Page 50 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke

“Harriet, what is wrong?” he asked.

Now he is concerned? When he practically ignored my tears in the carriage! Why is he suddenly compassionate? The man is a walking contradiction!

“Nothing,” Harriet gritted, determined to give as little ashehad given, let him taste his own medicine.

“Something clearly is.”

“We are in church, and the morning is wasted if we are frowned upon for talking by the other congregants,” she whispered back fiercely.

An elderly matron seated in front of them twitched, giving a half glance over her shoulder. Harriet clamped her lips shut tight, shooting Jeremy a glare. He looked amused, which annoyed her further.

“I am not usually a lover of religious subject matter in art, but my great-grandfather made a career out of it,” he continued.

Harriet couldn't help but look at him, watching as he gazed with rapt attention at the painting. She saw that it had been painted across three large wooden panels, each connected to the other by hinges with elaborate metal work over the top,further connecting all three. The matron glanced over her other shoulder, saw Jeremy's intent gaze, slightly leaning forward in his seat, and gave a nod of approval, looking back at Harriet for a moment with a thin smile.

Let us hope that this lady knows the Winchesters; we have certainly impressed her with Jeremy's devotion, though she had misinterpreted to what he was so devoted.

Harriet could forgive him his irascibility for helping her to make this illusion work.

The church became warm during the course of the sermon as the sun streamed through stained glass windows. The pews were well-occupied, and Harriet found herself sitting closer to Jeremy as late-comers joined the end of their pew. Her thigh touched his, her forearm against his elbow as he sat with his hands on his knees.

She glimpsed the tilt of his head that told her he was looking at her. She did not move to acknowledge, feigning rapt attention at Edmund's words. When, in fact, her focus remained solely on the shared contact between their two bodies. Which was made worse by the very fact that this was the most inappropriate place for such intimacy, even if it was just the touching of arms or hands.

He turned his hand over so that the back was against the back of her own hand. He pressed against her, and she savored the feel of his warm flesh, skin to skin. She wished he were able to remove his coat and push up his shirt sleeve so that his barearm could lie against hers, too. She surreptitiously pulled off the glove on her right hand, tugging at the fingers.

She lost her hold of it at the last moment and dropped it. Jeremy caught it, looking at her as he quickly lifted the glove to his nose, breathing in deeply. Harriet's breath caught at the blasphemous intimacy, and she flushed but could not look away.

If that old lady looks around again, we will certainly be in disgrace and all our efforts, my efforts, will have been in vain…

But she could not help but be entranced by him. When he was angry or cold, she felt bereft, abandoned, and vulnerable. When he had his attention fully upon her, she felt like she wanted to writhe and squirm.

Jeremy took one of the fingers of the glove between his teeth, and Harriet bit her lip, watching his lips, imagining his bite against her neck. There was a dampness at the hollow of her throat from sweat. She casually reached out and plucked his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his waistcoat. She dabbed it first against her throat and then her lips, pursing them discreetly as though kissing.

She handed it back to him, and he held it to his nose while hiding it from view in his hand.

She saw the flicker in his eyes that betrayed pleasure and shifted on the hard wooden seat at the pleasurable sensation she felt in her belly. The idea of bringing him pleasure by such a simple actwas alluring. He replaced the handkerchief and took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.

“Would you like to paint me?” she whispered, lips so close to his ear that they almost touched it.

“I could not do you justice.”

“You could try. While the muse is upon you.”

“Who said I am inspired?”

“It is plain upon your face,” she breathed.

“Describe it,” he commanded.

“Excitement.”

“That is not inspiration,” he corrected.

“Then what?”

“Simple arousal.”

“Then think of something else. We are in a holy place.”