A Wicked Pursuit (19 page)

“Very well, my dear,” he said grandly. “Tewkes, send in the musicians.”

Gus beamed at him as the three Italians trooped into the room and took their chairs before the windows.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, her voice sweet and husky at the same time. “You always know how to please me.”

He smiled back, his mind racing off into all manner of wicked directions. He was, he knew, in a most interesting state: not quite so foxed that he was numb to the pleasures of the flesh, but still sufficiently drunk that he could brush aside his conscience without too much difficulty, and see only the merits of pleasing Gus, exactly as she’d said. If he also pleased himself in the process, well, where was the harm in that?

“Help me with these pillows, Tewkes,” he said, easing himself more into the center of the wide bed. Tewkes smoothed the sheets and plumped the pillows, arranging them behind Harry’s back while Gus watched from her chair.

“You’re looking very lonely, Gus, sitting by yourself,” Harry said as soon as Tewkes was done. “Nearly as lonely as I am over here.”

She blinked and looked at him curiously. “What would you suggest?”

He patted the space on the bed beside him. “That you join me here,” he said as winningly as he could. “So we might listen to the music together.”

He heard Tewkes make a strangled sound of disapproval in his throat.

Fortunately, Gus did not. She grinned and without hesitation came to climb onto the bed and sit beside him. She was on top of the coverlet and sheets, and he was beneath them, which offered some small degree of propriety. It was just as well, too, for kissing her had made his cock as hard as a ramrod beneath the covers, a sure way to frighten off any lady as innocent as Gus.

But it still didn’t take Harry long to settle her back against the mounded pillows alongside him, and to ease his arm across her shoulders to draw her closer. By the time the musicians had begun to play, she was nestled neatly against him with her head resting on his shoulder and his arm curled around her. She was temptation incarnate, but as much as he wanted to kiss her—and a great deal more—he wouldn’t, not before Tewkes and the musicians. He and Gus had already given them enough to talk about belowstairs, and for Gus’s sake he wouldn’t add any more. Blissfully unaware, Gus smiled up at him and sighed with drowsy contentment.

He understood that contentment, because he was feeling mightily contented, too. He hadn’t realized until this moment how the broken leg had made him feel not only isolated and helpless, but lonely as well. Having Gus there beside him, warm and soft in her rustling silk gown, was the best cure for loneliness he could imagine.

He smiled, drowsy as well, letting the music wash over them. Thanks to the large meal and the wine, he was having a deuced hard time keeping awake himself. He let his hand drift lower across Gus’s shoulder, his fingers grazing the swell of her bare breast as if by accident, and with a little sigh she turned and curled closer to him.

Damnation, she was asleep. He couldn’t very well go on caressing her while she slept, or not the first time, anyway. Perhaps if he took a short nap himself, they’d both be more ardent later, when they woke.

He yawned at the thought, his eyes heavy. Yes, that was exactly what he needed. A bit of sleep, a short rest. Gus deserved his best from him.

Dear, sweet, trusting Gus . . .

Gus didn’t
so much wake as drag herself back to consciousness. Her head throbbed, her mouth felt furry, and her side ached from where the whalebone had dug into her ribs. It was never a good idea to fall asleep in stays, and she shifted against the pillow, trying to find a more comfortable position. Why hadn’t Mary undressed her properly before she’d gone to bed, anyway? It seemed odd that she’d gone to bed in her clothes, odder still that her hair was still bristling with pins that were jabbing at her head.

She opened her eyes a fraction, squinting against the brightness as she looked for her maid. The sun was just rising, slanting in through the windows directly into her face in a thoroughly unkind manner.

But those weren’t her windows. This wasn’t even her room. That was the mahogany tallboy from the best bedchamber, and those were the yellow silk curtains and hangings with the Chinese dragons.

Her eyes flew wide open, and she bolted upright. There were the three chairs that had been occupied by the musicians, the roses from her mother’s garden in the porcelain bowl, and the small table beside the bed, still laid with the damask cloth from dinner.

With a sickening certainty that had nothing to do with her aching head, she forced herself to look down at the bed beside her. There, exactly as she’d known he’d be, lay Harry, soundly asleep. His hair was disheveled and pulled free of his queue, silky black against the white linen. He slept with one arm curled around the place where she’d lain, the impression of her body next to his still clear in the rumpled sheets.

Horrified, she covered her mouth with her hand to keep back her gasp. She could remember the supper, and drinking so much that she’d fallen over on the carpet, and Patch—or had it been Potch?—licking spilled syllabub from her sleeve. But most of all she remembered kissing Harry, here, on this bed. That was shameful enough, and she prayed she hadn’t done anything further with him that she now couldn’t recall. Oh, whatever had
possessed
her to behave like that with him?

Determined not to wake him, she eased from the bed as carefully as she could. She glanced at his watch, the gold cover sitting open on the bedside table: a quarter past five. If she hurried now, she could return to her own room, undress, and be in her bed for Mary to come wake her at the usual hour. If she hurried, that is, and was lucky, too.

She took one final glance at Harry. It didn’t quite seem fair that he was such a handsome man, her heart making a little lurch of longing as she gazed down at him. He was back to his old piratical self, with the shadow of a night’s beard fresh on his jaw, and snoring gently. His lashes were so long, feathered across his cheekbones as he slept, that he looked years younger than when he was awake. A boyish pirate, then, and far too irresistible, and she considered bending over to give him a whisper of a kiss before she left, then thought better of it. Heaven only knew what he’d remember when he woke, and she’d rather not be here when he did.

She slipped her feet from her slippers, and with the shoes in her hand she tiptoed from the room. At least with Papa and Julia still in London, she’d only the servants to avoid. To her surprise the footman who was usually standing by the door was not there; nor did she see any sign of faithful Tewkes. Perhaps she
would
escape without being seen, and in her stockinged feet she scurried down the long hall to her own room.

At last she reached her rooms, carefully unlatched the door, and slipped inside. She’d made it; she hadn’t been caught, and she let out a long sigh of relief.

“Good evening, Miss Augusta,” said Mary, trying to cover her yawn as she struggled to her feet to curtsey. She was wearing the same clothes as last night, and had obviously fallen asleep in the armchair while waiting up for Gus to return. Belatedly she noticed the rising sun through the windows, and corrected herself. “That is, good day, miss.”

“Well, yes, good day, Mary,” Gus said, blushing furiously with her slippers still in her hand. There was no use making excuses, especially not to Mary. Even a fool could see that Gus had spent the night away from her bedchamber and in the same clothes she’d left it last evening, and her lady’s maid was no fool.

Mary looked her up and down, clearly drawing the obvious conclusion.

“Shall you be dressing for bed, miss,” she said evenly, “or day?”

“For day,” Gus said. She’d never felt so guilty in her life—but then, for the first time, she’d done something worthy of feeling guilty. “And please send word to the stable to have the carriage ready for me in an hour.”

“Very good, miss,” Mary said, heading briskly to the door to summon a footman. “Might I ask where you will be going, miss, so that I might lay out the proper clothes?”

“Norwich,” Gus said, deciding on the spot. “I wish to visit the shops.”

What she really wished to do was to go back to bed—
her
bed—and bury her throbbing head beneath the pillows. But she was in need of penance, and hers would be to be driven into Norwich to purchase a few necessary items for the house: upstairs candles, a larger copper wash-pot and fresh flannel for the laundry mangle, samples of broadcloth for new livery jackets for the footmen. Besides, the fresh air would likely do her head more good than staying indoors—and most important, if she was on the Norwich road, she wouldn’t have to see Harry.

“Shall I send to the kitchen for coffee, miss?” Mary asked. “Black coffee? I’m told it’s a wonderful restorative in the morning after a, ah, rich supper, miss.”

Gus looked at her sharply, her stomach roiling at the very thought of black coffee.

“Do I look so vastly sorrowful, Mary, as if I’m in need of a restorative?” she asked, then sighed as she sank onto the bench before her dressing table. “No, you needn’t answer that. I’m sure I do. Send for the coffee, if you please, and some dry toast.”

“A coddled egg will help, too, miss,” Mary said, her voice finally showing a bit of sympathy. “Leastways that’s always what Mr. Wetherby requests with the coffee after a night spent with friends.”

“Thank you, Mary, I’ll try that, too.” She sighed again, striving to keep from groaning, and prayed her brother’s remedy would help. She did feel wretched. The wine that Harry had chosen had been delightful to drink, but if this was the result of overindulgence, she could not imagine how anyone could become a confirmed drunkard. “If my brother and his friends recommend such a cure, then it must surely work.”

“They say ’tis the price of friendly companionship, miss.” Mary came to stand behind Gus and rapidly began pulling out the hairpins and tangles. “Among gentleman friends, that is.”

Gus closed her eyes and did not answer. Of all the servants, Gus trusted Mary the most, and she knew no matter how much the others would beg her maid for more information, she wouldn’t reveal that her lady had spent the night in a gentleman’s bedchamber. But she also knew exactly where Mary was attempting to steer the conversation. There was only one gentleman friend that interested Mary at this moment, and that was the one who had been with her mistress last night. Gus was in no humor to discuss Harry, not with anyone, and she’d no notion of what she’d say even if she did. How could she, when she herself still wasn’t exactly sure what had happened between them last night?

She let her neck relax as Mary pulled the brush through her hair, trying to sort out her feelings about Harry. She liked him. She liked him very much, which complicated things immeasurably. He had kissed her. She had kissed him in return, yes, but he’d started it. She still couldn’t believe it had happened, that a gentleman like Harry had wanted to kiss
her
. She would be willing to dismiss the first time as an accident brought on by the wine, but then he’d said he wanted to kiss her again, and he had, and that had been even better. She’d felt alive, and she’d felt desired, heady, unknown sensations for her.

Most of all, that kiss had made her feel beautiful, and he’d never be able to understand what a rare gift that had been.

Nor had that been the end of it. After he’d kissed her, he’d wanted her to stay with him, too. He’d made room on the bed for her to sit with him, and while now the very thought of such familiarity made her blush, at the time it had simply seemed perfectly right. Lying with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her, listening to the music, had been magical. That wasn’t a word that she’d ordinarily use to describe anything about her life, but because of Harry, it was.

But magical was last night, not this morning. She and Harry had agreed to be friends, nothing more, yet now—now that didn’t seem possible. Because of that first kiss, everything between them was different, and was bound to change. Would he wish to kiss her again when she visited him in his room today? Would he now expect her to sit on his bed with him when she read to him? Was she a friend that now he kissed, or was she going to be something more?

And that, really, was her greatest worry: that something more. Harry was a man of the world, a gentleman of wealth and power, and by comparison she was a thoroughly insignificant country lady. He belonged with a brilliant, breathtaking beauty like her sister, a lady who would become his duchess and wear his mother’s jewels, and make every man in the room stop and stare when she entered. Gus understood that. She had no illusions about her place in society, and she knew that Harry wouldn’t, either. She would be at best a passing amusement to him, and destined to be swiftly forgotten as soon as he could return to his friends and family in London. He might even be done with her now.

All of which meant that there must be no more kissing or anything else between them. It would be painfully difficult, but for the sake of her future, she’d have to stand firm. As proud as she was that Papa trusted her to run Wetherby Abbey in his absence, this was one of those times that she wistfully wished he were here with her. Julia wasn’t the only daughter who needed him. His presence would make everything honorable and respectable, and he’d make sure no one would ever question why Gus had spent so much time alone with Harry. She did dream of marrying someday, of having a family and house of her own, and the stolid country gentlemen that she’d likely attract would disapprove of any scandal in her past involving her and the fast and fashionable Earl of Hargreave. She might not have Julia’s beauty, but she’d always had virtue, and she could not risk losing that for the sake of a few kisses, however sweet.

Her virtue, or her heart. Because as easy as it had been to be kissed by Harry, it would be easier still to fall hopelessly, ruinously in love with him.

“
What in
blazes are you saying, Tewkes?” Harry demanded. “How can Lady Augusta not be at home? Where else would she be?”