Povy left and Jem said, “Now we’ll clean your blister.”
“I can do it by myself,” Harriet said. She washed her hand carefully, with soap, and dried it on the fresh towel Povy had left.
“We can’t play our match unless you bind up that hand,” Jem said.
“It hurts at the moment,” she said, shrugging. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“You’re not worried about a little blister, are you? All we have to do is bind it up.”
“We don’t have any cloth,” she began but he was circling her, rapier in hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked, not really alarmed. There was a dancing light in his eyes, a deep sense of laughter that made her treacherous heart thump.
“Looking for bandages.”
“I can’t imagine—”
Flick! His rapier sang through the air and one of the buttons on her shirt skittered away across the floor.
Her mouth fell open.
Flick!
Harriet put her hands on her hips and gave him a ferocious scowl. “Just what do you think you’re doing? If you’re planning on cutting up my shirt, I volunteer yours instead!”
“Can’t do that,” he said promptly. “My shirts are specially woven for me in the Caucasus mountains by three-legged goats.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Nevertheless, my shirt is not bandage-making material, for all it’s made of English linen.”
“Soft, white, easily cut,” he said. “Why—”
And with one flicker of his rapier, he cut a slash down the front of her shirt.
Quick as she could, Harriet clutched together the two sides. “How dare you!” she shouted furiously. “No one unclothes me without my express permission. Are you mad?”
He had two responses to that. First he threw back his head and laughed. And then, rather more ominously, he turned the key in the lock.
Harriet fell back a step, suddenly remembering that she was Mr. Harry Cope, and that apparently Jem had decided to broaden his horizons by—by—she could hardly think. This couldn’t be happening. Why, she was certain he was just joking.
Jem prowled toward her, silent in his stockings, a flicker in his eyes telling her that he was still laughing, inside. Apparently this situation made him feel happy.
Harriet waited one more step and then made a break for the door.
She didn’t even feel the slash that separated her shirt in the back. She only felt the swish of cool air and then the billowing of her shirt. She shrieked, the enraged shriek of a female Viking and swung around into fighting position, wishing she had her rapier in hand.
“How dare you destroy my clothing!”
But he was laughing at her again. “You’re such a very odd man, Harry.”
“That’s none of your business,” she retorted, stepping back one step so that she was almost within reach of the key. “You, sir, are a wanton reprobate. I know what you’re thinking and I assure you that I have no interest in—in being the object of your interest. You may wish to broaden your horizons, but I, sir, do not!”
“But Harry,” he said softly, his gray eyes gleaming with something like excitement, something like joy, something that—that she didn’t know how to identify. “I’ve decided that I truly love men. Shamefully, I never joined those they call mollys. Now I see the error of my ways.”
“You can do whatever you wish, but not with me,” Harriet managed. She had her hand on the key, but she kept her eyes on him, not knowing what would happen to her poor shirt if she turned around once more. As it was she could feel cool air all over her shoulders, though the bandages protected her breasts.
“But I only want you,” Jem said.
“Women are so boring,” he said softly, his thumb rubbing the line of her jaw. She jerked her head away. “I had no idea how arousing it was to fence with someone…with you. It made up my mind. I never thought I was that sort of man, but for you, with you, I’m going into new territory.”
“Not with me,” she said though clenched teeth. “I’m not interested.”
“You won’t be the Prince Charming who will lead me into a whole new world?”
“No!” she spat. She had her hand on the key, but there was something in his eyes that made her stop. He had a rapier in his hand and he was menacing her with God knows what kind of obscene behavior and yet her heart was fluttering like a debutante’s at her first compliment.
“Look, I’m dropping my weapon,” Jem said. “The one that doesn’t matter, anyway.”
It happened very fast. He reached out a hand and wrenched.
The English linen failed her, fell into two pieces and off her shoulders as if it were nothing more than a rag.
Heat flashed through her body like a gift.
“What have we here?” he asked, desire making his voice husky. Those long fingers curled around the top layer of her bandage. Before she could stop herself, her hand came up and covered his.
“Bandages,” he said quietly. His gray eyes drifted over her, claiming her, knowing her. Suddenly he fell back a step. “Don’t tell me! I’ll never get to broaden my horizons now, will I?”
Her mouth fell open and then she saw the lines by his mouth deepen and realized with a giddy wave of pleasure that she, Harriet, knew what Lord Strange was feeling, even if no one else did.
He was laughing.
“When did you find out?” she demanded.
“Mmmmm,” he said. “I always knew.”
“You didn’t!” she said, shivering, trying to ignore the touch of those clever long fingers as he unrolled the cotton from her breasts, around and around.
“It’s like the best present I never had,” he murmured.
“When did you find out?” she persisted, trying to stave off nervousness. What if he expected more than she had under those bandages? Someone more endowed?
“I guessed in the stables,” he said, grinning at her. “And Villiers confirmed it.”
“Villiers!” she cried. He unwound another circle and then she realized. “The Latin!”
“Latin,” he agreed. But he didn’t sound interested. His eyes very dark, very intent, he gently took away the very last winding of bandage.
When Benjamin first saw her breasts, on their wedding night, he said that they were small but that small was just as good as large, and he hoped she agreed. She had agreed, because she was just grateful to discover that he wasn’t disappointed. Harriet looked down at herself, trying to see her breasts through Jem’s eyes.
They were small. But they were perfectly shaped, like teardrops, Benjamin had said. It made her feel odd to even think of Benjamin, so she banished his name from her mind.
“It must be my birthday indeed,” Jem said softly. And then he reached out for her.
She thought he would take her breasts in his hands and rub them. That was what Benjamin would have done.
But Jem didn’t touch her breasts. He pulled her against him and his tongue curled into her mouth at the same moment. Harriet went rigid with surprise. Benjamin kissed her. Of course he did.
But he never—
Sensations raced through her body as his tongue played a lazy game with hers. He was tasting her.
