Chapter Thirteen #2
They stopped earlier in the evening than Harriet expected. The weather was still frigid, and she could hardly understand Alexander’s ability to ride out all day when the walk across the inn’s courtyard left her eyes tearing up, her cheeks raw, and her nose sniffling.
Alexander asked for a single room for the two of them, which confounded her, but she was doing everything in her power to stop obsessing over his actions. Before this week her brain had never spent so much time on so unimportant a topic as a man.
For the sake of not losing the ability—which she feared she might, based on how much space in her thoughts Alexander occupied—she went over the Greek alphabet in her head and then, as they climbed the stairs to their room, she did a few sums. Math had never been her strong suit, but she feared for the state of her mind.
She’d spent a good quarter of an hour earlier today just thinking of his chest hair!
As if summoned by her thoughts, Alexander began unbuttoning his wet shirt. He re-dressed as Harriet sat glumly on the bed, doing her level best to ignore his proximity.
“You can order a bath or food or anything else you’d like.
I’ll be back later,” he announced. Presuming he was going downstairs to drink, Harriet nodded and said nothing.
He seemed to have little to say to her, and she felt silly for having expected otherwise.
She wouldn’t worry he regretted last night. She wouldn’t worry about him at all.
For a while, Harriet attempted to read, but after going over the same paragraph for a fourth time, she gave up. Eventually her eyes dropped to his discarded clothing and without her wishing for it, the image of him shirtless returned.
She left the bed and sneaked over to the pile, as if she might not be allowed to touch her husband’s clothing.
Husband. That was odd.
She reached for his jacket and found the lapel pocket, hoping dearly to find what she was looking for. Her fingers brushed on a piece of foolscap and she fished it out. Godemiche.
That was the word he was scandalized by?
Footsteps up the stairs startled her back over to her bed, and she tucked the slip of paper into her book. A knock on the door brought a maid with a tray of dinner.
“Your husband said you might like to eat up here?” she said, phrasing it as a question.
Harriet nodded and thanked the woman, who brought the tray directly to the bed.
A luxury she’d never enjoyed before in her life.
She owned that it was rather enjoyable. After the hearty stew and warm bread, Harriet cleared the tray to the floor and unpinned her hair, sighing with the satisfaction of letting it down.
Then she leaned back with the dreadfully dull book on agriculture and nodded off within minutes.
She woke again an indeterminate time later when the door creaked open. It was much darker now; almost no light was coming in through the windows.
“Sorry to wake you,” Alexander whispered.
“It’s quite all right. I can’t believe I fell asleep so early.”
He sat to remove his boots. “Would you like help out of your dress?”
Harriet looked down at herself as if remembering the fact of the garment. “Oh yes, I suppose I should.”
She tossed the quilt off and stood groggily. He met her by the bed, and she turned, facing her back to him. He swept her hair out of the way and the momentary touch sent tingles along her spine. Her breasts drew into stiff peaks, although she told herself that it must have been the cold.
Alexander began unbuttoning. She shivered as his knuckles brushed along her bare neck as he went. “Cold?”
A lifetime of being trained not to complain had her answer: “I’m fine.”
“You have gooseflesh,” he said, over her shoulder. Harriet whirled around.
“I beg your pardon?!” He was insulting her! On their wedding night?
She registered a small moment of shock in his eyes before they crinkled with his laughter. His whole body shook. She’d never seen him laugh so hard. He could barely speak. Surely he wasn’t this cruel?
“Harriet! Harriet, no. It’s … it’s a word for …
Harriet,” he tried to explain, gathering himself together.
“It’s a word for when your skin gets like this.
” He reached out for her arm and traced a finger along it.
“You see? How the hair stands up and there are little bumps? It’s like a plucked goose, I suppose. You haven’t heard the term before?”
Harriet could hardly think. She looked from where his thumb was still tracing the skin on her arm up to his eyes, which were warm and kind. Although still full of mirth at her expense.
“I promise you, it’s a real word! You can add it to your dictionary!”
Normally, she felt certain that handsomeness was a blight on trustworthiness. But the mirth in his dark eyes and his breathtaking smile easily overcame her reservations. She decided to believe him.
She turned back around and let him finish unbuttoning her. On the final button, his knuckle grazed her spine, and she shivered again.
“Get under the covers, you fool!” he teased, releasing her dress and guiding her toward the bed.
Whatever tension had stretched between them today seemed to have melted away.
Harriet scrambled out of her open dress and pulled Giuliana’s tight chemise over her head.
Only once she was in bed did she realize she hadn’t asked him to face away while she changed.
He followed quickly after in only his shirt. Harriet made little effort to avert her gaze from his muscled calves and bare feet. Would it always be such a shock to see a man in this state?
A chill swept over her as Alexander peeled back the covers and climbed in. She rubbed her feet together to warm herself.
“Put them on me,” he offered.
“What?”
“Your feet, you can warm them on me. On my legs,” he added at her look of confusion.
Harriet was not in the position to decline any offer of warmth. She pressed her ice-cold toes to his legs and he let out a hiss. She yelped in surprise and snatched them away.
“It’s fine; put them back. Just a little cold.”
“Really?” Harriet squinted at him in suspicion.
“Positive.”
He reached down under the covers and grabbed one of her thighs, pulling her leg over toward him.
Though he’d touched her quim the night before, the casualness of this contact felt more intimate.
“Come on now, use me. Get warm.”
“Thank you,” she said, unable to keep a grin off her face. He was willing to warm her up at the cost of his comfort. A thrill shot through her: She’d inconvenienced a man, and he hadn’t laughed or yelled at her.
It was no wonder women of the ton threw themselves at him. He was so bloody nice. And at ease. Something about him invited you to be at ease in his presence too. To enjoy yourself.
“You’re staring at me.”
“Your eyes are closed!” she squealed. God, he made her feel positively girlish. For perhaps the first time in her entire life.
“I can feel it.”
“You cannot!”
“I can. You little minx, you’re imagining me naked, aren’t you?” Harriet shrieked a laugh, and he finally pried his eyes open.
The laughter died in her throat. His dark eyes were molten and hungry. He looked like he might positively devour her. Ten thousand dictionaries wouldn’t hold words enough to express herself; she hardly knew what she wanted.
She swallowed thickly as his hand came up to her face, his thumb tracing her lip.
“I like your hair down” was all he said before crawling over her and claiming her mouth in a searing kiss.
Her mind was still thinking of the comment about her hair; meanwhile her body was in some kind of exquisite agony under him. He licked the seam of her lips and when she opened her mouth, he slid his tongue along hers, tasting of spice and … brandy.
Brandy. He’d been drinking. Oh.
Did he need drink to steel his courage for this? Would he always drink before he kissed her? Or was it like her father, where drinking was simply a daily requirement?
God, his tongue felt so good. As one of his hands made its way up her ribs again, she had a feeling its destination was her breasts, her breasts that ached for him.
Why did her breasts want her to get involved in swiving?
Swiving! Bloody hell! She couldn’t swive him.
She couldn’t let him swive her. He’d think her quite the pitiable wanton if she went back on her promise the very first—oh god, his hands.
Hands that would be on another woman just as soon as they returned to London.
“I—” Harriet muttered, deeply regretting what she was going to say next. “I—we shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” To his credit, Alexander pulled back immediately, putting the greatest possible distance between them that the small bed allowed.
“Right. Yes.”
“I am sorry, it’s only …” God, but she didn’t want to explain herself. What was the not-pathetic version of “I think I might fall madly in love with you if we do this and it won’t even register for you as any different than any other night”? She was saved from having to elaborate.
“I remember. No need to explain yourself. Got carried away … being a rake and all that.” He tried to say the last part casually, but Harriet could hear the falseness in it. He sounded … spurned. Although she couldn’t imagine he felt rejected by her.
More likely she was hearing his embarrassment at the situation. Women didn’t turn down Lord Alexander Stirling. Some part of Harriet assumed it would be a thrill to deny him, to be the one woman who wasn’t enraptured by him. It felt much more like a loss.
After a few moments of awkward silence, where Alexander retreated under the covers and turned away from her to face the wall, she decided to speak up.
Who knew how many more nights they’d have together?
Since she’d declined his affections, he’d likely insist on separate rooms from here out.
And they weren’t going to share a room back in London.
That was more than certain. Besides, they were meant to be friends.
Friends could not-swive one another and still be cordial. Friends could talk.