Chapter Eighteen
LIVING IN ALEXANDER’S HOUSE WAS PROVING DELETERIOUS TO Harriet’s mind. For all the wonders it had done for her sleep, having a room to herself had led embarrassingly to temptation. Or perhaps that was a product of being in such proximity to Alexander, knowing he was only a few yards away.
Yesterday, she’d been left alone in the bath only to find her hand dipping under the water and diving between her legs to try to sate the ache there.
It hadn’t worked. It had felt nice, of course, to touch herself.
But it hadn’t slaked her need. She hadn’t reached her peak.
If anything, she’d gone down to dinner even more bothered than before.
As with the previous night, tonight’s meal had been pleasant, their conversation amiable.
Nothing had occurred that might inspire anything other than friendship.
Unfortunately, spending two hours in Alexander’s company was unduly arousing.
The wine they drank with dinner didn’t help matters; it—along with his ungloved hands—had warmed Harriet’s insides and conjured all kinds of unseemly thoughts.
She had done her level best to tamp down any reaction that might betray the immodest direction of her mind.
She tried to meet his playful banter with a staid politeness and endeavored to remember that any flirtation from him was done unthinkingly.
It came naturally for him to be charming, to ask questions, to watch a woman’s mouth as she talked.
Those were little habits he had cultivated long ago, ones she would do well to inoculate herself against, lest she end up in a puddle on the floor, begging for his touch. Or worse, his affection.
If he insisted upon wearing such finely cut clothing, on leaving books at her bedside, on knowing she took two sugars and a splash of milk, on smelling so divine, she was in grave danger of reneging on her personal marital vow—the one she made to not consummate their union. Better to dissemble a bit.
Tonight her behavior had bordered on coarseness. At least a dozen times, she had prevented herself from speaking, answering only when he asked direct questions of her. He must think her churlish and ungrateful, only she feared allowing herself to enjoy his company overmuch.
Now, having bid him good evening, Harriet lay in her bed, the copy of Thérèse Philosophe he’d left on her nightstand abandoned spine-up next to her—she had a terrible habit of leaving books splayed out like dead birds.
The book was famously erotic, wicked even.
She found herself blushing through passages.
Why had he chosen it for her? Had he read it before?
She scolded herself for her lack of focus and went back to reading.
At this rate, if she allowed her mind to wander so, it would take an entire year to finish a book.
Evidently, being near the man was degrading her intellect.
Harriet picked the book up once more; as she turned the pages, something thrilled within her.
Blood rushed through her and pooled between her legs.
Her breasts felt heavy, and sensitive. Her entire body was throbbing.
She had the oddest desire to lick something.
Anything. Him. She did her best not to touch herself as long as possible.
There hadn’t been enough of a preamble in the bath yesterday, she decided.
That was the problem. If she could tease herself, deny herself, perhaps she could get there.
Her mental image of The Count in the book bore an uncanny resemblance to Alexander. But really, who else was she supposed to use as a male model for her yearning? Roman statues?
Until last month, if she ever allowed herself to imagine a husband, she envisioned a man like Mr. Dawkins.
Someone staid, rational, and academic. The opposite of her father.
She had pictured sweet, simple kisses, the sort you might see at an altar; intellectual discussions; nights in a warm, unassuming house with children gathered around.
Her fantasies had been decidedly less … carnal … in nature.
She refocused and tried again, picking up where she left off: The Count was in his beloved’s chamber only a short distance down the hall from her intended.
The plot scandalized and aroused Harriet, even as it failed to distract her from Alexander.
She scolded herself. The entire point of the exercise was to move on from her hunger for him.
Focus, Harriet! She set her mind to the task, redoubling her efforts.
She imagined—or perhaps remembered—Alexander’s hands on her.
The way every single cell in her body seemed to burn under his touch.
The way he’d seemed excited too. She wondered what it would be like to touch him.
Her hand found its way back to her center and she rubbed herself leisurely, steadily, building a rhythm as Alexander had.
It felt exquisite. Her fingertips traveled farther up, brushing across her sex.
She repeated the movement, trying to replicate what he’d done. Harriet was diligent. Methodical.
A sound startled her.
Harriet’s heart stopped and then, worse, beat madly.
Someone was next door. Well, not someone.
There was only one person who would be in the adjoining room at this hour.
The thought of him overhearing what she was doing—although the act was virtually soundless—made her entire body burn.
Unbidden, an image flashed in her mind of him somehow catching her in the act.
Of him watching her. She felt more frantic than ever.
Knowing that he was nearby, in his dressing room, perhaps undressed himself, made her crazed.
She needed release; she was both farther away and nearer to it than she’d ever been.
The answer to her problems was so close. And friends did favors for one another, did they not? Who else was she supposed to ask? He was her husband.
Harriet threw the covers off and stood. She nodded once, as if affirming her own courage, threw back her shoulders, and stalked across her bedchamber to the door of his dressing room.
She wrenched the door open with rather too much force, sending it flying back into the wall with a loud thump.
Embarrassed, she grabbed at the door to still it, and only then looked up to find, as she’d guessed—imagined?
Dearly, dearly hoped?—Alexander shirtless and removing his boots.
She sent up a small prayer of thanks that his valet hadn’t been there, an outcome she hadn’t even remembered was possible until that moment.
He looked up at her, apparently unmoved by her clamorous entrance, as if he’d been waiting calmly for her to burst into his dressing room.
“Good evening, dear wife,” he said, with an ironic twist of his mouth. He said nothing more, waiting for her to speak.
Under normal circumstances, the idea of conveying any of the necessary information to him would have been mortifying. As it was, she hadn’t the time nor inclination for embarrassment.
“I require your help,” she said, her hands firmly grasping the doorframe to give them something to do now that they were no longer between her legs.
“Is there a spider in your room? Has your fire gone out? Is your bell pull no longer working?”
“I cannot reach my peak,” she blurted.
Alexander went entirely still, his nostrils flared dangerously, and his pupils, already large in the dim light, seemed to swallow his eyes.
“I want to make certain I have heard you correctly,” he ventured, carefully.
“I need your help. Again.”
He rose to his feet immediately and gestured toward her room. “After you, my lady.”
Harriet had expected reluctance or further inquiry, or at least for him to need time to get used to the idea.
He behaved as if he’d been waiting years for someone to ask this favor.
She hurried back through the door into her room, overcome with nerves in the face of his calmness.
It was always easier to remain levelheaded when someone else was nervous, Harriet found, and she was used to being on the other side of the equation.
When Frances had fallen out of a tree and badly broken her arm Caroline had fainted, Philippa shrieked, and Harriet was virtually unfazed.
Why was she thinking of broken arms at a time like this?
This was about another broken body part.
The nerves bubbled up her throat into words that she tossed over her shoulder. “I am sorry to ask, it’s only that I think I might be doing something wrong. I can’t make it work.”
“I see we’re friends again,” he remarked wryly. “Can’t make what work?”
“My quim. I think it’s—”
Alexander would have readily paid every cent in his possession, given away every property not entailed, to hear the rest of the sentence.
“Broken,” she finished.
He would always regret the crack of laughter that escaped his mouth after that. In his defense, he could have been given forty thousand chances and he never would have guessed that was the word she was going to use.
Hurt flashed across her face. Hell and damnation. What was it about his wife that made him a fool in the bedroom?
He reached out to stop her from fleeing the room. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he stayed her. “I assure you, your quim isn’t broken.”
She seemed slightly soothed by either his declaration or his demeanor. At least she quit trying to flee. He gingerly unhanded her, watching closely for signs of escape.
“How do you know? I can’t seem to …” Harriet said, attempting unsuccessfully to match his unaffected tone. If only she knew how much he was affected by this talk. The difference was that he wasn’t embarrassed by his arousal. “… arrive at my crisis,” she finished, blushing madly.
“It’s not broken. A woman’s commodity can’t break. At least not that I know of and—” Alexander stopped himself.