Page 21 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

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 bare arm 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 act was 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.”

“I cannot think of anything else.”

Edmund must have announced the next hymn, for suddenly everyone rose.

Harriet and Jeremy were left sitting for a moment until they caught up.

Jeremy boldly risked a flashing kiss on Harriet's lips, disguised by the forest of people standing around them, eyes fixed on their hymn books.

It lasted a mere cluster of heartbeats but felt as though it went on forever.

He stood, looking down at her with a bemused expression. Flushing, she hid her face away.

My emotions are like wool after a kitten has been among them! How does he do this to me? I must gain some measure of control. I wish to enjoy my freedom while it lasts, not simply fall under the spell of a rake.

After the service, they filed out with the other parishioners, exchanging a few words each with Edmund, who had taken his position by the church door once more.

“Would you care to join me for tea?” Edmund asked when they reached him, “a small number are heading over to the vicarage, on the other side of the village. My housekeeper will be there to welcome you while I change out of my uniform.” He smiled boyishly, plucking at the cassock that he wore for services, “Lord and Lady Sutton will be in attendance. Sadly, their business in town meant they could not be here for the service.”

Harriet beamed brightly, sharing that joy with Jeremy, vindicated in her plan.

“We should be happy to attend. Thank you,” Jeremy said with a bow of his head.

They moved on, walking through the churchyard to the lychgate. Edmund had given them directions, including a shortcut skirting one of the fields on the outskirts of the village and cutting through a wood that adjoined the vicarage.

“I presume you would wish the shortest route, the quickest to be done?” Harriet asked as they walked.

“I would prefer the shortcut, but only because I prefer natural scenery to village life,” Jeremy replied.

“An artist's eye?”

“I am no artist.”

“Not yet perhaps.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Not ever.”

He offered his arm, and Harriet took it. The man was as layered as an onion. Just when she thought she had reached a soft center, a tougher skin beneath was revealed. His mood went from serious to playful and back without warning.

Mercurial is not in it. He makes quicksilver seem slow.

They walked out of the village, along a shady lane, and over a stile to walk along the edge of a field of green-stalked barley.

Another stile took them into the deeper shade of a wood.

The path was barely visible beneath the fronds of tall ferns.

The noises of the village faded, screened out by the trees and the undergrowth.

They might have been walking in a deep forest, miles from human habitation.

“The light here is remarkable,” Jeremy murmured in awe.

“And you claim not to be an artist?” Harriet smiled warmly.

He scowled, looking down. “An artist is a master; I cannot even claim amateur knowledge. I have merely remembered the things my great-grandfather used to say.”

Harriet put her hands on her hips, rounding on him.

“Why is it so difficult for you to admit to an interest in something that is not your dratted opera house? Or being a rake like my brother's other friends. I remember them and their exploits.”

“Because I will not live with the knowledge that I was always second best behind another of my family,” Jeremy shot back.

“Perhaps you would not be second best if you tried.”

“Or perhaps I would be worse than second,” he retorted. “I know where my skills lie and where my name will finally be made.”

Harriet did not know what it was that made her so angry at him. Was it simply that she did not like to see wasted potential? Or did she care more than she realized for this man and wanted to see him doing the best he could? He gave as much fire as she, eyes blazing.

“Perhaps you would excel, achieving more than even your great-grandfather,” she pressed.

He shook his head stubbornly. “Come, we have a tea to attend with the vicar and the Winchesters.”

He strode past her, and Harriet caught his arm, pulling him around. But she tripped on a stone concealed by the thick undergrowth, her ankle twisting painfully. She fell, clutching at Jeremy to arrest her fall, but only succeeding in bringing him down with her.