The Indomitable Miss Harris (20 page)

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

“We’ll try it again to see if we improve with practice.” She did not deny him, and he bent his head once more to hers. The hand that had held her chin moved to caress her curls and then the nape of her neck. The arm around her shoulders dropped to her waist, urging her closer. His lips moved more deliberately against hers, then sought her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and the hollow behind each dainty ear before returning to the primary target. His hands began to roam more freely, stirring new sensations deep within her.

The experience fascinated her, for Gillian had never known such feelings could exist. Her nerves seemed to tingle with life of their own wherever he caressed her. Darrow was handsome, gentle, and charming. She had not previously considered him as a potential husband, of course, but the notion was not an unpleasant one, not if he could stir such wondrous feelings as these. Lord knew, she could do a great deal worse. She did not hear the door open.

“What the devil goes on here!”

Gillian flung herself from Darrow’s embrace and turned guiltily to face Landover, only to quail involuntarily at the ragged fury in his expression. She could not remember ever having seen him so angry. Behind her, Darrow squared his shoulders manfully.

“If you please, my lord—”

But Landover did not please. His voice was deadly. “Get out.” He had let the door swing to behind him, but now he reached back and held it open pointedly, his heated gaze never leaving Gillian’s face.

Darrow spoke desperately. “My lord, I wish to—”

“I care not a whit for your wishes, man. Begone from here whilst you can still go unaided.” Then with a tremendous effort, he seemed to collect himself. Taking a deep breath, he said more calmly, “Do not, for God’s sake, be so foolish as to tempt me to violence, Darrow. Whatever you wish to say to me can be said at my house before eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, by which time I trust I shall have managed to bridle my temper.”

“Sir,” declared the younger man staunchly, “I cannot leave Miss Harris like this.”

“Damn it, you young idiot, get out of here!” His eyes shifted briefly from Gillian, and whatever expression it was that Darrow saw in them was sufficient to stifle any further words he might have uttered. He passed by Gillian and out the open door without a backward look. Landover shut the door.

“You go too far, Miss Harris,” he growled, turning back to her angrily.

The look in his eye caused Gillian’s breath to catch in her throat, but she faced him determinedly. “It was not what you thought, Landover.”

“It was exactly what I thought. I am not blind, miss, nor am I a fool.”

“He loves me,” she replied simply.

“Does he, by God?” he sneered. “And you? You were scarcely struggling, my dear. Do you love Darrow?”

Gillian hesitated. Did she love him? She glanced up at Landover, and the mocking gleam in his eye made her attempt to put her thoughts into words.

“I do not know about love, my lord, except for the rather silly stuff I’ve read in books. I only know that what took place just now was very pleasant.”

“Was it indeed?” he retorted, the words low in his throat. “And you think to mistake those feelings for love, do you? Well, Miss Harris, I can prove you wrong, and your behavior tonight has been such that I shall deem it both a duty and a pleasure to do so.”

The gleam of mockery had changed to something else that made Gillian take a hasty, involuntary step backward, but he was too quick for her. His fingers closed painfully around her upper arm just below the lace edging of the delicately puffed sleeves, and in the blink of an eye, she found her soft body crushed against his harder one.

When she struggled, he held her easily with one hand while he forced her head up with the other. But unlike her earlier experience, Landover’s kiss was no gentle caress. His lips were hard against hers, the pressure bruising, demanding. His hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezing it, no doubt leaving more bruises, but then his fingers slid under the lace trimming at the upper edge of her bodice, and his touch seemed to set fire to her skin. She trembled and, without conscious thought, her lips began to move against his.

At once, he responded. His lips seemed to soften just the slightest bit, and then, to her amazement, she felt the tip of his tongue against her teeth, pressing gently at first, then more urgently. She clamped her lips together protectively, but at the same moment, his thumb slipped down over the silken bodice to caress the tip of her breast. She gasped at the tremors that pulsated through her body, and his tongue gained entrance immediately, exploring the soft inside of her mouth with a thoroughness that sent her every nerve clamoring for more.

Gillian decided without hesitation that Landover must be far more experienced than Darrow. What else could explain the fact that what had been a pleasant, rather interesting experience before was now a soul-searching business that effectively separated body from mind? She had no control over herself. She had known from the first with Darrow that she could stop the interlude whenever the fancy struck her to do so. But with Landover, now, it was not even a matter of stopping him—though she doubted she could do so—but of stopping herself. She felt a strong sense of shame at her own weakness, but even that was not sufficient, for she could not ignore the heady, stirring impulses. Something deep inside her responded naturally to his every stimulus. She scarcely noticed when his hand slipped inside her bodice and began to caress her naked breasts. She only moaned at the ecstasy of the new sensations.

Landover straightened, setting her firmly back upon her heels, and Gillian stared at him, disoriented and wide-eyed with bewilderment.

“That should suffice,” he said grimly. “Fix your gown, Miss Harris. It has got a bit mussed, I’m afraid.”

Glaring with both anger and mortification as she realized what he had done, Gillian hitched her bodice into place again. “H-how dare you use me so!”

“Easily, my dear,” he retorted harshly. “You more than asked for it. Now perhaps you will think twice before heeding the suggestions of your body, for you have discovered, I think, that it will betray you with greater haste than would your deadliest enemy.”

“Why, you … you—” Words failed her, and drawing back her arm she let fly with the full force of that little, traitorous body behind it, but the blow never landed. Landover parried it easily, catching her wrist in an iron grip that would leave yet another bruise. She flinched as much from his glittering expression as from the physical pain.

“Be grateful you did not succeed,” he growled. “I should not have been content merely to return the favor, and I daresay you’ve suffered enough at my hands tonight without the added humiliation of finding yourself across my knee with a blistered backside.”

Gillian flushed, stepping quickly away from him. “You’d not dare!” she blustered. “You said yourself you have not the right to do such a thing.”

“Do not tempt me overmuch,” he warned, running his fingers through his hair and absently smoothing his neckcloth. He took a deep breath in an obvious effort to calm his temper. “That young cub will make an offer tomorrow, you know,” he said next in what sounded to be a nearly normal tone. “What would you have me reply to him?”

She stared at him in amazement. She had forgotten all about Darrow, and it had certainly never occurred to her that he would truly offer for her now. She searched Landover’s grim, unyielding countenance for a hint that he was merely attempting to cause her further distress. But she saw nothing there other than increasing impatience.

“Well?” His tone goaded her, and her own temper flared again. He wanted an answer, did he? Her eyes flashed, and she fairly spat her reply at him.

“You may tell his lordship that I shall be deeply honored to be his wife!”

There was a throbbing silence, and the echo of her words came winging back to haunt her. She had just agreed to marry Lord Darrow! The thought was somehow rather appalling, but not a whisper of her doubt showed as she faced her tormentor defiantly.

Landover let out a long breath, but the rigid control he was exerting over his temper was nearly tangible, and Gillian knew he was even angrier with her than he had been earlier. She forced herself not to look away. When he spoke, his tone was icy.

“Your day is done, Miss Harris. I shall call for the carriage whilst you inform Amelia Periwinkle that you wish to make an early night of it.”

“But I do not, my lord,” she replied, striving to match the chill in his tone. “There are still a number of names on my dance—”

“Enough.” There was none of that biting anger now, only weariness. “I’ll not debate the matter with you, but I promise that if you do not cease this childishness, I shall treat it—just as I treated your other behavior—as it deserves. If you are wise, you will do as you are bid, which is to go home at once and go to bed. We shall discuss this other business more thoroughly tomorrow after I have met with Lord Darrow.”

His tone brooked no further argument, and she fell silent, nibbling her lower lip in frustration. Landover gazed at her briefly, then, apparently satisfied by what he saw, turned on his heel and left the room. Watching him go, Gillian swallowed sudden tears of humiliation. But she would not give in to them. Instead, she gritted her teeth and stepped to an oval looking glass to smooth her hair before setting out in search of Mrs. Periwinkle.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING BROUGHT
overcast skies, and Gillian could only think that the weather matched her own mood. She had her chocolate in bed as usual and glanced through the morning post; however, thinking it would be wiser not to encounter Landover before he had met with Lord Darrow, she decided to do without breakfast.

What on earth had possessed her? It was as though another person had stepped into her body and replied to Landover’s question. But she had no wish to marry Lord Darrow. He was a charming, gentle man, and he both entertained and amused her, traits she knew many women would give a great deal to find in a husband. But much as she liked him, she was certain now that she did not love him, and although she knew love was rarely a quality looked for in marriage, she had rather romantically hoped to find it in her own.

There was still time, of course, if she was willing to humble herself to the point of admitting to Landover that she had made a mistake. The very thought stiffened her backbone. Never would she do such a thing! She had rather marry Darrow. But then she remembered the way she had felt in his arms and, disconcertingly, the way she had felt only a few moments later in Landover’s. Truly, one’s body was a treacherous thing. That she could feel merely pleasant in the arms of a man she was seriously considering as a potential husband and mad with unbridled passion in the arms of a man she detested—well, it was terribly confusing, to say the least. But one thing was certain. She would regard all men a bit differently henceforward. She had been too trustingly friendly before, which was no doubt what had led Darrow to think she held a
tendresse
for him. But now that she knew her body would kindle even to the caresses of a man who could only irritate and annoy her, she would be a great deal more careful. Whether she married Darrow or not, Gillian knew she had learned a valuable lesson.

Worried when she did not put in an appearance at the breakfast table, Mrs. Periwinkle soon came to discover if she was ill. Today, the elderly lady wore lavender silk and another of her outrageous matching wigs. Gillian repressed a fond smile.

“I’m perfectly well, ma’am, I assure you. ’Tis merely that Landover and I have had a bit of a falling-out, and I thought it best to let his temper cool a trifle before … well, you know.”

“There! I knew there was something in the wind. Something occurred at Almack’s to set the two of you at odds,” pronounced her companion triumphantly. “Though I did not wish to trouble you for answers last night, it would have required a featherbrain, which I am not, thank heaven, not to notice that you were out of sorts. And Landover was in the devil’s own temper at breakfast this morning, believe me.” She smoothed a wrinkle from the lavender silk skirt. “I daresay you were wise to remain abovestairs.” Her curiosity was rife, but she made a valiant effort to leash it, waving a hand at the pile of notes on the table near Gillian’s chair. “Is that the post?”

“Indeed, but ’tis meager, to say the least. There is a note from the Princess Charlotte desiring to know when I mean to call, but everyone else seems to have fallen into a slump. Perhaps we ought to organize a card party or a Venetian breakfast or something.”

“Perhaps,” replied Mrs. Periwinkle, but her heart was clearly not in it. There was a small pause while she regarded her charge with compassionate eyes. Then she said gently, “My dear, Landover may be full of sound and fury at the moment, but he is a man of evenhanded justice all the same, so I doubt the outcome of all this will be as bad as you seem to expect. I’ve no wish to pry, of course, but perhaps it would help to tell me about it.”

Gillian examined her fingertips. “I don’t really wish to discuss the matter, ma’am, although I should probably tell you that Lord Darrow is calling upon Landover this morning to … to—”

“To make an offer! Never say so, my dear. Why, he is a charming young man, and you could do a deal worse. Will you have him?”

“I … I have said I will.”

Mrs. Periwinkle burst into a bright smile and nearly fell upon her in delight, but Gillian’s wooden countenance stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, my dear,” she said kindly, “you are already having second thoughts.”

“I never had any first thoughts,” moaned Gillian. “I spoke out of pure temper and because I knew it would annoy Landover.”

“I see.” Mrs. Periwinkle grew thoughtful but said little more and, wisely, did not press Gillian for details. No doubt sensing that the girl would prefer solitude to idle chatter, she soon mentioned an engagement, settled her wig, and took herself off.

Gillian moved to the French seat in the window bay and gazed miserably out into the square. The lack of sunlight gave everything a dismal, monochromatic look. Very depressing, she thought, and very likely accountable for her present mood. She forced herself to focus on colorless flowers, on gray-green grass, on individual leaves of dreary-looking trees. A nursemaid pushed an infant carriage through the gray garden, her charge so carefully wrapped up against the dangerous elements that Gillian could see nothing more than a heap of blankets. A stray dog lifted its leg against a wrought-iron area fence. A carriage drew up at the main door of Gunter’s, across the square. A perch phaeton entered from Bruton Street and swung around to a stop below her window.