Too Wicked to Marry (23 page)

He was acting thoroughly irritated and insufferable this morning. He'd woken up that way, and it had only gotten worse as they'd bathed and dressed. She could not do or say a thing to please him, and he'd even managed to astonish Mrs. Swift with a high-handed word or two.

Harriet might say that he was not the man she had gone to bed with, except she was used to all of Martin Kestrel's moods, the dark and the light, the expansive and the snappish, the playful and the punitive. He was definitely in the dark this morning. She'd learned long ago that when he was like this, the best way to deal with him was to remain meek and mild and accommodating, until the right moment to stick a pin in his pomposity presented itself.

Out in the wide hallway, he took her hand and hurried her downstairs and into the dining room. The room was crowded with late-rising, bleary-eyed revelers taking their turns at a long buffet table set up along one wall. Servants moved about, keeping the chafing dishes filled, removing used plates and serving drinks. Wine, ale, and brandy were already being poured out. Harriet hoped that she could acquire a cup of strong tea.

She studiously kept herself from wondering which of the ordinary-looking men and women sharing a perfectly normal breakfast had taken part in last night's masked debauchery. Her own personal debauchery, and the wicked speculation on whether there would be time for any more of it, was much on her mind as she followed Martin to the breakfast board. Time was short—the dates set for the rendezvous with the courier ended today. If she did not make contact today, that meant the courier had been waylaid by the opposition and some other way of retrieving the information must be found. And what of Michael? Worry ate at her, though she still didn't know if there was anything wrong with her wayward younger brother. Her instincts told her there was, but how could she trust any instinct or impulse when her head and heart were in such an uproar over Martin?

He still had her hand clasped in his. The pressure he exerted was not gentle, but she was rather glad of this sign of his claim on her. A week ago she would have been furious at this feminine reaction to belonging to a male, but when it came to this male, she discovered she didn't mind a bit. Next week she would mask the heartbreak of never seeing Martin again with starchy pride, but for now she accepted that she wanted to belong to him, and for now she did.

Gazing at the man's marvelously broad shoulders and strong profile was a lovely way to spend the morning, but there was a roomful of other people there that she needed to turn her attention to, she reminded herself sternly. Martin finally loosed her hand long enough for them to fill plates. Harriet cast her gaze around the room once more, but her inspection was interrupted by the approach of their cheerfully smiling host.

"Lord Martin," the man said, sounding as if Martin Kestrel were his best friend and private property. "Come join me on the terrace for breakfast, my lord. The garden is lovely today."

Harriet tried to catch Martin's eye, to indicate that she'd rather circulate among the crowd in the room, but he didn't even glance her way. He gave Strake a thin smile and said, "Gladly. Come along, Cora."

Cora Bell had no choice but to follow her lord and master outdoors into the warm sunlight, to a group of tables that overlooked the pool below the terrace. It was indeed a beautiful day, though in the daylight she could see
that the bronze figures of the fountain at the other end of the pool were naked gods and goddesses disporting themselves in a most unseemly fashion. After encountering the rampant faun statue the night before, Harriet was quite unshockable by any of Sir Anthony Strake's tasteless bric-a-brac.

Fortunately for her hunt for the courier, there were several people at the outdoor tables that she had not encountered before. There was also Lady Ellen. Harriet's jaw clenched at the sight of the woman, and at the way she rose to her feet with a welcoming smile and gesture for Martin to take the empty seat beside her, without taking any notice of Harriet at all.

That was all right; Harriet did not want to be noticed. It was just that she didn't want Martin being noticed by any other woman, and she certainly didn't want Martin noticing in return. Harriet was left standing back from the table holding her plate, as there was no other empty seat available. She gritted her teeth, swallowed her anger and pride, and reminded herself that she was not there to dance attendance on Martin Kestrel. That didn't stop the pain of being so casually brushed aside, nor did it ease the jealousy she had no right to feel. All she could do was hope her feelings did not show.

But she had no luck there, as a man who'd come up beside her announced cheerfully in an American accent, "If that fool doesn't want you, sweetheart, I know I do."

Harriet turned to face the speaker, and as she did, her plate was snatched out of her hands and a quick kiss was pressed on her cheek. "Thief!" she announced, wide-eyed at the sight of the man now holding her breakfast.

"Of hearts and breakfasts," he announced irrepressibly. His dark eyes were full of the devil, as was his smile. "There's an empty table over here." He took her elbow and guided her away from Martin's table. "Where we can share my breakfast in private."

"Your breakfast?" Harriet laughed despite her indignation, and went with this handsome man with the American accent. She didn't even look to see if Martin noticed before she walked away.

Martin deliberately turned his back on his mistress while Lady Ellen chatted on about the day, the pleasure of his company, the joys of a relaxed country house party, and God knew what else. Though she put her hand over his and squeezed it suggestively, he had only a vague awareness of her. His mind was completely on Harriet. He didn't want it to be, and he didn't let it show, but there it was.

He was acting like an ass, and knew it. Harriet had made a fool of him, and he was in danger of forgetting how much she'd wronged him. For example, he'd woken up that morning with her sleeping peacefully in his arms, and he'd spent the time he wasn't distracted by her warm, pliant body cradled against his justifying her outrageous behavior as only doing her job. A woman wasn't supposed to have a job, and certainly not the sort Harriet performed with such aplomb. It was unseemly, distasteful, ridiculous—and he certainly could not countenance the woman's living a secret life within his own household.

Such behavior deserved contempt and punishment, and that, by God, he resolved before she awoke and smiled at him, was just what she was going to receive at his hands! It was what he'd intended all along by bringing her to Strake House. He'd simply lost the point of the exercise because the familiar habits of their false friendship were hard to break. What he'd felt for the woman he'd wanted to marry had died on that hillside on Skye. What was left, all that needed to be left, was lust. Now that he'd had her, the fever for her would burn out and he could move on.

Only, as he lay beside her, their naked bodies so close that it was hard to know where he ended and she began, what he'd felt had gone beyond lust straight to utter contentment. There had been lust, too, of course. He couldn't think now why he hadn't taken her, first thing that morning. In fact, he couldn't think of one good reason that he shouldn't take her back upstairs right now and start the morning out the way he should have, by riding her good and hard until some of the fever was burned out of his system.

Anticipation drove him to his feet. "Excuse me," he managed to say to Lady Ellen. He turned, for some reason expecting Harriet to be standing meekly behind him. Of course, she was not there. He frowned and very nearly bellowed out her name in angry frustration.

Lady Ellen said, "Your pretty friend is over there." Martin noticed her malicious smile when she pointed toward a table on the other side of the terrace.

He followed her gesture, and immediately saw Harriet seated close beside a slender man with thick, reddish-brown hair. The pair were sharing a plate, and some joke, for they were both smiling. Then Harriet's smile turned into laughter and the stranger flicked a stray wisp of hair away from her face, brushing her cheek in the process. Martin's world suddenly turned to angry red. He was across the width of the terrace and standing menacingly over Harriet's chair within a few heartbeats.

"What the—" he began furiously.

"Fox," the strange man cut him off, and rose smoothly to his feet. "My name's Fox," he added when Martin ignored the long-fingered hand the man held out to him. "My friends call me Kit." He was as tall as Martin, with a lean, wiry build, and strong, handsome features. "I know we haven't been properly introduced, Lord Martin, is it?" the man called Fox went on in a thick, outlandish accent. "But Miss Cora here's told me about all I need to know about you."

Cora? Who the devil was Cora? Was there a note of underlying menace in the man's tone? Martin didn't know or care. He was prepared to call the man out to a duel for behaving so familiarly with Harriet. Then Martin recalled that Harriet
was
Cora, it was the name he'd bestowed on her himself. But he intensely disliked hearing it from anyone else's lips. She was
his
Cora, just as she'd been
his
Abigail.
His
Harriet? Yes, damn it,
his
!

The question and vehement answer drew him up sharply, and drove a bit of sanity back into his head. He was being jealous of a phantom woman. He didn't know who she really was. Which didn't stop him from wanting to fight over possession of her.

Harriet sat and watched the bristling meeting with ironic amusement. The two men looked for all the world like a pair of dogs preparing to fight over a bone. A tasty one, she hoped, with a bit of meat on it. Her amusement lasted only moments, and she rose to her feet to defuse the confrontation before everyone else on the terrace took note of it. Harriet was certain that the other guests were the sort that eagerly scented out rancor and jealousy and egged it on for amusement's sake. Lady Ellen was already avidly watching Lord Martin's every move. The last thing she intended was to draw any attention to herself; she remembered her job, even if other people did not.

"Gentlemen," she said quietly. "There are sharks in the water. They are drawn to the scent of blood. Try not to act like fools on my account."

That said, she walked away, going down the terrace steps. She did not pause to see which of the men was following her until she reached the pool and clearly saw his reflection looming behind her. She sighed when strong, skilled hands began massaging shoulders she had not realized were tight with tension.

"I know this sounds ridiculous, Martin, considering where we are and what we've been doing," she said while her muscles began to relax and her blood started to simmer under his touch. "But we are not here to create a scandal."

"Then you should stay away from rogues like Mr. Fox."

She was not going to fight about whom either of them had shared their breakfast with, though the temptation to bring up his dalliance with Lady Ellen was hot on her tongue. There was no more time to allow feelings to interfere with duty.

"If I stayed away from rogues today," she whispered to him, "I would not be able to get my job done."

"Bah," he muttered, the sound bitter and contemptuous. His hands dropped away from her shoulders, and he stepped back as she turned to face him.

It took all of her willpower not to let that small, irritating sound lead her into another argument where they could talk for hours and never get a thing settled. Sometimes it seemed to her that they shared one mind and hardly needed words at all. Other times she felt as if they used words from the same language but didn't understand each other at all.

Instead of allowing herself the infinitely more stimulating option of an argument with Martin Kestrel, she said, "I'm told that Sir Anthony has arranged fencing matches for this afternoon. No doubt this is in honor of your reputation."

"Yes," Martin growled. "He was enthusing over the prospect of wagering on his dear friend's prowess with a sword last night."

"And I'm sure there was some mention made of your knowing how to fence, as well," she couldn't help but add, her gaze dropping to the bulge in Martin's trousers before she met his eyes again. Martin grinned, and the hurt anger in his eyes was replaced by a wicked twinkle.

"Naughty wench."

"I try, my lord." She put her arm through his. "I shall enjoy watching you fence, my lord."

"You'll prefer my swordplay," he answered, letting her lead him toward the house. "But I'll let you mingle for a while. As long as you stay away from that Fox fellow," he warned.