Chapter Six
Harriet was nervous, for she’d set out the good china for the second time in less than a month. His Grace of Lavelle had come for tea, and Papa had chosen today of all days to accompany the Earl of Ramsdale to watch some three-year-old filly run a match race in the rain.
That nobody thought Harriet required more than servants to chaperone her with the duke felt like more of an insult than a compliment.
“More tea, Your Grace?”
“No, thank you. The biscuits were quite good.”
“They were fresh.” Harriet stuffed one in her mouth, because that comment was the farthest thing from flirtation. She dipped the remaining half biscuit in her tea and then realized what she’d done and set it uneaten on the saucer. “Excuse me.”
Philippe took a biscuit from the tray, broke it in half, dipped a flaky corner into Harriet’s tea, and popped the biscuit in his mouth.
“Scrumptious,” he said, lowering his lashes. “Delectably sweet and very satisfying.”
He chewed slowly, all the while treating Harriet to a coy half smile of the eyes. Her insides went melty, and her brain—well, she hadn’t a brain when Philippe looked at her like that.
This was hopeless. The man she loved saw her as only a friend—present farce notwithstanding—and the man she needed to marry would sell their best stock to any strutting lordling with coin and always smell of the stable.
“You are being ridiculous, sir.”
He finished his half biscuit. “I’m flirting, Harriet. You are not flirting back, and nothing I’ve tried today has inspired you to even make the attempt. That’s a very pretty frock. Did you wear it for me? Wardrobe is one way a woman practices her wiles on a fellow.”
The pretty frock was Harriet’s best, the only new dress she’d had time to make last winter. On this chilly day, exposing so much of her décolletage had been an impractical choice.
She plucked a plain wool shawl from the back of her chair and wrapped herself in it. “I don’t want to talk about my frock. I haven’t any wiles, and I’ve asked you to address that lack, not strut your manly wares before me to no purpose.”
Oh heavens, she was cross with herself and taking it out on him. This whole, doomed scheme had been her idea, and only a bad rider took her own mistakes out on a hapless mount.
Philippe dunked the second half of his biscuit and held it up to Harriet’s mouth. “I’m trying, Harriet, to instruct by example, much like when you climb aboard Gawain and make him appear to be every sculptor’s perfect equine model. You show me what my objective is. Have a nibble.”
His tone was so reasonable. He coaxed rather than commanded, but Harriet had had quite enough of biscuits and tea. Time to end this interlude on a positive note, regardless of her blunders and wayward notions.
She appropriated the treat from him and held it up to his mouth. “Your turn.”
The duke covered her hand with his own, bent his head, and took the sweet from her, his lips brushing over her fingers.
“You have wiles, Harriet Talbot. You have endless wiles.”
Harriet had an endless ache that was equal parts longing, frustration, and despair. She rose, keeping the duke’s hand in hers, and took the place beside him on the sofa.
“I do not have endless patience,” she said. “My objective is to learn how to go on with a man I esteem. Show me what comes next.”
Philippe kissed her knuckles, one by one, and she realized he’d chosen to come for tea precisely because nobody wore gloves when food was served. He’d thought that far ahead, or probably hadn’t even had to think. He’d shared many a biscuit with many a woman, and thus he knew what he was about.
Harriet got him by the hair and shifted him, the better to kiss him.
“I thought you wanted to learn flirtation,” Philippe said, pulling back two inches. “Flirtation requires patience.”
“Training horses requires patience, drat it. Enough drooling on my hand. Kiss me.”
Oh dear. Oh heavens. His expression went from surprised, to affronted, to something Harriet didn’t recognize but found both fascinating and masculine.
“A gentleman never argues with a lady.”
Philippe scooped her into his lap, and what happened after that was a combination of kisses, caresses, rustling fabric, and lost wits.
This, this passion, was exactly what Harriet longed for, and Philippe was who she’d longed to share intimacies with, and yet, everything was all wrong too.
“Stop thinking,” Philippe said. “Stop analyzing and labeling as if you’re watching a new prospect go under saddle.”
When would she have this opportunity again? When would she have privacy—true privacy, not simply a stolen moment in a saddle room—with the duke? When would she be free of the demands of stable boys, customers, horses in training, and riding students?
“You’re thinking, Harriet,” Philippe said, his hand gliding up her calf. “Your thoughts drum as loudly in your head as the rain beating on the windows, and that is no way to show a fellow that you fancy him.”
Not a fellow—Harriet fancied Philippe. She’d worn her best pair of silk stockings for him, but they were only stockings. From the knee up, she was bare beneath her skirts.
“Be with me, Harriet,” Philippe said, punctuating his words with a kiss. “Put all else aside and please be with me now.”
His tongue danced across Harriet’s lips, she gave chase, and then he opened his mouth and invited her to devour him. In the back of Harriet’s mind, the voice of reason insisted that Philippe was demonstrating passion for her, manufacturing actions and sensations in response to Harriet’s demands rather than out of genuine attraction.
This was not what she wanted, and yet, it was as close as she was likely to get—ever.
Philippe’s hand slid higher, above Harriet’s knee, and abruptly, she faced a choice.
When approaching a jump on horseback, the likelihood of clearing a sizable obstacle increased when the horse had forward momentum. A trot was all very fine for popping over a low hedge or a small crossrail, but the canter and the gallop were better gaits for bigger challenges.
The problem with a headlong approach to a jump was that the rider had a much smaller window of time in which to adjust the horse’s stride, assess the footing, or gauge the best moment to give the hands forward. The decision to attempt the jump or change course arose in an instant.
That instant was embodied for Harriet in the moment when Philippe’s hand glossed over her thigh, and he rested his forehead against hers.
“Say what you want of me, Harriet. I’m yours for the duration. You need only command me.”
Was he hers, or was he saying what a man did when a woman was about to invite him to compromise her? Hers for the duration of a stolen interlude? For a few weeks?
“Don’t stop,” Harriet said. “I know only that I don’t want you to stop.”
* * *
Philippe wasn’t sure he could stop. After years of trying not to notice Harriet in that way, years of telling himself that he’d ruin the friendship if he attempted a romance, years of forbidding himself from even improper speculation…
He had Harriet in his lap, demanding that he become her lover. She squirmed, her weight pressing on Philippe’s arousal, which seemed to bother her not one wit.
“Harriet, we need to—”
“Don’t you dare stop, Philippe. I’ve waited years, spent forever in that dusty arena going in circles…”
“We need to slow down.” Rate their paces, conserve their passion for more than a short gallop. “Sit up, my dear.”
She peered at him, blue eyes brilliant and determined, then she scooted higher in his lap. He set her aside and tried to find a coherent thought or two, because Harriet was depending on him to make this interlude go well.
Despite the clamorings of conscience, stopping was out of the question. Harriet would regard a refusal to leap into intimacies with her as a rejection.
“We have time,” Philippe said. “We should make the best use of it.” For when would he ever again find Harriet Talbot in skirts? If polite society were sensible, they’d dress ladies in nothing but riding habits, where both underskirts and breeches put all intimate decisions in her hands.
But no, fashion dictated that a properly dressed woman have not even clothing to protect her.
“I’d prefer a bed,” he said. “Your bed.”
Harriet took the pin from his cravat and set it aside. “My bed is little more than a cot. I’ve slept on it since early childhood. We’ll use the guest room.”
Why was she sleeping on a damned cot? “Lead on, my lady.” Philippe assisted Harriet to her feet, and she allowed it, which was encouraging. They traversed the corridor hand in hand, Harriet leading, and came to a room Philippe hadn’t seen before.
A lovely bedchamber, all flowers and light, not a speck of dust to be seen. The quilt, curtains, carpet, and upholstery were spotless and united by a theme of irises—purple, yellow, cream, and green—that was echoed on the pitcher and basin on the bureau.
“For London guests,” Harriet said, “who prefer not to stay at an inn, though we haven’t had any of those for several years.”
The nicest room in the house went empty. “Move your things in here, Harriet. This should be your room now.”
“But the guests—”
He took her in his arms. “Can stay at the Hall. Hospitality is only one of a duke’s duties, and heaven knows we have the room.”
“Thank you.”
She rested her cheek against his chest and went still in his embrace. The headlong impulsivity over the tea tray was replaced for Philippe by a sense of protectiveness that eclipsed anything he’d known in his ducal role. He managed his family’s assets, oversaw the estates, waved his title about among polite society, and appeared for state functions.
All of which was mere duty.
With Harriet in his arms and the bed two yards away, duty paled compared to his determination to be what she needed, even if she wanted him only to appease her curiosity and then go duking on his way.
“You must help me,” he said, kissing her ear. “We’ve a lot of clothes to deal with, and I’m all thumbs.”
She peeked at him. “You want my clothes off?”
“Mine too.”
Harriet considered this and apparently found it a fair bargain. “I would like to see you in your glory. You’re very fit.”
He was also still a trifle sore, but it was the familiar soreness of the regular equestrian, not the beginner’s agony.
“Then I will go first. If you’d help with my sleeve buttons?”
He held out his wrists, and she unfastened his cuffs. “Now what?”
“Now you unbutton what’s buttoned, untie what’s tied, and then I’ll do the same for you.”
This wasn’t necessary. Lovers intent on sharing intimacies often merely pushed clothing aside or undressed as quickly as the situation allowed.
For Harriet, haste would not do—not yet. Philippe stood quietly while she undid his cravat, peeled his coat from his shoulders, and then relieved him of his waistcoat.
“My turn,” he said, turning her by the shoulders. By twisting and arching, Harriet doubtless could have unbuttoned her own dress—the buttons weren’t that close together—but Philippe enjoyed being her lady’s maid.
He learned more about her with each piece of clothing that came off. She preferred buttons to hooks, though they were more expensive. Buttons were easier when a lady had to dress herself. Her chemise was so thin with age as to be nearly translucent, but the embroidered hem of delicate violets was in perfect repair. She wore jumps—country stays—that laced in front, which meant Philippe could watch her face when he untied the bow and worked the panels loose.
“This is not a steeplechase, Harriet, where you must clear every obstacle once the starting gun has sounded. We can turn back any time you choose.”
“Said the man still wearing his shirt, boots, and breeches.”
Harriet had a marvelous figure. This had for the most part escaped Philippe’s notice over the years. He’d been too busy appreciating her humor, her affection, her warmth and friendship. But then, clearly, Harriet herself took no notice of her feminine attributes, which was likely why flirtation hadn’t come her way in any quantity.
Philippe sat on the bed to pull off his boots and stockings. “My offer stands, Harriet. Don’t do this because you’ve dared yourself to leap the hedge. Do this with me because it’s what you want.”
He’d dodged the obvious challenge: Do this with me because I am who you want. Maybe soon, maybe after today. Not now. When he made her an offer, he’d do so as a man confident in the saddle, however long that took.
She started on the buttons of his shirt. “Are you nervous, Philippe?”
Dukes were never nervous. “A little. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Harriet smiled, a familiar, mischievous, Harriet smile. “We are of the same mind, for I have a similar concern. I’m the beginner here, and—”
Philippe rose and pulled his shirt over his head. “This is part of being lovers, Harriet. The newness and adventure. Courage and trust come into it, or they should.”
Perhaps this was why Philippe had given up on mistresses, affairs, and flings. Without the courage and trust, the encounter was no more interesting than what went on in the breeding shed of any stable.
“Is this how you go on with London ladies?” Harriet asked, unfastening the first button of his falls.
She’d tried for a flippant tone, but Philippe heard the uncertainty. “There haven’t been any London ladies for years, Harriet. Nor Berkshire ladies, Kent ladies, or Paris ladies. They all wanted to bed the duke, and he’s a tiresome fellow whose company I would like—at least in this—to escape.”
He hadn’t put that logic together previously, hadn’t worked it out.
Harriet wrapped her arms around him. “I was right to worry about you. I’m sorry, Philippe.”
He was aroused—he was all but skin to skin with Harriet, and he’d been honest: no ladies for years.
He was also touched. Harriet had worried about him. She’d known that being the duke was a burden for him, when everybody else—probably even Ramsdale—envied him the title and felt free to turn that envy into jokes and innuendo.
Philippe let himself be held, let himself bask in the pleasure of an intimate embrace with a lady—perhaps the only woman on earth—who would rather he wasn’t the Duke of Lavelle, but merely her dear companion, Philippe Ellis.
“Let’s to bed, before you take a chill,” he said, smoothing a hand over a derriere that had sashayed through his dreams for the past two weeks.
“Your breeches,” Harriet said, stepping back.
“Are about to come off.” He finished unbuttoning his falls and stepped free of his clothing. Nature had been kind to him, giving him proportions that went well with a delight in physical activity. He was muscular and well proportioned—enough women had said as much—and he was grateful for his good health.
Harriet wasn’t looking at his brawn or his build. “You desire me,” she said with a small frown. “We’ve barely kissed, and there you are, as randy as any three-year-old colt.”
“And now,” Philippe said, tossing the covers aside, “my challenge and delight is to ensure that your desire for me is equally evident.” He bowed and swept a hand toward the bed, a ridiculous gesture when a man hadn’t any clothes on, but he made Harriet smile.
“I can assure you, that challenge is easily met,” she said, bouncing onto the bed. “This is a lovely mattress.”
Any mattress Harriet Talbot graced would be lovely. Philippe climbed onto the bed and positioned himself on all fours over her.
“You are lovely. You are scrumptious, delectable, fascinating…” He punctuated his description—this was not flattery—with kisses, and Harriet retaliated by running her hands all over his back. Her fingers and palms were callused, her touch sure.
No wonder the horses loved her, because that touch was confident and lovely.
Philippe waited for some awkwardness to creep into the bed with them, some sense of incredulity to be sharing intimacies with his friend Harriet, but no such convenient hesitation obliged him.
She switched to caressing his chest, exploring his muscles and bones, brushing a thumb over the hair of his armpits, then over his nipples.
“You are thorough in your investigations, madam.”
Her hands went still. “I’m not supposed to be? Am I to lie here with my hands at my sides, sighing at regular intervals?”
This was bravado, and Philippe loved her for it. “You are to make a banquet of me. You are to indulge your every fantasy, your wildest curiosity, and not allow me to leave the bed until your dreams have come true.”
What twaddle, though he meant every word. His dreams were certainly coming true—almost.
Harriet did sigh at regular intervals, and her hands ventured lower to caress Philippe’s backside, his hips, and then to more intimate territory.
“So soft,” Harriet muttered, running her fingers around the head of his cock. “Like a horse’s nose.”
Philippe laughed, and Harriet smacked his chest. “How will I look Gawain in the face now?” he asked. “The damned horse has a nose the size of Hyde Park.”
He kissed Harriet, for making him laugh, for driving him daft. She arched up, her breasts to his chest, and Philippe went on a mission to pleasure those breasts. Harriet’s sighs became moans, pants, and muttered orders, until her chemise was lost among the covers, and Philippe was confident she did, indeed, desire him as much as he desired her.
“Now comes the fascinating part,” he said, spooning himself around her. “This is where you trust me, Harriet.”
She twisted to send him a rumpled glower over her shoulder. “What was all this other? I thought you were rather enthusiastic about—”
He wrestled her back into his arms. “I was and am interested, as are you. Interested is a fine beginning, but we’re about to move on to fascinated.” If not obsessed.
Because surely, after an encounter like this, he’d be more than her friend? More than just the man she could trust with her intimate education?
She fit him wonderfully, though Philippe could feel some caution in her, some worry. He shifted back enough—a few inches seemed like half the width of the bed—to rub her shoulders.
“Do you ever get sore from the riding?” he asked.
“Sometimes, if I’m on a horse that’s too narrow or too broad, if I work too many youngsters in hand. That feels good.”
She made no mention of Philippe’s obvious arousal tucked between her legs. He moved on to caressing her back, then to her hips and her backside.
“That should not feel so good,” she said as he gave a firm squeeze to rounded muscle. “But it does. Nobody touches me, you know? Papa has to keep his cane on hand at all times, and it’s hard to hug somebody when you’re afraid of him toppling at any moment.”
What a metaphor. Philippe kissed her nape. “I can imagine.”
She prattled on, about the challenge of being a woman in a man’s role, riding the hedges between eccentric, quaint, and scandalous, about wishing she’d been the son her father had wanted and needed and always feeling as if she were falling short.
He gathered her close. “Harriet, you do not fall short. You could never, ever fall short. I respect you above all others and always have.”
She shuddered in his arms, though when Philippe kissed her cheek, he tasted no tears. The rain had slackened, and Harriet too had become more relaxed. Some burden she’d been carrying, some tension, had finally left the bed.
Philippe drifted his hand lower, over a flat, smooth belly to soft curls, and then to intimate flesh. Harriet lifted her knee, and he touched heaven. He went slowly at first, listening for bodily hesitation Harriet might be unwilling to speak aloud. He explored, he teased, he soothed and teased again.
When Harriet had settled into a relaxed rhythm, he grew serious. A few minutes later, she was thrashing against his hand, clutching at his hip, and breathing hard, and then she became wonderfully frantic, a woman in the throes of both satisfaction and surprise.
When the storm passed, she rolled over and wrapped herself around him. “Hold me.”
Philippe was holding her, every inch of him plastered to every inch of her. He held her more tightly. Desire was a demon galloping in his blood, and yet, tenderness soothed that savage beast. Harriet, his Harriet, was warm and naked in his arms, and she’d found her pleasure, well and truly.
“Harriet?”
She kissed his chest.
He waited for the words of affection and wonder, words that confirmed they were not merely friends and would never again be merely friends. Her breathing slowed, a soft breeze against his chest. She nuzzled his throat and tucked her leg over his hips.
Then she was asleep.
* * *
In the week after taking tea with Philippe, Harriet started her ducal student over low jumps and on the basic lateral movements. He wasn’t a beginner, but rather, an experienced rider regaining his skills. In her opinion, Philippe had more natural equestrian talent than his brother, Jonas, had had, though Philippe lacked Lord Chaddleworth’s outgoing nature.
Philippe was quietly confident, in the saddle and elsewhere.
Not so, Harriet. She was all at sea, waiting for Philippe to invite himself to tea again, or waiting for him to declare that the lessons had achieved their purpose. Lord Ramsdale had started coming along, perching himself on the rail and calling encouragement or making jests as the mood took him.
Even that, Philippe bore with equanimity.
“The harvest ball is tomorrow,” Philippe said as he swung down from Gawain’s back. “You will save your supper waltz for me, please.”
Harriet had used Philippe’s cravat pin to secure her stock tie every day for the past week. Today was no different, and still, he hadn’t noticed. If a man could misplace a gold pin so cavalierly, perhaps he could take tea with just as little thought.
“Half of polite society is in Berkshire this time of year,” Harriet said. “Surely a more eligible lady will claim your supper waltz?”
“That’s the beauty of the ballroom,” Philippe said. “In that one preserve, the gentleman gets to choose. He needn’t wait for the lady to show him her favor.”
That comment had hidden meaning Harriet was too exhausted and bewildered to parse. She’d spent her free time moving into the spare bedroom, dodging her father’s pointed questions about where they’d house guests and what was wrong with the bedroom she’d slept in since leaving the nursery twenty-some years past.
Harriet had held her peace, though Papa had deserved at least a scolding.
“Some other lady will have to waltz with you, sir. You’ll want to walk Gawain up and down the lane before you put him up. Winter coats take longer to dry, and that was a fine session you put in over the jumps.”
The compliment had no visible effect. Philippe ran his stirrups up their leathers and loosened Gawain’s girth. “As you wish, but if I don’t waltz with you, I won’t waltz with anybody, save my sister, with whom I must open the dancing.”
He led Gawain away, and Harriet remained in the arena, feeling as if she’d lost some gladiatorial match.
“He rides as if born in the saddle,” Lord Ramsdale said, striding up from the rail. “Truly, you have worked a miracle.”
“Phil—His Grace has worked the miracle. He has faced his demons and ridden them down. He’s more than prepared to hack out in Hyde Park if he chooses to add that to his social schedule.”
Hyde Park was doubtless full of earls’ daughters who had more than one nice dress to their names.
“So why don’t you look like a riding instructor who’s proud of her pupil?”
Why didn’t Ramsdale look like a lord? He wasn’t blond and slim and polished. He was dark and muscular—as was Philippe—and those characteristics did not entirely ruin his pretentions to grace. What rendered his lordship something of an impostor in fine tailoring was his voice.
Ramsdale’s voice was as dark as his countenance, all rumble and growl. His was an eloquence suited to pronouncing dire judgments on hopeless miscreants, for issuing challenges on the field of honor, or reading tragic poetry.
Harriet had the sense he liked his voice, liked being able to open his mouth and speak darkness into any conversation, and yet, she liked him. Ramsdale was kind to Papa without being condescending, and he was, in a backward, subtle way, tolerant.
“I am very proud of His Grace,” Harriet said as that good fellow led Gawain down the lane. “I wish he were more proud of himself.”
“Dukes are supposed to be arrogant, not proud. I think that duke is smitten and knows not what to do about it.”
“Phil—His Grace would never be arrogant.” Though he could be exceedingly hard to understand.
Ramsdale glanced around and leaned nearer. “Miss Talbot, did I, or did I not, hear him announce that he’d waltz with you or no one?”
“Look down your nose at me all you wish, your lordship. You should not have been eavesdropping.”
He straightened. “That’s a handsome pin you’re using to secure your stock tie. I recall giving Lavelle one exactly like it on the occasion of his investiture.”
Men. “If you have something to say, my lord, please be about it. Your missishness is keeping me from my responsibilities.”
“Good God, no wonder he’s in love. In all the world, the word missish has never been used to describe the Earl of Ramsdale. You may account me impressed.”
In love? Philippe? Harriet was torn between a desire to swat his perishing lordship with her crop—which he’d doubtless find hilarious—or to take off down the bridle path at a hellbent gallop.
Which would not do. “Be as impressed as you please. I have work to do.”
Ramsdale stepped close and put a hand on her arm. “I am trying, in my bumbling way, to matchmake, you daft woman. Lavelle stares off into space for half the evening and barely touches his breakfast. He bolts luncheon so he might be punctual for his lessons, and one must repeat pleasantries to him twice before he realizes he’s being spoken to.”
Oh, Philippe. “Because his brother died at this time of year, my lord. The duke and Lady Ada are haunted by tragedy in autumn, and when the leaves fall, they recall their brother falling as well.”
Ramsdale’s gaze narrowed, and still he did not move away. “By damn… by damn you have the right of it, but not the whole of it. Lavelle goes quiet and mopish every autumn, but he’s not moping this year. He’s brooding. Why won’t you waltz with him?”
Philippe was coming back up the lane, and in the stable yard, Jeremy held a new horse, a mare who’d been taken out of training by an injury and who was now sound enough to complete her education.
“Why are my decisions any of your lordship’s business?”
“Because your father and that lonely duke are my friends,” Ramsdale said gently. “Because I esteem you greatly, Miss Talbot, and think you’d make a very fine duchess. You come from an old, respected family, your father is a gentleman, you’re not without an inheritance, and your land marches with the ducal estate. Why shouldn’t you waltz with Lavelle?”
Harriet could have stood against scolding, lectures, high-handedness, or even rudeness. Ramsdale’s kindness made her throat tight and her eyes sting.
“When I was attending tea dances, the waltz was not yet popular, my lord. His Grace will look a fool if he tries to waltz with me, for I don’t know how.”
Didn’t know how to flirt, didn’t know how to sew the fancier riding habits, didn’t know the latest dances. Didn’t know how to keep her miseries to herself.
Ramsdale kissed her cheek and winked. “As it happens, I am very proficient at the waltz. I will await you on the side terrace as the ball gets under way. While His Grace is opening the dancing, I will instruct you on the very simple exercise known as the waltz. Name your firstborn son after me, and I’ll consider our accounts squared.”
He was making a jest, and being generous. “One lesson won’t be enough.”
“Bollocks, Miss Talbot—if I might be excused for departing from missish vocabulary. The waltz is based on three simple movements, and I could show them to you right here and now, except this footing would be the devil to dance in and Lavelle would skewer me with his ducal glower. You find me tomorrow as soon as you arrive, and I’ll have you dancing like a duchess in ten minutes flat.”
Harriet should say no. She should laugh and offer a witty riposte, except she knew less about witty ripostes than she did about waltzing.
“His Grace is looking splendidly thunderous,” Ramsdale said, patting Harriet’s arm. “Promise you’ll meet me on the terrace.”
“I’ll meet you, just to be free of your meddling, my lord.” And to learn how to waltz.
Ramsdale kissed her cheek again, lingered over her hand, and generally comported himself like an ass, and yet, he’d given Harriet hope.
While Philippe put up his horse, bowed his farewell to her, and gave her not even a backward glance.