made his nerves prickle defensively. “You’ve spent all your life in hotels, haven’t you?” she murmured. “Never a house with a yard and a tree.”
Harry was unable to fathom why any of that should signify. He brushed away the subject and tried to reassert his control. “Let me be clear, Poppy . . . this is a business. And my employees are not to be treated as relations, or even as friends, or you’ll create a management problem. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, still staring at him. “I’m beginning to.”
This time it was Harry’s turn to lift the newspaper, avoiding her gaze. Uneasiness stirred within him. He did not want any form of understanding from her. He merely wanted to enjoy her, browse over her as he did his room of treasures. P
oppy would have to comply with the limits he set. And in return he would be a lenient husband—as long as she understood that he would always have the upper hand.
“Everyone—” Mrs. Pennywhistle, the head housekeeper said emphatically, “From myself down to the laundry maids, is so very delighted that Mr. Rutledge has finally found a bride. And on behalf of the entire staff, we hope you will feel welcome here. You have three hundred people available to serve your every need.”
Poppy was touched by the woman’s obvious sincerity. The housekeeper was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a ruddy complexion and an air of barely suppressed liveliness.
“I promise you,” Poppy said with a smile, “I won’t require the assistance of three hundred people. Although I will need your help in finding a lady’s maid. I’ve never needed one before, but now without my sisters and my companion . . .”
“Certainly. We have a few girls among the staff who could be easily trained for such a purpose. You may interview them, and if none seems suitable, we will advertise.”
“Thank you.”
“I expect that from time to time you may wish to view the housekeeping accounts and ledgers, and the supply lists and inventory. I am at your disposal, of course.”
“You are very kind,” Poppy said. “I’m glad of the chance to meet some of the hotel staff. And to see some of the places I was never able to visit as a guest. The kitchens, especially.”
“Our chef, Monsieur Broussard, will be in raptures to show you his kitchen and boast of his achievements.” She paused and added sotto voce, “Fortunately for us, his vanity is matched by his talent.”
They began to descend the grand staircase. “How long have you been employed here, Mrs. Pennywhistle?” Poppy asked.
“Well nigh ten years . . . since the beginning.” The housekeeper smiled at a distant memory. “Mr. Rutledge was so very young, lanky as a beanpole, with a sharp American accent and a habit of talking so fast, one could scarcely follow him. I worked in my father’s tea shop in the Strand—I managed it for him—and Mr. Rutledge was a frequent customer. One day he came in and offered me the position I currently hold, although the hotel was still only a row of private houses. Nothing compared to what it is now. Of course I said yes.”