Too Wicked to Marry (16 page)

She supposed she should protest being groped like a whore in some back alley, but the pleasure was so shockingly intense that the analogy didn't occur to her at first. When it did, the humiliation that rushed through her was barely enough to temper the coiling heat of growing arousal.

She tangled her hand in Martin's hair and tugged, but ended up having to pull hard to get his attention. His eyes flamed with anger when he finally lifted his head from between her nearly exposed breasts. She pushed against his shoulder, but he didn't move. So she slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his trousers and whispered, "You have two choices. I scream and wake the house. Or I squeeze very hard… right here… and you do the screaming."

Moving very carefully, Martin disengaged himself and moved away from her. The anger in his eyes was deadly. "You made a bargain," he reminded her. Soft as his voice was, she felt it like flame brushed across her skin.

Quivering inside, and with emotions all a jumble, Harriet managed to give a curt nod, and led him to the bedroom at the end of the hall. She felt him following behind like a stalking panther. The lamps were lit inside, but she noticed immediately that Mrs. Swift had vacated the premises for her own sleeping quarters. A pity, for Harriet felt drastically in need of a chaperone right now. Well, she'd dealt with this man before; she could do so again. Of course, in all the years before, she had not felt his touch and responded to it with primal, animal weakness.

She made sure the door was closed before she said, "I'm well aware of our arrangement. Please don't mention it in public again." She pointed toward the hallway. "From this point on, anywhere besides a room in which we are completely alone is public."

He stalked forward, face like a thundercloud, his fists clenched at his sides. "Are you dictating to me?" He reached her and put heavy hands on her shoulders. "Do you dare dictate to me? Do you dare imply that I can't keep your petty, dirty secrets?"

This was threatening to get seriously out of hand. His temper was already hot and she was close to boiling over herself. Maybe she'd held herself under too much control in the last years, for a look, a word, a touch from him set her off in so many ways that she couldn't hope to contain them. She had not known how furious the man and the whole situation was going to make her when the thing started. This was too personal, too much a travesty of what she'd always wanted.

Always? Since the night they'd first met?

Oh, God. Oh, yes. The realization hit her by surprise, bringing the sting of tears behind her eyes, but Harriet put it and her simmering anger aside to deal with the seething man whose grip on her shoulders was painfully tight.

"You are bruising me," she said. "If that is what you wish to do, so be it. I will be at your disposal, my lord. I had not heard that you were cruel to the women you fornicate with, but I hardly have detailed information about your bedroom habits."

"You soon will." Though his lip curled in a very ugly sneer, she felt his grip loosen noticeably, but he did not take his hands off her. "You weren't acting particularly 'disposable' out in the hall."

"I apologize. I should not have touched you like that. There."

Her repentance took him by surprise, wiping the ugly sneer slowly from his handsome features. He almost smiled. "It wasn't the touching I minded, it was the threat."

"I am tired. My nerves are not as steady as they appear—and what if someone saw us like that?" She hated the hint of hysteria that crept into her voice with her last words.

He actually blushed, and his gaze slid from hers. He cleared his throat, but he didn't stop holding her. "That was a bit impulsive of me," he admitted. "And a bit crude. I promise you, my dear—" His hands left her shoulders and he began unfastening her buttons again.

Harriet stilled the impulse to push his hands away from her clothing. She also fought down the urge to panic and run. "Promise me what?" she demanded.

"That my behavior for the rest of the night will not be so crude."

Martin heard Harriet's murmured, "Oh, dear," and managed, just barely, not to smile. Her words, coupled with her earlier behavior, told him all he needed to know. He didn't want to believe it, but in moments of high stress Harriet reacted far more as the starchy governess than the worldly sophisticate. He really did not want to believe her an innocent in the ways of love, but despite what he wanted to believe, of one thing he was sure. She was more than nervous, more than angry, and more man manipulative. She was also a virgin. It was really quite infuriating.

The truth was, he wasn't quite sure what to do with a virgin.

Other than attracting unicorns, he wasn't sure what virgins were good for. He was a man of the world, in search of carnal pleasure and elegant sensual diversion. He had never bedded a virgin. Even his wife had been less than pure on their wedding night. Oh, Sabine had done a fine job of distracting him from the knowledge, and he'd been innocent enough in the ways of women to be easily distracted. But later, looking back on his honeymoon with the insatiable Sabine through the eyes of an experienced womanizer, he knew that his wife had not been as pure as the driven snow.

He was fairly certain that Harriet was. A worldly virgin, a sophisticated virgin, a hard-headed, calculating, sensible, serious, and yes, even patriotic virgin. Bloody hell.

If one was setting out on the path of righteousness within the bonds of holy wedlock, having a virgin bride was a good way to start out. What man wanted a virgin mistress? Some men did, of course; they liked the idea of training a girl to their tastes. They also likened taking a girl's maidenhead to collecting some sort of trophy. Martin found this sort of man disgusting.

He'd said several crude things to Harriet on the subject of her virtue in the last few days, and he had meant every word as he said it. He'd wanted desperately to believe the worst of her, because she'd hurt and humiliated him beyond bearing. He couldn't forget what she'd done. He didn't forgive her. He wasn't going to step back now and forgive her the debt she'd agreed to, because she was willing to pay more than he'd bargained for. He'd wanted to take her as both punishment and reward and to work out some of the burning sense of betrayal he thought would drive him mad.

And because he wanted her. Desperately. He'd wanted her for four damned years, but he'd kept a vow that turned out to be as false as her identity. He had held off telling her how much he cared, until he couldn't take it anymore. He'd offered the woman he loved honorable marriage. Then he'd demanded a very dishonorable arrangement with the strumpet who'd trampled on his very soul. And now… and now…

"Martin? Martin?" Harriet waved a hand in front of his face. "Martin, what are you staring at?"

"Your bosom."

"No, you're not. My bosom is not located somewhere beyond the top of my head. You've been staring at the wall for at least a minute."

"Have I? Sorry." He lowered his gaze to the expanse of soft, round cleavage peeking up over Harriet's corset. He did not recall having finished unfastening her clothing, but the bodice of her blue wool traveling dress was lying on the floor, and the chemise she wore beneath it was pulled down around her waist. She stood before him, still in her heavy skirts and petticoats, but bare-armed, her upper body clad only in the plain white corset. Her dark hair swept across bare white shoulders. Not Venus rising from the waves, perhaps, but the effect was stunning all the same.

A woman with breasts like that should display them in black lace and red satin. Now that they had his attention, his hands reached. He couldn't help himself.

She closed her eyes and arched into his touch, her tongue moistening her slightly parted lips. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe she was truly the finest actress of the century, a rival for Bernhardt. He hoped so, because, virgin or vixen, he was going to make love to her tonight.

Martin fondled her breasts for only a few moments. He wanted more, but he stepped back and turned away instead, smiling when she asked, "What are you doing?" The answer was obvious. The tremor in her voice touched a deep chord of sympathy inside him, though he told himself sympathy was wasted on the treacherous Miss MacLeod. He did not turn around until he was completely undressed.

"Oh, my," Harriet said. Her eyes grew very wide, and a hand came up to cover her mouth. "How very—interesting."

Her gaze did not immediately go to his groin and his growing erection. Though instinct warred with the decision, he stood very still and let her look her fill for a few intense moments. He was not sure if it was a chance draft of air that sang against his skin and prickled the hair on his arms and chest, or if it was the intensity of her regard that stirred his skin with sudden sparks of heat.

"Magnificent, actually," she added after her gaze skimmed his shoulders and chest and all the way down to his bare toes curled in the rug, and slowly back up the length of his legs and muscular thighs.

His breath caught on a hard wave of desire, but he still managed to chuckle at her words, and hardened further, his penis straining upward. "Seen enough?" he asked. "I'm not a statue at a museum, you know."

Her cheeks and throat were bright pink, her breasts rose and fell with the increased rate of her breathing, and her wide eyes glittered. He relished the effect the sight of him had on her.

"I know," she answered. "You're not wearing a fig leaf."

"You won't be wearing so much as a fig yourself in a few moments, my dear."

"Hmm," she said, and gestured. "Would you mind turning around?"

A knot of suspicion clenched in his gut as he said, "Promise me you won't try to run from the room or throw yourself out the window if I do."

She didn't even glance toward door or window. She couldn't seem to take her eyes from him. "Don't be ridiculous. I want to see your backside."

He was very aware of her taking a step closer to him, though he didn't think she was. Banter, he saw, was the best form of seduction to use with his dear untried Harriet. Though his throbbing member warned him to hurry up and let it be about its business, he said,

"Woman, you're making me feel like a horse at market."

"A mighty, rampant stallion you are indeed, my lord."

Martin refrained from commenting and turned slowly, so that he was facing away from her. After a few seconds of aching silence, he felt the warm brush of material against the back of his leg. Sensation raced from the point of contact all the way up his spine. He turned his head to find Harriet standing very close behind him. The combination of curiosity mixed with trepidation on her face made her look young, vulnerable, and so very desirable.

"May I touch you?"

The question was asked in a soft, shy voice, and Martin managed a tight nod. He wanted her to touch him, had demanded it not half an hour before. He fought to remain passive and let it happen.

He did not look like a marble statue. Harriet had decided that with her first look at him. Nor did he feel like one. His muscles were not cool beneath her touch. He was not perfect in the way of a Greek god, yet this tall, long-limbed man was just right, from the width of his shoulders down the long vee of his back into a narrow waist and firm, flat buttocks.

At first all she could manage was to lay her palms flat on his shoulder blades and absorb the heat of his skin. When she flexed her fingers and made her way slowly down the length of his back to the base of his spine, he wiggled under the gentle touch.

"My lord," she said, "you're ticklish."

"If you tell anyone, I'll deny it," he answered through gritted teeth.

"My lips are sealed." It wasn't as if she was going to publicly proclaim the details of their liaison from the rooftops. Curiosity overcame the stab of resentment and she continued her examination. She brushed her cheek against his shoulder and further down his back, ventured to cup his rear in her hands, and ran her thumbs in small circles over his narrow hips. He was a well-made man, beautifully muscled. "And here I always attributed your fine form to your tailor's skill."

"Hmph," he muttered. "Cheeky wench."

"I'm not the one standing here naked."

"But you are the one petting the naked man."

She cleared her throat. "Yes, well… you said it was all right."

"Feel free to continue."

She ventured further down, through and around, making tactile contact with parts of him she wasn't quite up to looking at just yet. Picture books weren't much help when the man was real and right in front of you. When she touched some places he gasped; others, he moaned.

"Have you… had… enough yet?" he asked.

A stab of fear went through her, mixed with an equally devastating wave of longing. She felt as if she were about to plunge into some deep, bottomless pit, and the secrets down in the darkness beckoned, promising unknown delights. Demons calling her to jump. Her fall was right in front of her, and her demon was named Martin.

"Harriet," he urged her for an answer.

"Well—" she equivocated. "That does depend on what happens next, doesn't it?"

"This," he said, and turned around and scooped her up in his arms.