If Wishes Were Earls (10 page)

A smoky, intimate light ignited in her eyes.

Now, what had he done? Kitten? He was mad. Or too foxed. Or well in over his head.

No, not Kitten. Minx, perhaps. Bothersome, troublesome minx. Yes, that was better.

And yet when he glanced at her, with her loosely woven braid and those tempting green eyes, she was all kitten. His Kitten. Ready to wind him around her finger with soft glances and even softer curves.

“No, my lord,” she told him, taking another step closer. “Are you offering to carry me away?”

He took back his conviction that she had yet to grow into her wiles. Oh, they were all there. And fully engaged.

As was he, he realized, shifting uncomfortably in his suddenly too tight breeches.

“There you are again, Harry,” he told her, edging away from her, trying to catch his breath. “Asking me to marry you again.”

It was the perfect jibe, for she was all indignation now. “I was not,” she replied hotly.

“I beg to differ. You quite plainly are trying to tempt me into running away with you.”

But her ire didn’t last long. “Is it tempting, Roxley?” She glanced over her shoulder at him and, damn her, fluttered her lashes.

He stilled and in an instant saw the entire plan unfold before him. Whisking her away. Riding for the border. Carrying her into his bed . . .

But even in that moment, he came to his senses. “Run away with you? Are you mad?” He wasn’t too sure if that was for his benefit or hers. “Your brothers would take turns murdering me.”

Even as he said the words, he realized he hadn’t outright denied the notion, just thrown up the real obstacle to such a plan.

“Roxley, don’t be foolish. They can only murder you once.”

How kind and practical of her to point that out.

“I would never underestimate your brothers’ ingenuity,” he told her. “They’d find a way so they could each have a turn.”

She moved slightly, coming closer. To him, Harriet was always such a tumbling ball of energy, but now, she’d found a woman’s grace and could move . . . oh, how she moved, slowly, seductively. It left him off balance and at the same time trying to keep up with her.

More like one step ahead.

“They wouldn’t dare. I wouldn’t allow it,” she whispered.

There it was. They could run away—free from her brothers’ wrath. And again, he saw the end of that long road to Scotland, with this ethereal, willful creature in his bed. In his life. In his heart.

He could nearly feel the Fates nudging him in the back.
Steal her away. Whatever are you waiting for?

Roxley shook that brandy-muddled thought away. Just how foxed was he?

“This a foolish discussion, for I’m not carrying you off,” he told her, hoping his words sounded final.

“At least not tonight,” she shot back.

Well, she needn’t sound so confident.

“Not ever, minx. Never.”

“Never is a long time, Roxley.”

“Not long enough,” he told her. “You should go back in before we are discovered and you are stuck with me.”

“Ruined because I was out here with you? How ridiculous,” Harriet scoffed. “You haven’t even kissed me.”

Kiss her? Oh, no, there wasn’t anything scandalous in that.

Save everything.

Yet here he was, eyeing her and halfway considering the notion. How could he not? She had the most kissable pair of lips he’d ever seen. Lips meant to be teased, explored, opened . . .

Roxley closed his eyes, well aware that if he kissed her there would be no going back. If he even kept considering such thoughts he’d find himself entwined with her . . . his hands exploring those delectable curves, his lips . . .

Taking a deep breath, he clung to his last shred of honor. “I am most decidedly not going to kiss you.”

He sounded convincing, didn’t he?

Perhaps a bit, for Harriet glanced up at the moon and shook her head. “Then for heaven’s sakes, whyever did you come here?”

“Like I said, to make sure Sir Mauris hadn’t tossed you and those reckless jades you call friends out on the street.”

“Would you have been inclined to kiss me then?”

One could never fault Harriet for her determination.

“Harriet, there isn’t going to be any kissing.”

She came right up to him and Roxley backed up, only to find himself trapped by the garden wall. With all her twisting and turning, she’d managed to herd him into a corner. Literally.

He glanced around and found Mr. Muggins at his flank. The large Irish terrier sent him a baleful glance as if utterly disappointed in his purported reputation as a rake.

Truly, how long is this going to take?

Roxley ignored the dog. If only he could dismiss Harry as easily.

Practical to a fault, Harriet pressed him for answers. “Then why did you drag me out of bed in the middle of the night into the shadows of the gardens if you didn’t want to kiss me? That is how these things are done.” Her hand came up to rest over his heart. “Good heavens, given how your aunt goes on and on about your reputation, you wouldn’t think you would need to be shown how.”

He got over that moment of panic that she was going to show him—for there she was, reaching out to him, and her hand was ever so warm against his chest. The moment her fingers had fanned out, his heart had taken off in a gallop.

Yes. Oh, yes. Ooooh, yes,
it thudded.

With only the heat of her touch, Harriet stole her way into his heart.

Because that was how these things were done. With only a look, a touch.

And it might have, if he hadn’t been distracted by something very important. He let her hand fall away, and then crossed his arms over his chest—and not because he was trying to ward her off—which he wasn’t. He was made of sterner stuff. He was.

Especially when he was faced with this . . . this . . . minx of a woman. “How the hell do you know how these things are done?”

She mimicked his outraged stance. “I just do.”

Roxley shifted and went over the various times he’d seen Harriet over that last fortnight. And had a moment of panic. “Not that bloody ass Fieldgate. Has he been—” He couldn’t even say it. “Because if he has—”

Now it was Harriet’s turn to be outraged. “Fieldgate? Oh, really Roxley! Why would I want to kiss him?”

Well that was a relief. And crossed off the only item on the hastily made list he’d just imagined for the first thing in the morning.

Murder Viscount Fieldgate.

“Then who?” he demanded.

“No one,” she said, her lips pursing slightly and a bit of blush rising on her cheeks.

Well, she needn’t sound so disappointed. She wasn’t supposed to be kissing just any bounder who came along.

Himself included.

“Then what do you know of these things?” he asked, this time a little more kindly.

“How any lady learns of these things—I read about them—”

Good heavens, she hadn’t broken into his Aunt Essex’s stash of French novels? Not only were they scandalously detailed, but also how he’d managed an early education in these matters.

Then again, if Harriet had been reading from Aunt Essex’s top shelf collection, they’d probably be halfway to Gretna by now . . .

To his relief, her explanation was slightly more tame. “Why, in the last Miss Darby novel, Lt. Throckmorten took Miss Darby out into the gardens and after he proposed, he kissed her.” Harriet glanced up at him, all starry-eyed wonder as she recalled the moment with such innocent enthusiasm. “At least I think that was what he did. Something about ‘heavenly rapture in his arms.’ ” She moved right up into his reach. “Is it heavenly, Roxley?”

And then from his flank came Harriet’s reinforcement.

Mr. Muggins used his large, bushy shoulder to give Roxley a nudge.
Good God, man! Do I need to draw a map?

T
here was a terrible moment as Harriet stood in front of Roxley—watching the conflict of desire and restraint war in his expression—that she thought he was actually going to set her aside.

So she helped matters along—gave aid to the enemy as it were.

She slid her hands up his arms—oh, heavens, how could a man have such muscled limbs? Only momentarily distracted, she continued her exploration upward until her fingers curled around his shoulders and she could pull him closer.

Men! Sometimes the honorable ones just need a nudge in the wrong direction.

Roxley moved slowly, tentatively tipping his head down until his lips were just a whisper from hers. They brushed against hers, tentatively, hesitantly.

Harriet didn’t know what was expected of her, but being bold by nature, she rose up on her tiptoes and closed the distance.

If Roxley meant to kiss her, she was going to get kissed.

And he indulged her, by hauling her up against him, one hand on her hip, the other at the small of her back. And with the most inconspicuous of movements, she was up against him, intimately so and his lips teased over hers, calling to her to open up to him, brushing against hers and then his tongue teased an opening and began to explore her.

Harriet nearly gasped.
Oh, my goodness. Yes, this is heavenly.

She’d never been so close to him before—to any man, for that matter—but there was no doubting his desire for her—especially considering she was wearing only her night-rail beneath her wrapper and could feel everything about him.

Everything.

Harriet shifted and edged closer. She’d done this? To him? Left him hard and trembling where she felt only this tight, dizzy desire to be even closer to him, to feel him. And with just two slight layers of muslin covering her, wherever he touched, the heat of his fingers left a trail of answering desire in their wake.

Oh, yes. Touch me, Roxley. Kiss me.

“Are you cold?” he whispered as she shivered.

“No,” she told him, pulling him closer. Not. In. The. Least.

He made a satisfied sort of sound and he began to kiss her right behind her ear, down the nape of her neck, and Harriet could only lean against him, cling to him as his kiss awakened her further, left her heated right down to that point between her legs.

Fire poured through her limbs, left her breasts taut, her knees wavering. Raced, really. Thundered through her veins, bringing a breathless delirium. For more.
Please, more.

“Don’t stop,” she managed to whisper. And Roxley obliged her, catching hold of her and turning her so now she was the one trapped, the one with her back to the garden wall, the one totally under his control. Not that she cared, for he was kissing her neck, along her jawline, and then catching her lips anew, this time in a kiss that was hot and demanding. He was over her, around her, and inside her as his tongue slid over hers, tangled against hers, rough and tantalizing all at once.

There was nothing tentative between them now.

She trembled, for if the wall behind her was cool with the night air, Roxley was igniting a bonfire within her, one she’d only wondered at, his lips continuing to add to her torment, stealing over hers, his tongue sliding across hers, teasing hers to explore him.

And it wasn’t just his kiss . . .

However did Roxley know she would love having him stroke her back? His other hand—dear heavens, the other one had risen from her hip to cradle her breast, and when his fingers ran over the nipple and then rolled back over it again and again, leaving it hard and budded, she nearly cried out.

With it tight and anxious beneath his fingers, Harriet couldn’t imagine that there was more, but then she felt the cool nip of the night air, for somehow, someway he’d loosened the tie at her throat and opened her night-rail—how seemed to be a pointless concern—for he slipped her breast free and even now, bent down to take the hard nipple in his mouth.

The pad of his tongue had bedeviled her lips and now it was rough as it laved over her nipple, leaving her gasping. He suckled her deeply into his mouth, and let his other hand roam farther down until it reached the apex of her thighs, that place that was even now clamoring for attention.

Yes, there, oh, yes, please . . .
she wanted to tell him as he slowly pulled her gown up, and his hand roamed freely over the curls there, brushing against her, sliding closer.

Oh, yes, this is what I need.

The very thought, the certainty that it brought, startled her slightly. How could she know such things? She’d never been kissed, never been touched, but some part of her, a very delicious part of her, knew, nay, remembered as if this was an awakening, a gift to every woman.

To remember.

As his fingers teased her, exploring, moving intently deeper into her most private place, she opened up for him, her back pressed to the wall. It was wanton, and perfect, and so very needed.

“Oh, yes,” she said as she exhaled in surprise. “Yes.” He grinned at her and then caught her lips in a deep kiss, as his fingers teased her, while his fingers worked such a similar, such a more dangerous magic.

Then his fingers found their treasure, and just as his tongue had teased her nipple into a hard point, his touch, sure and confident, found yet another taut nub. His exploration was tentative, just a brush over her, but it was enough to leave her gasping. “Oh, my. Roxley, what is this?” For suddenly she was breathless and trembling, as if he’d pushed her from an abyss.

“Wait, Kitten, just wait,” he promised, and sealed his vow with a deep, searing kiss.

His tongue lashing over hers, his finger dove deeper, finding her wet, heated core, and he slid it over her, over and over again, leaving her gasping, shaking and trembling.

Oh, this was heaven.
And yet . . .

Harriet reached for something to hold on to, something to touch, her hands sliding from his shoulders where she’d been clinging to him, until she came to the solid, hard ridge beneath his breeches.

He shuddered as she ran her hand down his length, but even as she did so, his finger delved deep, deep into her cleft and
into
her. He was inside her, and Harriet rose up on her tiptoes and it was her turn to shiver, to tremble. His fingers continued to stroke her, tease her, surge inside her, only to subside and tease over her.