If Wishes Were Earls (19 page)

To her, Fieldgate, once he got done gossiping and comparing himself favorably to all the other gentlemen around, was a dead bore. A blundering paperskull, if she was being kind.

Speaking of paperskulls, Harriet glanced back at the door. Where the devil was Roxley?

“How like my nephew,” Lady Eleanor announced—echoing Harriet’s unspoken sentiment—even as the play was about to begin and the one seat left in their box remained unfilled.

“Mark my words, he’ll be along,” Lord Bindon replied. “With such a pretty intended, why wouldn’t he?” The fellow winked at Harriet.

The baron’s wife blanched. “That is Miss Hathaway, you old fool. Miss Murray,” she advised, nodding toward the heiress, “is Roxley’s chosen
parti
.” She huffed a sigh of exasperation at her husband’s continued faux pas.

“Ah, yes, of course. I knew that,” he said, nodding with restrained dignity at the future Countess of Roxley. But that was after he slanted a glance at Harriet that said he truly wondered as to Roxley’s acumen.

“I wouldn’t blame you in the least if you threw my nephew over, Miss Murray,” Lady Eleanor was saying. “He’s a veritable rogue.”

“Hardly that,” Miss Murray demurred. “He has his charms, my lady.”

Harriet was of the same opinion as Roxley’s aunt. He was a rogue. And a devil. And a rake.

All of which she’d been counting on when she’d asked the modiste (out of Daphne’s sharp hearing) to lower the bodice of this particular gown a bit more, until it competed with the Cleopatra costume she’d worn to the masquerade at Owle Park.

As she’d put it on tonight, she’d had a delicious moment remembering that night—when he’d quite literally swept her off her feet and carried her into the shadows.

I promised your brothers I’d keep an eye on you.

Then close your eyes.

And to her delight, he had, and she had risen up on her tiptoes and kissed him. And then he’d kissed her back.

If he were to do so again . . .
She blushed a bit to even be considering it. Not that she hadn’t nearly every day since. And yet, if he were to . . . would it be as wondrous as it had been that magical night?

She suspected it would be even more so—a breathless sense of anticipation filling her limbs, bringing a deeper blush to her face . . . and to other parts.

“Lady Eleanor, do you see who just came in?” Lady Bindon whispered loudly, ruining Harriet’s scandalous reverie.

When they all looked over at the baroness, she pointed her fan subtly in the direction of the floor, and all eyes moved in that direction.

Much to Harriet’s disappointment it wasn’t Roxley, but a hooded woman who seemed to catch the attention of everyone in the theater.

“Is that—” Lady Eleanor began.

“Yes, indeed, I believe so—” her friend replied. And when the lady in question drew back her hood, the baroness nodded enthusiastically. “It is
her
.”

“Who?” Lord Bindon ventured, squinting down at the main floor.

Lady Eleanor and Lady Bindon turned and gaped at him.

“Who is she? My lord, that is Madame Sybille, the famed occultist,” Lady Eleanor explained.

“She can see into the future,” Lady Bindon said with a decided note of conviction.

“And find lost things,” Lady Eleanor added.

“Perhaps she can discover where Roxley is,” Lord Bindon said, adding his own ringing note of bluster to the entire introduction.

His wife and Lady Eleanor ignored him.

For her part, Harriet glanced down at the lady who apparently not only held all of London in her thrall, but Bath as well, and found the woman looking directly up at her, her uncanny gaze bearing into their box.

“Oh, do attend, Lady E,” Lady Bindon whispered. “Might it be that Madame Sybille is sensing something about one of us?” Her fan fluttered right beneath her chin.

“Whyever would we be of interest to her?” Harriet asked, earning a nod of approval from Lord Bindon.

His wife rushed to explain. “My dear girl, they say she’s inhabited by spirits. She only returned to Bath a few days ago and already she’s in great demand.”

“For what?” Harriet found the woman quite unnerving, what with her penetrating stare. Lady Essex always said that staring was the height of bad manners.

“Why to speak to the dead of course.” Lady Eleanor practically glowed with a spirit of her own, smiling down at the occultist, hoping to catch her eye.

“But who is she?” Harriet was too practical to believe any of this.

“She is French. Of noble birth, or so it is said. Why, Lady Allen told Miss Smythe that Madame Sybille was with the French queen just before she died. In fact she followed that poor lady’s tumbrel all the way through Paris and watched as they cut off her head.” These last words were said with great effect and a touch of horror.

“Perhaps she should have warned poor Marie Antoinette about the impending loss of her head,” Lord Bindon muttered.

At which, Harriet laughed, garnering two disapproving scowls from the older ladies and a wink from the baron.

Miss Murray, who had taken only the slightest glance at the lady before sitting back in her seat, shook her head. “French? Truly?” She sniffed, making a moue that suggested she found the prospect of such an association well beneath her. “Such trumpery. She looks like one of those dreadful Colonials.”

“Oh, my, Lady Eleanor, do you think she is receiving a message about one of us?” Lady Bindon whispered.

Whatever the message was, Harriet couldn’t shake the sense that it wasn’t good.

Just then, the lamplighters began to dim the lights, and in perfect unison, the door to the box opened and Roxley entered.

Harriet would have wagered every bit of her pin money that his timing had been deliberate, and her own disapproving gaze—added to those of the rest of the ladies in the party—buried itself into his back as he settled into the seat next to Miss Murray.

Harriet was about to look away, but something about his greeting to Miss Murray stopped her. Oh, he was polite, but there was a tautness to his shoulders that she’d never seen before.

Except when she danced with Fieldgate.

Something had happened, and Harriet’s curiosity began to churn.

Perhaps it was just her own wishful thinking that had her seeing things, but when she glanced again, she knew down to her slippers that something had come between Roxley and his heiress.

“Sorry I was delayed. A business matter,” he confided to his aunt, who sat on his other side.

Lady Eleanor’s gaze rolled upward and she shook her head, dismissing his excuse.
Business, indeed.

He glanced down at the stage and then around the box. “Whatever are we seeing tonight?”

Miss Murray shrugged, for it hadn’t occurred to her to even bother discovering what the night’s entertainment might be.

But Harriet knew and leaned forward, all too happy to tell him.

“
The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra
,” she whispered. “Familiar with it?”

W
as Roxley familiar with it?

Cleopatra? Every demmed, delicious inch of her.

In an instant he was back at Owle Park, to last summer, on that fateful night when one moment he was teasing Harry about her outrageous costume and before his startled gaze she’d transformed into a seductress worthy of the legendary name.

It had been utter madness. Chasing after her—knowing that every step he took drew him closer to being shot by not one, but all five of her brothers.

But he couldn’t resist. He’d realized all too clearly in that moment, he’d loved Harriet since the moment he’d met her.

It was as simple as closing his eyes and letting his heart guide him.

Owle Park, 1810

C
lose your eyes.

And Roxley did as she asked, against his better judgment, against every bit of honor he possessed.

He’d closed his eyes but he hadn’t for a moment forgotten exactly who he was holding—Harry.

His Kitten.

The moment her lips brushed against his, tentative and tantalizing all at once, he gave in to the desires that had been haunting him all night.

Her mouth opened as he slid his tongue inside, and found her as eager to tempt and tease as he was.

A soft moan rose from her. “Ah, Roxley. Whatever took you so long?”

He would have reminded her that this was entirely improper, as he caught her by the waist and turned her, so her back was against the trunk of the tree.

His cock, which had been restless all night, hardened as he pressed his body to hers. He had been waiting since that night in London to do this.

Dreamed of it.

Rich, lurid dreams of his hands cradling her breasts—which he did, cupping them as he continued to press into her, his fingers teasing her nipples.

He rocked against her, and she caught hold of him, her arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, so he could kiss her deeply, his tongue exploring her moist, plump mouth as other parts of him wanted to make a similar conquest.

To plunge himself inside her, to stroke this madness from his veins, to hear her cry out his name as her release rocked her body.

He tore his lips from her mouth and began to explore her, the nape of her neck, the column of her throat, one of her breasts that he’d slipped free from her gossamer costume.

The ruby tip came to life in his mouth, budding tightly, and again she made that sound—a purring rumble in her chest—a sound of pleasure that ran down his spine.

He paused for a second and it was just enough for Harriet to slip from his trap—she moved from his grasp and went racing across the lawn, her teasing laughter a lure he couldn’t resist.

“Roxley, follow me,” she called softly from a small copse of trees, and then she was off again, running like a young deer through the woods. “Follow me.”

He had no idea where she was leading him, but he couldn’t do anything but follow.

Then suddenly he was in a small meadow and he paused, for he did know where they were, the spot the entire house party had come for a picnic earlier in the day.

He looked around until he found Harriet stepping out from behind one of the trees, one of the thick picnic blankets in hand.

Her hair was tumbled down from its former glory and her gown had slipped from her shoulder, leaving one breast nearly exposed.

No more the queen, she was Diana of the hunt, come from her woodland haunts to entice him.

Without a word, she spread the blanket on the ground, and standing beside it, she smiled wistfully at him.

Just before she slipped off her gown and stood naked before him.

G
iven the expression on Roxley’s face, a mixture of shock and longing, Harriet wasn’t too sure if she’d just made a mistake.

Certainly she felt a bit foolish, standing here, naked, before him, but that doubt, that whisper of fear was lost and forgotten as he stalked forward, shrugging off the various pieces of his costume, so he met her wearing only his skin-tight breeches and a simple linen shirt open down to his waist.

That, and a dangerous hunger in his eyes.

Roxley said not a word, but caught her by the arm and tugged her to his chest.

For a breathless moment, he stared at her—tucking the unruly strands of her hair out of her face and studying her as if he’d never seen her before.

As if he’d just come out of the woods and found her here.

“If we—” he began, his hands warm against the curve of her back.

“When we—” she corrected, pressing herself closer to his warmth.

“You will be mine—”

“I’d demmed well hope so,” she shot back.

“Are you sure?”

“Would I have gone to all this trouble, if I wasn’t?”

He glanced down at the blanket. “So you did plan all this.”

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded.

“For how long?”

“Since you kissed me in London. Since that night I’ve been unable to sleep—”

“Nor I—”

“I don’t want to sleep, Roxley,” she confessed.

“Neither do I, Kitten.” And so he showed her what he wanted, nay, desired.

His lips began tentatively teasing hers, whispering kisses over hers, playful and full of longing. Again he was touching her—wherever he wanted to—his hands pulling her bottom toward him, so her cleft rubbed against the front of his breeches, against his rock-hard cock beneath.

Harriet had read all the euphemisms for what was in a man’s breeches, but she wasn’t about to spend her night with a bunch of flowery phrases meant to shield a lady from the rigid, solid manhood that right now clamored to be freed.

Harriet wanted to touch him.

But first she’d need to free him. She ran her hands—both hands—up his thighs, solid hard thighs, where first she cupped his balls and then slowly ran her fingers up his entire length.

Roxley’s breath rattled from his chest. “God, Harriet, what are you doing?”

“What I’ve dreamed of all these months,” she told him as she opened his breeches, and then slid them down his hips.

As his breeches continued their descent, Harriet followed, her lips and tongue trailing over the crisp triangle of hair on his chest, down over the muscled planes of his belly.

She tasted, kissed, let her breath leave a tantalizing trail, as she continued to push his pants off.

He groaned as she went, deep, ragged breaths that told her she was on the right course.

And as she tasted him, licked him, her senses were filled with the masculine scent of him—Roxley.

Her Roxley.

And then she was kneeling before him and the breeches were gone, tossed over her shoulder to land among the rest of his discarded clothes.

His cock thrust out from the dark patch of hair. Thick and waiting for her, and Harriet feeling bold and brazen, caught hold of him and ran her fingers up and down the entire length of him.

A small bead purled on the very tip and she leaned forward and licked it off, and when her tongue touched him, he shuddered.

“Oh, Harriet, what is this?”

“This,” she told him, glancing up as she stroked him, his eyes half closed with pleasure and madness, “is what happens when your aunt gives me the freedom to read in her library
unattended
.”