Chapter Eleven #2
“Is it so bad? Giuliana was kind enough to lend it to me. She didn’t have anything else that fit, though.” He wasn’t sure whether to punish Giuliana for her wicked gift when he arrived back in London or to lie prostrate at her feet, ever in her debt.
At Harriet’s searching look, he realized he’d never answered her question.
He cleared his throat and did his best to keep his voice steady.
“No, no, it’s fine. I just—” Want to rip it off with my teeth?
Will never again be able to see a chemise without getting aroused? “I just worried you were cold.”
“I am! I’m fairly freezing!” she exclaimed, shocked back into action.
She rushed through her nightly ablutions at the wash basin—which Alexander forced himself not to watch—and scurried into bed on her tiptoes, moaning when she finally made it under the sheets.
God, that was not the sound he wanted to hear.
Or perhaps it was the only sound he’d ever like to hear again.
Lord above, someone had sent her to punish him.
Alexander scrubbed a hand over his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time in the past three days and groaned.
Harriet blew out her candle, plunging them into darkness. Then she turned on her side, propped herself up on an elbow as best as the tight chemise allowed, and studied him. He did his best to ignore how her perusal inflamed him. Did she like what she saw?
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice still merry and lighthearted.
Alexander let out a huff that was almost laughter. Everything was so clearly wrong.
He shook his head and closed his eyes. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
Undeterred, she nudged his shin with her ice-cold foot, which by all rights should have killed his burgeoning cockstand, not encouraged it.
“Tell me! You said we were to be friends.” Alexander bit back a groan and opened his eyes, training them on the ceiling.
“You said that. I never acquiesced.”
“You don’t want to be friends with me?” she asked, in a pouty voice he’d never heard from her. It was so distinctly out of character for this capable, headstrong woman, it sounded as if she were … flirting. The possibility warmed Alexander’s chest and then spread. Southward.
He chanced a glance at her, which he’d always remember as his most fatal mistake.
She pursed her lovely, biteable lips, pretending to sulk.
But at his look, she collapsed into a fit of laughter, turning over onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow.
He couldn’t help the smile that sneaked out the side of his mouth.
Finished laughing, Harriet pushed herself up on her elbows. She glanced over at him with a moony smile, which was presumably why he said what he did next.
“All right, I’ll be your friend.”
She beamed and kicked her feet in a fit of glee.
“Your second female friend!”
Alexander rolled his eyes. Giuliana was most certainly not a friend. “My first.”
“All right. I’ll be your first,” she said, solemnly. As if she didn’t know what else the words could mean. She paused for a beat and then asked, “How is it going so far?”
“There’s more staying up late talking in bed than I expected,” he conceded.
“That’s a cornerstone of friendship.”
Alexander turned on his side toward her, trying his best to appear unaffected.
“So, you often stay up talking in bed with men?”
“Oh no! I suppose I don’t. Just with my sisters, and sometimes when we used to get snowed in at the Yardsleys’ at Christmas. Never with a man. I’ll have to make an exception for you.”
A knot that had been in Alexander’s chest loosened a bit, and he felt his face heat at its ever having been there. He was a fool.
“What does one talk about in bed then, with … ahem … female friends?” he asked as a gesture of goodwill.
“All sorts of things. Ribbons, how Mrs. Tatters flirts with her carriage driver, which of the butcher’s sons we’d like to marry, what books we’ve been reading.”
“Which of the butcher’s sons?”
“The obvious choice is Malcolm, for he’s the most handsome.
But I confess I’m more partial to Edmund, as he’s the eldest and most responsible.
Jasper is too … Jaspery. Frances always goes for Benjamin, though he’s far too young for me to take him seriously.
And a horrible singer.” Alexander laughed.
“How practical of you.”
“Now, you must tell me a secret.”
“Pardon?” The secrets he had—and he had plenty—were not the sort to be whispered in bed to an innocent. He may not have female friends, but he knew that.
“You must share something with me! That’s how these late-night talks go.” She nudged him with her foot, and again his body responded. It was as if his cock had no idea they were practicing friendship.
“Does the butcher have any daughters?” he deadpanned. Harriet laughed loudly, her entire body shaking and her head dropping between her hands.
She turned back on her side to face him, and they both grew quiet at their closeness.
After a moment, Harriet flipped onto her back, pulling her hands out of the tightly tucked covers.
If he didn’t know her so well, he’d have thought she was settling into sleep.
Alexander knew she wasn’t going to miss a chance to talk.
She kept her gaze on the ceiling, worrying her bottom lip and fidgeting her hands.
Alexander’s heart clenched in preparation for what came next.
If Harriet was shy to say something, it must be grave indeed.
“What were you doing last night?” she inquired, in a soft voice, so soft he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Blood rushed through his ears, and his heart began racing. Surely, she didn’t mean—
“In bed,” she clarified, removing any hope that she might have been referencing something else.
He groaned and sat up, the bedsheet falling around his waist. Some part of his brain registered Harriet’s eager eyes on his chest, which stirred him, even as a cold panic set in.
“I was—It is—What I was—” Alexander was making an ass of himself. He never should have taken himself in hand in the same room, in the same bed as her. And why was he even considering explaining himself?
Her eyes. Her eyes were why. She let out a soft laugh, a friendly one, as she drew circles on the coverlet with her finger.
“Not often you’re at a loss for words in bed with a woman, is it?” She hitched up half of her mouth wryly. Something about the look made him think she was embarrassed, self-conscious, as if she was the problem. Hell. Now he had to tell her.
“No, although most of the women I’ve been with know about tossing off.”