Tempting a Devil (11 page)

“You … what?” she whispered, her brow knit in confusion.

Roger was so shocked for a moment he just stared at her. She’d never? Surely not. “Sexual pleasure, Harry,” he said. “It’s just another name for when you climax.” She just looked more confused. He cursed her dead husband again. “How do you feel right now, Harry?” He leaned closer to her and whispered harshly. “Are you excited? Aching?” She’d leaned toward him, as well, until their hat brims were almost touching. “Between your—”

“I say,” a voice called out from behind them, “could you move? You’re blocking the path.”

Roger jerked back and glared at the riders behind them. The ladies looked scandalized while the gentlemen all looked envious. The one who’d spoken had his lips pursed with disapproval as if he’d caught them humping right there in the park. Roger was about to give that damn prude a piece of his mind, when Harry pulled on her reins next to him and her horse danced to the side. Roger disdained giving the fellow an apology. He followed Harry at a sedate pace until he was able to reach out and grab her elbow. She stopped, but refused to look at him. Very calmly he walked his horse around so that they were facing each other, yet side by side.

“I can’t be sorry for telling the truth,” Roger told her, perhaps more sharply than he should.

When she turned to him it wasn’t anger or embarrassment causing her blush. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” she told him. “I want you to make me climax.”

Even though he knew she had only a vague idea what she was talking about, to hear Harry say that out loud made Roger’s arousal that much stronger. “If I touched you right now,” he told her, “it would happen.” Harry immediately held out her hand to him. Roger laughed, but even he could hear the desperation in it. “No, darling. I’m not that good. I’d need to touch something a little more … personal.” He knew he couldn’t, however, not here in the park in the middle of the day. So instead he took the hand she offered in both of his, turned it over, slid her glove down just a bit and reverently kissed her bare wrist, touching the tip of his tongue to the pulse beating beneath her fragrant skin.

Her sharp, indrawn breath was unsteady. “You’re right,” she said, her voice even lower than usual, a husky invitation that scrambled his wits like too much whiskey. “That’s nice, but not enough.”

Roger laughed again and straightened in the saddle. “I’ll try harder next time,” he promised ruefully. He was reluctant to let go of her hand, which seemed altogether silly to him. They couldn’t very well ride their horses stuck together like that.

“Well, well,” a woman’s voice purred off to his right. “Isn’t this sweet? Why just the other day, Templeton, I could have sworn you said you were afraid Lady Mercer would never give up her ridiculous pursuit of you. And now here the two of you are, as cozy as can be.”

Harry’s hand clutched his for an unguarded moment, but her face gave nothing away. “Good afternoon, Lady Maxwell, and Mr. Faircloth,” she said politely. “We did
not see you there.”

For his part, Roger refused to act either guilty for being caught kissing Harry’s hand so intimately, or happy to see his old lover Lady Anne Maxwell and Harry’s repugnant Mr. Faircloth. He took his time lowering Harry’s hand and finally letting go, his back to the interfering duo the entire time. Harry was frantically rolling her eyes and shifting her head ever so slightly toward the interlopers, trying to get him to play polite. He made sure by his resigned sigh and the exaggerated turn of his head that they knew he was doing it only to make Harry happy. A conversation now, however, had the added benefit of letting Faircloth know that Harry was most definitely not interested in his attentions.

“My lady,” Roger said, bowing the bare minimum for politeness’ sake in Lady Maxwell’s direction. “Faircloth,” he added flatly. That was all he said. They both sat there on their horses staring at him for a moment as if they expected more.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Lady Maxwell frowned. “You’ve been fighting again, Mr. Templeton. Have you nothing to say in your defense?” she asked peevishly.

Roger remembered quite well why he had spent one night only with Lady Maxwell. There was more than one reason, actually. First, she was married, though she forgot about that as often as society did since Lord Maxwell preferred the country with his dogs and his plump, common mistress. Second, he’d been very deep in his cups, having lost a horse race that afternoon, which is how she’d gotten him into bed. When he was sober, he hastily rectified that situation. But third, and most important, he didn’t like her. Not at all. And to spend more than one night with her meant she would insist on
some sort of conversation, which he wished to avoid at all costs.

“What exactly am I supposed to be defending myself from, madam?” he inquired, his words cool and clipped. If she was going to get nasty about Harry, and truly he didn’t put that past her, he wanted it to be clear from the beginning that she had instigated the immediate and chilling set down he was prepared to give her.

Lady Maxwell ignored him and zeroed in on Harry. “I can’t believe you’ve forgiven him so easily, Lady Mercer,” she simpered. “If a man had derided my attentions all over London as Mr. Templeton has yours, I’d give him the cut direct, not my hand.”

Harry laughed and winked at him. “Oh, dear. Templeton, have you been very naughty?”

“I was playing the reluctant suitor,” he said with a teasing grin. “Didn’t it make my surrender that much sweeter?”

“I’m still savoring my victory,” she said drily.

Faircloth had been very quiet. He was watching Harry with an intensity that bordered on animosity. It had Roger’s hackles rising. “Nothing to say, Faircloth?” he asked with false bonhomie.

Faircloth smiled, but not at Roger. At Harry, who became still, much like a rabbit or doe when they sense the hunter approach. Roger didn’t realize he’d turned his horse to block Faircloth’s view of Harry until it nervously pranced in front of her. Faircloth turned his attention to Roger. “Not much to say,” he answered, “at least not to you, Templeton. Since I’ve been visiting Lady Mercer regularly, I can save any words I have for her.”

At that, Lady Maxwell glared at her companion. “You are acquainted with Lady Mercer?” Roger could tell she was not happy to hear that.

“The late Lord Mercer was a great friend of mine. Was he not, Lady Mercer?” Faircloth asked.

Harry was quite pale now. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Faircloth,” she answered evenly. “Mercer had a great many acquaintances, many of whom I didn’t know. There were several he did not think fit company for me, and so I had nothing to do with them.”

Harry’s late husband knew Faircloth? That was certainly an interesting development. Roger couldn’t imagine what the two men had in common. He could, however, imagine that Faircloth was one whom Mercer did not find fit company for his young wife.

Faircloth’s cheeks flushed in anger at her response and he narrowed his eyes. “We saw quite a bit of one another, if I remember correctly,” Faircloth bit out. “Certainly we were more than mere acquaintances, Lady Mercer, with your husband’s blessing. I believe he said he wished to find younger companions to keep you company in the country, did he not?”

Harry said nothing. She stared straight ahead, her cheeks pale and her full lips tight with unhappiness. Roger had several questions about her history with Faircloth, but he had no desire to prolong their conversation at this point.

“Well,” Roger injected into the silence with a cold smile, “I daresay should you try to visit Lady Mercer again, you’ll find me there. We have a great deal of catching up to do. We knew one another when we were children. Did you know that? I suppose that means our acquaintance supersedes yours.” He turned his horse toward the park entrance, in the opposite direction from Lady Maxwell and Faircloth. Reaching out, he gently tugged Harry’s hand off the reins. He kissed the gloved back. “We shall be inseparable as
we were in those days, eh, Harry?” he murmured.

She turned and gave him a sad, grateful smile. He wasn’t sure what had made her sad. His mention of their childhood friendship?

Chapter Ten

Harry was nearly in tears by the time they got back to her house. Faircloth was going to ruin it. He was going to ruin everything. As soon as Roger found out about their past association, he’d leave. She’d had him for only one day. Wait, no. She mentally did the math. Less than one day by several hours. Which was decidedly unfair. She wanted those things he’d talked about this morning in the park. And she wanted them with him.

Roger was silent as well for most of the ride, speaking only to be solicitous as he rode in front of her, guiding them home through the busy streets. The closer they got to Manchester Square the quieter the streets became, until Harry was left with her morose thoughts. In order to take her mind off the impending disaster awaiting their affair, she watched his backside, encased in a tight pair of buff breeches, rock to and fro in the sleek saddle on his horse. He had an excellent seat. She followed the line of his straight back up to his broad shoulders. As he guided his horse, the dark blue jacket he wore was strained to the limit by his muscular physique. She might never see those shoulders uncovered now. Which was a travesty of monumental proportions. She’d seen the collection of classical sculptures at the British Museum and she imagined Roger must look like that when he disrobed. Scandalously, deliciously perfect.

When they arrived back home, Harry watched Roger dismount. It was a thing of beauty. Through the thin jersey of his breeches she could actually see the muscles of his thigh and buttock clench as he swung his leg over and down.
Good Lord
. She had never, ever considered a man’s body physically beautiful before. But she wanted to just sit and
stare at Roger’s behind. She watched him walk over to her and wished he were naked.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly from beside her horse.

“What?” she asked absentmindedly, still trying to picture him naked. She was quite sure he would not look silly with his sex hanging between his legs as he walked, as Mercer had.

Roger hung his head then looked up, appearing angry, his lips thinned and brows lowered. “Dammit, I’m sorry, Harry. I had no idea Faircloth was bothering you so much. You should have said something. I would have taken care of it sooner.”

“You would?” she asked stupidly. She shook her head, feeling like the village idiot, and probably sounding like it, too.

“Of course I would have,” he said defensively. He sighed and pulled off his hat, tapping it against his thigh in agitation. “Perhaps I gave you the impression over the last two weeks that I didn’t care. I’m sorry for that, too.”

“No,” she said automatically. “I always knew you cared.” And she had. He was the only one in London who hadn’t realized it. He met her gaze then, and neither looked away, though they did not speak. For some silly reason her breathing accelerated and she grew quite warm in her riding habit. She broke their stare, and she could not stop herself from looking down at his thighs. His rock-hard thighs framing … oh, my. She jerked her gaze up only to meet his now amused stare. Then he smiled foolishly, his dimples so deep she wanted to taste them on her tongue.

She gasped in shock at her own thoughts. And he knew. She could tell he knew what she’d been thinking. Her face flamed with a painful blush. His smile changed to something sly and suggestive that would have outraged and offended her from another
man. From Roger it only made her temperature rise to an unbearable intensity as she fidgeted in the saddle.

“Here,” he said roughly, stepping forward and raising his hands to her. “Let me help you down.” When she didn’t immediately lean into his hold, he rested one hand on her thigh and the other on her horse’s neck. “I promise not to do anything here in the street.”

She felt her thigh quiver under his touch, not in revulsion but with high-strung excitement, much like the mare beneath her. “And when we get inside?”

“Then I will do whatever you wish.”

She got off the horse so quickly, Roger nearly dropped her. “Whoa!” he cried to the horse that pranced away from her graceless dismount. The footman rushed over and grabbed the reins as Roger yanked her into his embrace and turned his back to the horse, sheltering her from any danger. It was an automatic gesture on his part, no tenderness in it. And yet it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. He’d put himself between her and the horse. She peeked over his shoulder. Well, a rather docile and sweet horse, but still. He had no way of knowing that.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously, pushing her away with his hands on her shoulders, as he looked her up and down. “Didn’t you ever learn how to get off a horse properly?”

He was frowning at her now, and without thought, she reached up and ran her thumb over the lines on his forehead. “Don’t be cross,” she said quietly. “That’s not what I wish.”

Roger shook his head, looking exasperated. “You will be the death of me, yet,” he
muttered. He grabbed her hand and dragged her behind him to the door where her butler, Mandrake, waited stoically. Lady Lockerby had found him for Harry, saying only that he came with glowing recommendations for his sterling character and his discretion. So far both had proven correct. She had a feeling that today was going to be the real test of his mettle, however.

Roger spared not a glance at Mandrake. He pulled off his hat and simply held it out waiting for some invisible hand to deal with it, never taking his eyes off Harry. “Where?” he asked. That was all, just one word. And upon hearing it she was positively vibrating with excitement, and fear, and curiosity, and arousal. This. This was what she had wanted from an affair, had hoped so desperately to find but had not until she saw Roger again.

She pointed wordlessly up the stairs and Roger dragged her in that direction. Mandrake did not ask a single question. When she looked back, the entryway was mysteriously empty, as if he had disappeared into thin air. Oh, she did have an excellent staff.

Roger went up the stairs, pulling her along rather urgently, which she adored. He turned to go into the receiving parlor, but Harry’s sharp “No” had him stopping and turning back to her. He raised his eyebrow in question. She didn’t want to go into the same room she’d used for Faircloth’s visits. Instead she pointed farther down the hall. “On the right,” she said, directing him to her private parlor. No one came in there, not even Lady Lockerby, who had respected her privacy. Privacy was definitely required right now.