Tempting a Devil (15 page)

“Roger?”

Harry was standing on the stairs behind the butler, her hand covering her mouth as she stared at Roger wide-eyed. She wore a bright blue dress, her blond hair tumbling out of its pins as usual. “You, madam, look perfectly all right,” he accused her.

She pointed at him while keeping one hand firmly over her mouth, and he realized she was restraining her laughter. “What happened to your clothes?” she finally said, and then burst out laughing.

Roger promptly turned on one foot with military precision to head back to Hil’s carriage, but it was gone. “What the devil?” he exclaimed. He turned back to Mandrake. “Where did Sir Hilary go?”

“The carriage drove off as soon as you alighted, Mr. Templeton,” he intoned calmly. “Shall I send for another conveyance?”

“No, you shall not,” he snapped at the butler and stomped past him into the house. He pointed at Harry. “You got me here with your urgent note. And so we shall discuss it.” He waved his hand at her, palm up in a hand-it-over gesture. “Let me see the threatening note you received.”

Harry was leaning on the balustrade laughing still. “Of course,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Where are your clothes?” she asked again.

“I was boxing at Jackson’s salon when I got your message. I assumed you were in danger.”

She sobered, although a slight smile remained on her face. “And you rushed right over?”

“Yes.”

“Mandrake, would you be so kind as to find a shirt for Mr. Templeton?” she asked the butler. “Come along, Roger,” she said, turning back up the stairs. And like a damned smitten puppy he followed her.

She’d never really believed he’d show up at her house naked. She’d hoped, of course, but when they’d made those silly vows yesterday, she’d assumed there wasn’t a thing on earth that could make him appear on her doorstep in the altogether. The fact that it was the thought of her in danger that had done so came perilously close to making her forget her other vow not to fall in love with him.

Well, of course, he wasn’t really naked. But she’d gotten a glimpse of his bare chest. More than a glimpse, actually, when he’d put his hands on his hips in exasperation
and the sides of the little coat had stretched open to reveal his torso. He had hair on his chest, dark hair, and quite a bit of it. She shivered in anticipation. She was going to get him out of that flimsy little coat if it was the last thing she did today.

It took more than an ounce of willpower for Harry not to turn around and look at Roger’s bare chest again as he followed her down the hall. She made it to the parlor and walked into the room, but the minute Roger crossed the threshold, she closed the door behind him with a firm shove. Roger was about to say something, but when he saw her expression he closed his mouth and widened his eyes.

“Now, Harry,” he said, slowly backing away.

“Stop moving,” she told him. “I’m not going to chase you around like I’ve been doing. Today you are going to stand there and let me do what I want.”

Roger stopped and straightened, indignation on his face. “I most certainly am not. I am not a toy, or a dog to fetch and sit and beg at your bidding.”

“Of course not,” she agreed.

“I’m glad we see eye to eye,” he said with a conciliatory nod. “Now let’s see this note.”

“After I’m done with you,” she said. She pulled the note from the pocket of her day dress and smiled at him as she slipped it down the front of her gown to nestle between her breasts. The truth was she knew exactly who the note was from, but rather than discourage her affair with Roger, as had been its intent, it sparked an idea how she could more firmly entangle him in it.

He glared at her. “See here, Harry, I rushed over from Jackson’s, even forgot my clothes, just to make sure you were all right. That ought to count for something, shouldn’t
it? Can’t you do me a favor and just let me see the note?”

She shook her head. “No. I promise you may see it in a moment.” This time when she walked over to him, he stood his ground. She reached up and cupped his cheek, staring into his amazing blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you think I was in danger. The note doesn’t threaten violence. I’m sorry, darling.”

“You’re … what did you call me?” He seemed rather taken aback, and Harry’s courage faltered. She dropped her hand.

“Isn’t that the sort of thing lovers say to one another?” she asked.

“Yes,” Roger said softly. He picked up her hand and held it to his cheek as it had been before. “Try it again.”

She licked her lips nervously. “I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he told her. He sighed and kissed her palm. “You had no idea I’d react like a frightened old woman and come rushing over here.”

“Roger,” she began, and then stopped, appalled at what she’d almost said, almost revealed. He wanted an affair with no strings, no obligations. Surely a declaration that his gallant actions were one of the most romantic things she’d ever heard of or experienced would send him running away again. “I do appreciate what you did. Truly, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Roger cupped her cheek as she had his just moments ago. “Watch and learn,” he said softly. “This is how lovers say I’m sorry.” He leaned toward her and kissed her, as his hand slid from her cheek and over her hair until he held the back of her head. Then he deepened the kiss, holding her mouth on his. He nipped her lower lip, pulling it out, and she opened for him, knowing that was what he wanted. He slid his tongue in her mouth
and she became weak kneed at the taste and feel of it. How she had missed his kisses last night. She’d dreamt of them, until she woke restless and aching.

She wanted to control this, to control them and where they were going. Because she very much wanted to see Roger bare from the waist up. With that in mind, she wrapped her arms around his neck and slowly spun them around, so Roger’s back was to the sofa. Two short, shuffling steps forward and she broke their kiss. Roger’s eyes were dark and hooded, his lips moist and red from her kisses. His dimples were still obvious as he frowned at her, clearly not happy at the broken kiss. Before he could protest, she pushed him backward and he stumbled and fell onto the sofa.

He looked left and right in alarm. “Oh, no, Harry,” he said. “Not again.”

Harry yanked up her skirt and straddled his lap before he could rise. “No, not again. You made me stop yesterday, so that doesn’t count.” As soon as she was steady in his lap, his hands on her hips holding her in place, she grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shoved it down his arms. He had to help, leaning forward on the sofa. She left it around his elbows, the jacket holding him in place, his chest bared to her.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered reverently. “You are lovely.” And he was. All muscular planes, just like the Greek statues, just as she’d imagined. And that dark hair was positively decadent. Hesitantly she reached out and lightly touched it. It was so soft and it tickled her palm.

Roger was straining in the too-tight jacket, his shoulders and arms bulging with muscle. “This is not a good idea, Harry,” he told her, but he didn’t move to dislodge her and his protest lacked conviction.

She looked at him with a sly grin. She honestly didn’t know what had come over
her. She’d never been as bold before in her life as she’d been with Roger. But then, it was Roger. She knew him. She knew he’d never hurt her. “Why not? Have you somewhere else to be?”

He looked as if he was going to say yes, but her stare never wavered and she could see the moment he resigned himself to tell the truth. “No,” he said with a sigh.

She smiled. “Honestly, Roger, I just want to see you, to touch you. I’ve never … you’re just so beautiful.” She tentatively rested her palm against his chest, in the midst of all that glorious hair. Her hand actually tingled at the feel of it.

“What exactly is it you want to do?” Roger asked in a strangled voice.

“I don’t really know,” Harry answered honestly. “I’ve never had the opportunity to explore a beautiful man before.”

“You must stop saying that,” Roger said, squirming uncomfortably. “Women are beautiful. You are beautiful. Men are handsome.”

“Yes,” she said contemplatively, drawing out the word. “But that’s their face, perhaps. Their form, in some cases, most cases. But you are a work of art. I can hardly say a work of art is handsome, can I? It doesn’t sound right.”

Roger made an exasperated sound. “A work of art? What rubbish.”

“I’ve seen the Greek statues at the museum. Have you seen them?” she asked. She had been rubbing her palm lightly over his chest hair, just a small, tentative exploration. But she grew bolder. She pressed harder and felt the heat of his skin through the dark hair. The hair swirled across his chest, around his pectoral muscles and his small, dark brown male nipples. She changed her motion, running one finger around and around in the same swirling pattern, following it down to the narrow band that ran over his flat
stomach to the waist of his trousers.

Roger’s breathing had deepened. He sounded as if he’d run from Jackson’s salon. “I’ve seen the Greek statues in Greece,” he told her, grabbing her hand suddenly and trapping it against his midsection.

She forcibly opened her hand under his so her palm was flat against the slightly damp skin of his stomach and she felt the muscles there ripple. It was thrilling, and shot straight from her hand to her sex. She jumped a little in his lap at the sensation. “Were they different than the statues in the museum?” she asked, suddenly aware that her own breathing was keeping pace with his, growing faster and deeper.

“No,” he answered.

“Well, then,” she told him, “don’t brag.”

Roger laughed softly and she looked up at his face. He was watching her, biting the corner of his lip as if he were considering something. Then he surprised her by rubbing her hand against his stomach and up to his chest. “Like that,” he said, his voice low and a little angry. He took his hand away.

“Why are you angry?” she asked, continuing to caress him as he’d shown her.

“Because I’m weak,” he said with disgust. “I should be the one putting a halt to this, and instead I’m encouraging you.” He sat forward and began to struggle out of the tiny coat.

Inside, Harry gave a little cheer as she reached out to help him. There was a ripping sound and Roger froze.

“Damn,” he muttered. “This is Hil’s jacket.”

She laughed. “No wonder it didn’t fit properly.” Once they had the jacket off, she
negligently tossed it onto a nearby chair. “I don’t really need encouragement, you know.”

“Yes,” he said drily, “I know.”

Suddenly he grabbed her and somehow rolled them over so that she was under him on the sofa. He wiggled about so she could straighten her legs, laying one of his legs between hers, while he supported his weight on one elbow. She hadn’t cared for this in the past, being beneath a man. It was a weak position, a position that gave him control of the situation. But she liked it today. It put Roger’s bare chest right in front of her, so she could see it, and explore. So she did. Not just his chest but his broad shoulders and back. “I love your musculature,” she murmured. “It makes you look so hard and perfect, and yet when I touch you, your skin is soft and warm.”

“Harry, what am I going to do with you?” he whispered, leaning down and kissing her in that spot right behind her ear that he’d discovered yesterday.

“You’re doing just fine right now,” she answered with a shiver. “But if you have another suggestion, I’m quite open to it.”

He chuckled against her skin. God, how she loved that. She had never laughed so much with a man as she had with Roger. For a moment she was transported to their childhood, to those days of running wild and reckless through the woods after each other. Well, to be honest, perhaps she had run after him a bit more than the other way around.

“Well, not so much a suggestion as a demonstration,” he told her, bringing her back to the moment. She sucked in a breath as his hand landed gently against her stomach and rubbed on the soft muslin of her dress. The slide of the cloth against her chemise, the quiet swish of sound, made her blood thunder in her ears.

“What sort of demonstration?” she asked breathlessly.

“A demonstration of what to do when you are admiring someone’s chest,” he told her, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Oh,” was all she could manage. She remembered his caresses from the other day, the day they began their affair. “Yes, please,” she finally said. “If you would be so kind.”

Roger laughed out loud. “Suddenly your manners reappear. How quaint.” He slowly glided his hand up her stomach to cup her breast.

“I can’t do that,” she observed, looking at his chest.

More laughter. “Well, no. But the principle is the same.”

“If we’re talking general theory of caresses, then yes, I suppose so,” she mused. “I did rub your chest.” She paused a moment. “I’m rather partial to the hair on your chest.”

Roger choked on his laughter this time. “I noticed.”

Harry waited for something new and different, but Roger just cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing over the peak. She felt it, but the layers of clothes she wore muted the caress. “I can barely feel that.”

Roger frowned. “Why?” He increased the pressure, but that made it more of a press than a nice rubbing sensation.

“Everything that’s covering it,” she explained. “There is simply too much between your hand and my skin.” She rubbed her hand over his chest and, after a moment’s hesitation, over the brown nipple. His stomach muscles clenched. She actually saw them do it. “You see?” she murmured. “It’s ever so much better, skin on skin.”

Roger shook his head. “You are obsessed with nakedness,” he told her. But he rolled her toward him until her head rested in the crook of his arm and he could reach the tie on her dress. He deftly undid it one-handed.

“My, you are talented,” she complimented him.

He blushed. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asked, perplexed.

He spared her a glance as he pulled first one short sleeve and then the other over her shoulders. She broke out in gooseflesh at his gentle undressing. “I didn’t think women liked to think about their lover’s previous experiences.”