Duchess by Night

  He really felt wonderful. She could feel her whole body relaxing, accepting, drawing him in. “Hmmm,” she said. “Maybe we could discuss it later?”

  His chest was covered with muscles and just a dusting of hair. He was rubbing his lips against her forehead, which meant his chest kept brushing over her nipples.

  Jem paused for a moment the way he used to when he was a young buck who couldn’t always control himself. There was a problem here.

  His lovely Harry may be a widow, but she didn’t know how to make love. She looked about as engaged as a mattress, though she was giving him an adorable smile.

  It would break his heart if she turned out to be one of the women who couldn’t experience pleasure. Back in his wild days, before he married Sally, he’d found himself in a few beds like that.

  He used to do his best—and he knew quite well that his best was about the best there was—and if it didn’t work, he gave up, took his own pleasure, thanked his partner warmly, and walked away.

  But he didn’t want to walk away this time. Harriet’s round little body was female in every respect, all cream and silk. He wanted it. He wanted her to writhe in his arms. And damn it, he was going to make sure that happened.

  It was painful, but he withdrew from the sweetest, tightest channel he’d had the pleasure to visit.

  “What’s the matter?” she said, blinking at him.

  She wasn’t nearly where she needed to be. Not nearly.

  He gave her a sleepy smile, the kind an alligator gives its victim before he gobbles him up. “I decided I’m hungry.”

  Harriet looked totally confused. Her husband must have had a member the size of peapod, and the technique to go along with it.

  He reached down and licked her on her cheek, which was as smooth and delicate as the side of a peach. A man! How on earth was he ever so stupid as to think she was a man?

  It was shaming. He ran his tongue along the side of her jaw. Harriet had a strong jaw. Maybe that was it. She didn’t have a receding jaw like so many ladies did, the kind who sat around and clucked over their embroideries. She had the jaw of a woman who knew her mind, who fought with a sword and did a damn good job, who—

  He forgot where that was going because he had reached her lips. They were lush and rose-colored. He gave himself another two-second lecture about his own stupidity, and then let their kiss turn wild.

  Just so she understood from the beginning, he took control of her mouth, and plunged into her, claiming her, naming her, making sure she knew she was a woman. No man. His woman.

  The thought was dim in the back of his mind, but he knew it anyway. He hadn’t waited eight years, ever since Sally died, just to find himself another lover.

  Whoever Harriet was, his own little widow, she was his now.

  He pulled back, propped himself on one elbow, and moved to her breast. Claimed it. Now she was responding. Her hands started moving restlessly over his shoulder, clutching him, sliding over his chest and down his back. She even touched the curve of his arse but pulled back instantly, as if she’d been stung.

  In a flash he knew what the problem was. Harry had done a pretty good job of being a man. But she’d been trained to act like a lady and talk like a lady—and make love like a lady.

  Though she wasn’t one.

  She was an Amazon warrior at the heart, a woman who would meet a man on her own terms and demand what she wanted.

  “Touch me,” he commanded.

  “Wh-what?”

  Those wide pansy-brown eyes of hers were starting to look a little dazed, which was a good thing. His Harriet thought too much. What she needed was to be shocked.

  And he was just the man to do it, Jem thought with a grin.

  “Now, Harry,” he said, making his voice into a drawl, “you know what sort of man I am, don’t you?” Just so she had a vague idea, he started rubbing her nipple with his thumb. Like the sweet little angel that she was, her back arched a little.

  But that annoying brain of hers was obviously still working, because she opened her eyes again, and said, “I know what kind of man you want everyone to think you are, Jem. I’m not so sure about the real you.”

  Obviously she wasn’t quite at the mindless stage she needed to be at yet. “I’m a libertine,” he told her, pulling back so that her body was before him like a delicious meal. Then he bent down and kissed her breast until he could hear soft pants. She liked little bites, so he moved to the other breast and gave it some special treatment. She was twisting under him now.

  “Debauched. A whoremonger. A voluptuary,” he told her.

  But he underestimated her, because those eyes of hers popped open and she said, “Nonsense. You’ve never slept with a whore in your life.”

  He opened his mouth and then he realized that given his extreme dislike of exchanges of coin for intimacy, he could hardly win that argument.

  Instead he went for the kind of argument he knew best. The kind he knew he could win. “We voluptuaries want everything when we make love,” he said, moving down her body. “Open your legs, sweetheart.”

  She was peering down at him, desire warring with alarm. “Do you want to—to look at me?”

  “Yup. You’re so pink and soft down there”—he pushed her legs open—“I wish you could see what I’m seeing. Sleek little leaves like rose petals. And the sweetest little door that a man ever saw.” In fact, it was getting hard to speak because his body wasn’t used to all this wanton talk, and thought action would be a good idea.

  Instead he pushed her legs wider and went for the kiss that turned every woman into an Amazon.

  Naturally, Harriet was more resistant than some. Sally, for example, had just sighed and said, “Thank God,” and laid back.

  But Harriet had her legs out of his way and was scrambling to her knees before he managed to catch her. “Now, Harriet,” he said, “you’re simply going to have to go along with my depraved desires. I can’t do this otherwise.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t make love to you otherwise,” he said patiently, as his entire body signaled perfect willingness to do whatever was necessary. “I have to taste you.”

  “Nonsense!” she said. “You were perfectly ready to bed me just a moment ago.”

  “Not anymore,” he said sadly, rolling over a little so she couldn’t see the fact he had an erection harder than he’d had since being fifteen. He kept up the gentle rub over her nipple, and he could tell she was a breast woman.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said suspiciously. But he could see her eyes going soft again.

  “You can’t expect that making love to me would be the same as to—to that country squire you married,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and he knew he’d nailed her husband. Of course he was a country squire. It was the only thing that made sense. She hadn’t been sheltered by some overprotective mama—it had been a hidebound country squire instead. Maybe he was one of those gentleman farmers.

  “I suppose you have different demands,” she said, looking down her own body dubiously. “I just don’t think—”

  “Don’t think,” he said. Then he planted himself between her legs and started to give her little bites on her thighs.

  Just like that, Harriet started making soft sounds. His erection was pulsing against the floor, begging him, but by then he’d reached her core, his tongue sliding over her sweetness, driving her to arch her hips again and again.

  She wasn’t being too incoherent now, though words kept flying from her lips. “No,” and “Yes,” and “Jem,” and a few things he couldn’t understand.

  “I love the way you taste,” he told her, just in case she didn’t know that by now. “You taste like sugar and spice and lemon—”

  “Lemon soap,” she gasped.

  He took another few minutes on a particularly delicate spot, just to punish her for having been rational enough to mention lemon soap.

  Then he stopped. “What did you say?” he asked,
keeping his tone innocent.

  She raised her head, eyes wild. He knew those eyes and loved them: that was the look of a woman who was about to strike a man.

  “Sorry,” he said innocently, “did I lose track of what I was doing?”

  She had her fingers in his hair, and she was panting.

  All good.

  A few minutes later, he raised his head again. “Lemon soap?”

  She looked down at him, dazed. “Please…”

  “Please what?” He couldn’t help grinning. He let his fingers play a bit, though he knew it wasn’t the same. She writhed under him.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Say kiss me,” he commanded. His Amazon needed to put things into words, to own them.

  “Please,” she sobbed, “kiss me, please.” A lady to the end.

  So he bent his head again and this time he let his fingers wander everywhere, because those “No’s” just kept being swallowed up by “Yes’s.”

  And then he finally took her home.

  It took all he had not to slip into her. But he coaxed her and commanded her and ignored her protests until she started curling her toes, and uttering little screams.

  And he had her…she cried again and again, and her sweet body curled toward him, convulsing with pleasure.

  “That’s it, sweetheart,” he said, “Go…go!”

  Harriet stared at the ceiling of the picture gallery. It was far away, and seemed to be swinging slightly. It was as if the whole world had tilted a bit on its axis and dropped her off the side.

  “Oh.”

  Jem was above her again, arms braced. “Would you mind if we made love now?”

  She looked at him, unable to form words.

  He nudged his hips toward her. A strangled sound came from her throat. Her knees slid up of their own volition.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. And then he stroked forward, hard.

  It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. The pleasure she’d just experienced was in her bones, but it turned instantly into a clinging kind of joyful fire. She lifted her hips toward him without even realizing what she was doing.

  “That’s it,” Jem said, his voice deep.

  He was the most beautiful man in the world to her. She started running her fingers over his cheekbones, over those fierce, intelligent eyes, over his strong jaw. Down to his shoulders, hips, the muscles responsible for her little cascades of shivers.

  He thrust again, and like magic, her hips rose to meet him.

  And again. “Do you see how?” he said. His teeth seemed to be clenched. His face didn’t look purple, but there were little beads of sweat on his forehead. And his shoulders.

  She tasted them—they tasted like salt, clean salt and Jem.

  He kept stroking forward, long and strong, and she couldn’t keep her mind on her exploration of his body. She was starting to feel unmoored, as if her whole attention had narrowed to the fire caused by his movements. Long after Benjamin would have collapsed onto her, Jem just kept going, smooth, indomitable, as if he would never stop.

  She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was follow him into the storm, her fingers clenched on his shoulders, little cries coming from her throat.

  “That’s it,” he said hoarsely. “That’s it, Harriet.”

  Her hands slid from his shoulders, clenched onto his arse. It was smooth under her fingers, muscled and strong. She could feel his body as if it were her own, throbbing, plunging, thrusting deep into her.

  She didn’t even hear Jem because her world shattered and flew, remade itself into a different place, a place in which a kind of deep pleasure was possible that she never imagined.

  Could never have imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Scandal! A Woman in Breeches

  Dinner was an odd affair. Jem wasn’t expected to join the company, but he suddenly appeared.

  Harriet choked.

  Povy flew into a flurry of activity, rushing to get a chair and put it at the head of the table.

  “Don’t worry so much, Povy,” Jem said. “I’ll slip in next to the Duchess of Cosway. If you don’t mind, Mr. Cope.”

  Harriet hastily moved her chair to the left and allowed Povy to slip a chair between herself and Isidore.

  “I’m upsetting our dinner symmetry, I know, and I do apologize for my late arrival,” Jem said, smiling around the table. “I simply couldn’t resist the chance to speak with the duchess.”

  To her left, Nell was excitedly pinching Harriet’s arm. “Does he know?” she whispered shrilly into Harriet’s ear.

  Jem sat down and his leg instantly pressed against hers. Harriet snatched up her napkin. Jem accepted a plate of food and began talking to Isidore, on his right.

  Nell pinched Harriet again. “Did you give him the entire poem? That must be why he came down to supper. He almost never joins the company for supper!”

  “I did give him the rest of the poem,” Harriet whispered back.

  Nell took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. “I am going to marry him, you know. I’ve quite made up my mind.”

  Harriet discovered that she no longer felt this wish was as humorous as she thought a few days ago. “Really,” she said, a bit coldly.

  “He must not be certain who wrote the note. Please, Harry, can you do something?”

  “I am no bawd—” she cleared her throat “—that is, I am certainly not a brothel-keeper, Nell. I can’t arrange your liaisons.”

  “You already have,” Nell said, her eyes sparkling with deep excitement. “And I won’t charge Strange a thing. I never do that.”

  Nell had a disconcerting lack of subtlety.

  “Can you at least introduce me as the author of the poem?” Nell breathed in her ear.

  Harriet turned toward Jem, at the same moment that his hand came down on her leg. She froze. Of course, Nell couldn’t see. No one could. He had hooked the tablecloth over his arm.

  His fingers…those fingers…her skin was instantly on fire. He was smiling at Isidore as he slid his fingers up, toward the crotch of her breeches.

  “Harry!” Nell hissed.

  Harriet cleared her throat. Jem finished his sentence and turned toward her. “My dear Mr. Cope,” he said. “I truly apologize for not greeting you.”

  Harriet inclined her head. “It’s a pleasure to have you join us, Lord Strange.”

  “I always chase pleasure whenever I can,” he said carelessly. “Now tell me, Mr. Cope, what is your given name?”

  Harriet narrowed her eyes.

  “Your first name?” he prompted. “Only the most hidebound of friends address each other in formalities.”

  “I wanted to introduce you to the author of that poetry that has so intrigued and delighted you,” she said, ignoring his question.

  “Ah, Miss Gale. What a surprise this is.”

  “Nell,” she said, dimpling at him. “I certainly hope it was not an unpleasant surprise.”

  “Not in the least,” he said, giving her one of his most charming smiles. “I don’t suppose that you know Mr. Cope’s given name, do you? He’s far too stuffy to share it with all us.”

  Nell had a little frown that indicated she wasn’t very interested in his question. “It’s Harry,” she said.

  “Harry! Oh no, no, no,” Jem said.

  “Why not?” Harriet asked with an edge of unfriendliness. “It’s a perfectly good name.”

  “It has no moral tone,” Jem announced. “None at all. You couldn’t be a judge with that name. Nor a bishop either. It would even be difficult for a parish priest. Now if you called yourself Harold, which likely is your true name, it would all be different.”

  He paused but Harriet wasn’t going to encourage his silliness and kept silent. Nell leaned forward so that her bodice gaped open and said, “How would it be different, Lord Strange?”

  “Please,” he said, “you must call me Jem.”

  Harriet thought uncharitably that N
ell appeared on the edge of a joyful apoplexy.

  “Now if young Harry here would adopt his true name, Harold, he would quickly find a high moral tone was issuing from his mouth on all subjects. He could publish his remarks in Gentleman’s Magazine, for example. They tell the most awful lies about women.”

  “Such as?” Harriet asked.

  “Apparently some dissolute women have begun shaking hands,” Jem said.

  “Goodness,” Nell said. “I’ve been guilty of that myself.”

  “We don’t approve, do we, Harold?” Jem asked.

  “My name is Harry, not Harold!” Harriet snapped. “And I think Miss Nell should shake hands with whomever she pleases.”

  “One never knows where those hands might have been,” Jem said, inching his fingers an inch higher.

  She should stop him. She should, except the most delicious languor was creeping over her.

  Earlier, after a bath, she had decided the whole episode that afternoon was like some sort of lovely dream, as unrepeatable as it was unacceptable.

  But now her body was sending her signals that it would be happy to repeat every moment of it.

  “I shan’t ever shake hands again,” Nell said. “What else do they say in that magazine, Jem?”

  She breathed his name as if they were already in bed together. It rolled off her tongue with visions of bridal finery and wedding nights, Harriet thought sourly.

  “The author is practically virulent on the subject of women,” Jem said. “Imagine. He says that women are carrying pistols.”

  “Mrs. Grandison put one in her knotting bag and it went off and shot a great hole in her drawing room carpet,” Nell said. “So that is true as well.”

  “This one must be an exaggeration. The author actually claims that some women have given up the sidesaddle for riding astride and—who could believe this?—are wearing breeches.”

  “Breeches look dreadfully uncomfortable,” Nell said. “I think that claim is rather unlikely, don’t you, Harry?”

  Harry—or Harriet—couldn’t think all that well, as Jem’s thumb had taken up a rhythm that was making her feel rather faint. “I agree,” she managed.

  “But breeches are so convenient,” Jem coo’d. He was obviously enjoying himself hugely. “A woman’s costume is impossible, what with her panniers, her petticoats, her stays…”