“Harry,” she whispered as he pressed brief, bruising kisses to her lips, jaw, neck. “Harry, I…I’ve been—”
He swept his tongue into her mouth, delving deep and pushing her jaw wide. After a moment of surprise, Eliza warmed to the sensual invasion. He knew what he was doing, after all. She tried to mimic his motions, tilting her head to the side. His tongue stroked deep, and deeper still.
A wanton sigh eased from the back of her throat.
She relaxed and made herself open, inviting. He might kiss her as deeply as he wished. It was what she wanted, too—a kiss so deep and dark she could fall into it like a well. Swim in it, submerse herself in it. Never climb out.
When he broke the kiss, she clung to him.
Stay with me, she willed. Be with me.
“Eliza.” Breathing hard, he pressed his brow to hers. “Fleas or no fleas, I don’t think it’s wise for me to stay in your house tonight.”
Her heart pounded as his implication drove home.
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not wise at all. But I insist on it anyway.”
You know where I’ll be.
HARRY STOOD IN THE CORRIDOR for a long time. Thinking. Considering. Waiting for his vision to adjust to the night. Eventually the inky blackness became a thick gray, and the beveled edges of the door’s panels stood out in his vision.
If only he could see other things so clearly.
He’d been trying, lately, to find the better parts of himself. They were in there, even if they’d been scattered. He’d told himself he’d piece them together into a decent man. A good man—one with honor, prospects, something to offer the world. A man who commanded a modicum of respect. A man who would one day be the fifth Duke of Shiffield.
But at his core, he couldn’t help it. He still enjoyed being Harry Wright, a scandalous, dissolute, no-good scoundrel. Well, not just any scoundrel.
He enjoyed being hers.
With a mute, futile prayer for his soul, he entered the room.
“You came,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she sounded surprised or vindicated.
“Handy thing about morning rooms,” he tried to joke. “They’re vacant in the evenings. Usually.”
“I’ve been waiting so long. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten.”
Forgotten? Perhaps it had been a different morning room in a different house, and so long ago they’d almost been different people. But he certainly hadn’t forgotten their first meeting.
And so long as he lived, he wouldn’t forget this. He’d been waiting a long time, too.
A candle burned on a side table. For a single taper, it flared with implausible brightness. As if the wick weren’t feeding off the wax of the candle, but the sensual energy in the room.
By the light of that single, bright flame, he could see that her hair was unbound and shimmering like spun honey. He could make out her womanly figure, wrapped in a deep-blue dressing gown and beneath it, presumably, a simple white shift. Her feet were bare—white and small against the plush carpet as she walked toward him.
Harry stood very still, legs braced slightly wider than his shoulders—lest he find himself tossed about by her beauty like a leaf in a gale.
She moved past him, heading straight for the door to draw it closed. Then she turned the key in the lock, removed it, and tucked it in the pocket of her dressing gown.
He swallowed hard. “Eliza, there are many reasons why this is a very bad idea.”
“I agree,” she said.
He paused, caught off-guard by her eager concurrence. “I mean, think about this. I’m leaving tomorrow. I may never come back.” He paced toward the center of the room and turned to face her. “Then there’s you. You’re unmarried, not yet out. If anyone ever learned of this…”
“I know.” She nodded. “And it’s more than that. Consider the guilt. How will I look at Georgie tomorrow, knowing she spent another night crying over William while I spent the night in your arms?”
“Exactly,” he said. “And your first time, Eliza—it likely wouldn’t be much good.”
“It wouldn’t be good?” She playfully arched a brow. “Not even with a famed rake for a lover?”
“It pains my pride to admit it, but the chances of a virgin taking much pleasure the first time are slim. No matter how experienced her lover. And there are practical concerns. Even with my best efforts at prevention, there’d always be a risk of you getting—”
He broke off, because “risk” felt like the wrong word there. With other women, he took the “risk” of getting them with child. With Eliza, it would feel more like a “chance.” A happy chance. Though he could not expressly wish for that outcome, he could not pretend he’d be displeased.
Ah, if only.
“We don’t even have a proper bed.” He dropped onto the chaise longue and bounced his weight on it a few times. “Your first time should be in a bed. A soft, downy one, with lots of pillows.”
She came to sit beside him. “You’re right. There are many reasons why this would be a bad idea. But I can think of one reason why we ought to go through with it anyway.”