Chapter Thirteen #3
“I do have a question.”
“I feel certain I will loathe it, but go ahead,” Alexander grumbled, still facing the wall.
“Earlier, I looked in your lapel pocket …”
“Yes?”
“And I found my word”—she reached over to her book, opened the page she’d marked, and took out the slip of paper she’d stolen back—“godemiche.”
Still facing away from her, he let out a whispered curse.
“Please? I’ll never ask for another definition again.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“All right, I will continue to ask for definitions. But that’s even more reason to tell me. I won’t stop! Surely, there is some limit to the number of filthy words out there.”
“I should hope,” he gritted out.
She wasn’t ready to let it go, however. Staring up at the ceiling, she thought of Philippa and what she would do in this scenario.
Harriet was good at persuasion, and Philippa at men.
Combining their powers had always proven successful when dealing with unwanted creditors and callers.
Philippa insisted that the key to men was to behave entirely in opposition to one’s aims.
“I’m sorry to have asked. You’ve already taught me so much. I’ll simply ask Mr. Dawkins when I return to town.” Harriet gave herself credit for how even she kept her voice. She’d played the part with flawless offhanded indifference.
Alexander fell right into her trap.
“You will not,” he growled, rolling to face her. She adored how deep and gravelly his voice became at night.
“Whyever not?” she asked, feigning innocence.
“I won’t have my wife asking another man what a bloody godemiche is.”
“My, how utterly imperious you sound!” Harriet goaded.
He said nothing, clearly stewing in whatever emotion made a man start a sentence with “I won’t have.”
“Do you think Mr. Dawkins knows its meaning? Or is it more esoteric?” Harriet asked, trying to keep the delight out of her voice. She knew she was close to getting what she wanted.
“Fine! Fine! I’ll tell you what it means.”
“Wonderful!”
“Don’t you dare celebrate your victory. It’s in poor taste.”
“I was under the impression you liked women in poor taste,” she teased, gleeful at his defeat.
He ignored the comment, breathing deeply through his nose a few times before speaking. “A godemiche is … It’s …”
“Yes?” Alexander shot her a sharp look at her impatience.
“It’s another word for dildo.”
“Right.” This was rather upsetting as Harriet had no idea what that word meant. Although the pause he took before uttering it made her certain she’d like to know. She wasn’t sure how to play her hand to get another definition out of him. Harriet bit her lip, considering her next move.
“God above!” he exclaimed after glancing over at her. “A dildo is a toy that resembles a … Oh hell, why do I care? It resembles a cock. And ladies, and I suppose certain gentlemen, use it to pleasure themselves.”
“Oh, Alexander, this is fascinating! You don’t happen to know the origin of either word, do you? No, never mind, of course you don’t. One uses a godemiche alone?”
“Not, uh … not necessarily. A partner could use one with you.”
“Does it feel the same? As a real cock?”
Alexander choked a bit and then coughed, though he recovered quickly. “I don’t rightfully know.”
“Of course.”
“Are we finished?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Believe me, you didn’t.”
“Annoyed you.”
“You. Didn’t.”
“Angered you?”
“Frustrated,” he bit out. “You frustrated me. You are frustrating me. Present tense. I’m ever so weary of ending up in situations with you where my cock is so hard it hurts.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, rather!” His voice was barely restrained. She felt rather badly for the poor man. “You can toss yourself off if you’d like. I don’t mind at all.”
“Harriet!” he roared, clearly no longer concerned with the other guests at the inn.
“Sorry! Sorry!”
“Please, I am begging you, go to sleep.” He rolled back over to face the wall while Harriet played the night over again in her mind.
She was certain she’d been correct to keep her promise not to consummate their vows.
They had only a few short evenings left together before returning to London.
She wished for that not to feel like a tragedy.
Alexander woke so early the next day it would have been generous to call it morning. Sleeping chastely next to her had been painful. Talking to her last night had been torture. Riding in a carriage with her would be hell.
Alexander couldn’t stand another night in another inn in another bed with her.
He simply would not make it. He could not be expected to lie next to her heavy curtain of hair and those lush lips and those breasts in that too-tight chemise—a woman who in the farthest corners of England still smelled like an orange grove—and not want.
Alexander needed respite. He needed distance.
In faith, Alexander was a little concerned that distance wouldn’t ameliorate the issue.
Riding out had barely helped. He’d still thought of her at least every other moment.
How wet she’d been for him. The sounds she’d made as she came.
Her lips when she held that damned pencil in her mouth—a sight certainly not intended to be erotic.
He could barely remember what he used to think of on long rides. Land acquisition? Tenant concerns? Drainage ditches? How could one spare thoughts for plots and parcels when her mouth existed?
He tried to convince himself that the only reason he felt this way was because he wasn’t able to bed her.
If they’d fucked, he wouldn’t be fixated on her so.
He’d never been the type to obsess over a woman, even as a lad.
Oh, he had favorites—like Giuliana—partners who were particularly attractive or adventurous in bed, partners who knew what he offered and didn’t ask for more.
But he’d never felt consumed by someone.
Here he was pining over a woman who’d forced him to the altar, who couldn’t stop talking to save her life.
He needed to get home. To return to his normal life.
To White’s and ballrooms, to Giuliana and meetings with his man of business.
He would simply ride to London and leave her the carriage.
Having made up his mind, he rose and dressed expediently and silently.
Remaining with her was out of the question.
Unfortunately, his thoughts for most of the days-long journey home stayed in the warm bed with Harriet. He dearly hoped it was guilt at his leaving her and not something worse. Something like true affection.