Page 22 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

J eremy caught himself on his arms. Harriet landed on her back, half beneath him. She looked breathless and flushed and never so beautiful, nor could he remember any other woman comparing favorably to her.

First, she ensnares me through my desire for her.

Then she contrives to awaken in me my previous passion for the arts.

Is she a conspirator, or perhaps an angel sent to guide me back to the right path?

I want so much to walk that path, but I will never live up to the expectations of my ancestors as a painter.

He was looking into Harriet's eyes, and she reached up to place a cool hand against his forehead. He blinked, surprised at the gesture.

“Your brow was furrowed. I wanted to smooth it,” she said simply.

Such a childlike thing to say, but it disarmed Jeremy.

He allowed her to run her hand up his forehead as though smoothing his fears and troubles away.

Her touch was soothing. She finished by running her fingers through his hair.

The sensation he felt from that was more arousing than soothing, his scalp tingling from her touch.

That sensation ran down the back of his neck and his spine. He closed his eyes, savoring the touch.

“That is better,” she whispered finally, “that frown was becoming a permanent fixture.”

“It is my natural expression,” he corrected.

“Why must it be?” she asked.

“Because the world is a serious place. I have spent much of my adult life playing in it, taking nothing seriously. I am trying to remedy that.”

“Then we should hurry along to the vicarage, the Winchesters await us there,” she laughed softly.

“No.”

A simple word, but Jeremy meant it to communicate so much.

That he did not, in that moment, care about his ambition or the Winchesters.

Nor Ralph, nor scandal. His interest was focused on this small patch of undergrowth and the beautiful woodland nymph who lay in his arms. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her.

The kiss was returned with passion that was delicate at first, becoming less subtle and more direct as it deepened.

Jeremy shifted his weight so that his body lay atop Harriet.

She sighed and gave a small moan as their loins met, restricted and separated by their clothes, but in contact indirectly.

He knew she would feel his ardor even if he could not feel hers.

Not without touching her more intimately.

He was content, for the moment, to let the pressure of his body against hers draw forth writhing moans.

He caressed her breasts as he kissed her, feeling her nipples stiffening beneath the material of her dress.

He pushed the bodice down, baring her to the hush of the woods.

The sight of her—flushed, breathless, gazing up at him without a trace of fear—nearly undid him.

His mouth found her breast next, warm lips closing over the rosy tip, tongue flicking, then circling, slow and deliberate.

She let out a soft, broken sound, her fingers curling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Under her skirt, her legs parted, one leg lifting along his side.

The movement pulled at her skirt and petticoat, raising them up her calves.

Jeremy took the invitation, reaching down to run teasing fingers from her ankle to her knee.

She lifted her leg further, hooking it over his waist and exposing the top of her stockings.

Jeremy felt a thrill as he reached the end of the material that kept Harriet from his touch, feeling her jump as his fingers touched the bare flesh of her upper thigh.

He explored over the gentle roundness of her buttocks, rolling himself so that he lay on his side.

Harriet was beside him, kissing furiously, tangling her fingers in his hair, one leg still over his hip.

The hard heel of her shoe dug into the small of his back, encouraging him to thrust his manhood against her.

She broke away from his kisses to gasp and then moan his name aloud.

A rational part of Jeremy's mind informed him that they were a short distance from a vicarage where devout, god-fearing people had gathered for a polite tea.

That same voice warned him of the consequences of just one of those guests hearing a woman moaning his name.

But it was drowned out by the music of Harriet's passion and the thundering of his own blood racing.

Her skirt was up around her waist now, her body exposed from hip to shoe.

Jeremy suddenly flipped Harriet onto her front, producing a squeak of surprise.

She squirmed as he mounted her from behind, slapping her perfect and all-too inviting derrière before drawing her hair aside to kiss her neck.

In profile, he saw a face lost in passion.

Her eyelids were half closed, teeth bared by parted lips.

Her cheeks were scarlet. She lifted her hips, and now it was Jeremy's turn to utter a name.

He whispered her name to her as she pushed with all her strength into him.

His hips rocked forward. His cock pressed against her through too many layers, aching and thick, caught between them with just enough friction to make his breath falter.

She pushed back again, more deliberate this time.

A low moan bloomed from her throat, long and helpless, and her body writhed beneath him, all heat and hunger and no trace of hesitation.

He pressed down harder, grinding against her until her moans grew breathless.

He wanted the clothes gone. Wanted skin.

But there was something unbearably erotic about the cloth between them, about the heat building in secret beneath buttoned layers and lifted skirts.

Every movement made her gasp. Every slow thrust made her reach for more.

He kissed the place where her shoulder met her neck. Her skin was damp there, tasting of salt and wildness. Her hips kept rising to meet him, and each time she did, he lost another scrap of control.

“Christ, Harriet…” was all he could mutter.

The moment came in which his control wavered. He held back a tidal wave of lust and wavered on the edge of drowning beneath it. In that moment, he would have unbuttoned his breeches and consummated the relationship between them that was only supposed to be surface deep.

Harriet showed no signs of wanting to stop. Jeremy teetered on the threshold of reason and control. The sound of a snapping twig brought him back to cold reality.

It was unmistakably a footstep nearby. Then another. Two people walking through the woods. Voices reached him, frighteningly loud and clear. A man and a woman, just several yards from where Jeremy and Harriet were scandalously poised.

“This is no path at all, Simon. And I did not see Jeremy come this way,” Eloise de Rouvroy’s thick accent sounded disgruntled.

“I assure you that I did. And there is no path through this cursed wood. The vicar played a prank on us, I think. This is no shortcut,” Simon Winchester replied.

Harriet froze, as did Jeremy.

Had they observed the same track that I did, followed it, they would be tripping over us right now. Damnation, how could I be so stupid? Did I not learn from my recklessness at the Duke of Chelmsford’s ball?

The voices passed by somewhere ahead of them, a dozen feet away perhaps, but thankfully receding.

When the voices had faded away entirely, Jeremy moved from his position atop Harriet.

She hastily fixed her bodice and patted down her skirts.

When she looked at Jeremy, his ardor had not yet fully been quelled.

She bit back a smile as he sat up to conceal it.

“There is nothing to laugh about,” Jeremy whispered fiercely.

“It is quite funny. Rather inconvenient, is it not?”

“At times like this, yes. Did you know that Simon Winchester was going to be at this tea?”

“How would I? I don't know the man,” Harriet shrugged.

“He has just appeared in pursuit of me. How could he have known I was going to be at the church of this particular village today? And what does he want? To prove our engagement false, I imagine, so that his parents refuse to sell me their blasted Opera House.”

He rose and peered above the top of the ferns, but there was no sign of Simon or Eloise. Straightening, he offered Harriet his hand. She refused to take it, standing on her own and brushing stray leaves and grass from her dress.

“Ask him. I do not care,” she said dismissively.

“Because you have been found out?”

“If you accuse me of conspiring against you one more time when I am only here because of your actions, I shall... slap your face,” Harriet snapped, actually stamping her foot.

Jeremy considered the intimacy they had just shared. The passion that had been awakened in both of them. He could not doubt the sincerity of the desire she had evinced.

A skilled courtesan could master such a performance, but Harriet is no courtesan. Her reactions are genuine.

“Duly noted. I will not mention it again. I still need you, and you need me. Agreed?”

She looked at him askance. “No apology?” she asked bluntly.

Jeremy was genuinely confused. “You tripped me. Everything else was, quite frankly, mutual. What should I apologize for?”

Harriet threw up her hands.

“Never mind, Your Grace. Shall we find the vicarage and take our places?

Harriet fumed until they emerged from the woods at a gate.

Beyond was a gently sloping lawn, kept short by a couple of contentedly munching goats who paid them no mind at all as they stepped through the gate.

She forced a smile, looking up at the modest brick house above the lawn and the group that sat before the house.

She reached for Jeremy's arm, and he offered it graciously.