Page 25 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

J eremy's eyes felt as though they were full of sand. Every blink was rough. He kept his head high through the sheer effort of will. His horse's head, too, drooped with the fatigue of a night spent without sleep.

His coat was still in the lych-gate of Woodham Walter's parish church after he had torn a sleeve on jagged wood.

His wrist was bruised and cut. He hoped that Edmund Hamilton did not find out that the broken post in the lych-gate was his handiwork, smashed clean through by repeated kicks in order to remove the manacle that was fastened to it.

When he finally approached Oaksgrove with a sense of defeat, Harriet was nowhere to be found. Somewhere between Woodham Walter and Oaksgrove, she had gotten lost. There was no sign of her on the roads or woods, or fields. No word of her in any farm or roadside inn. She had simply… vanished.

By midday, the sun beat down, and weariness tugged at Jeremy’s limbs.

His horse flagged beneath him, lathered and spent.

After another several hours of searching, he turned back toward Oaksgrove, telling himself it was for the animal’s sake—that it needed rest, and he a fresh mount.

Food would not go amiss, either, before he rode out again.

At the house, he made for the nearest sitting room, and upon arriving, he tugged a bellpull to summon a servant, not seeing who was already in the room.

“Your Grace, thank goodness you have returned,” Agnes Tisdale said from a seat next to the fire, “look who has appeared.”

Jeremy rubbed at his eyes and then stopped, standing stock still. Harriet sat barefoot and dirt-stained on the chaise, a basin of water on the floor beside her. She was washing her feet in the basin.

“Harriet…?” Jeremy gaped, stupefied.

“Your Grace,” Harriet replied distractedly, “you will forgive me if I do not stand.”

“Hang that, where have you been? I have been all over the district, all night!” he exclaimed, striding into the room to stand before her. She continued to wash her feet in the bowl.

“I got lost,” she said simply.

“All night?” he demanded.

“I have explained myself to my grandmother, to whom I do owe an explanation. I do not feel I owe one to you, Your Grace.”

“The hell you do! I have been worried sick, searching for you all night!” he roared.

The relief at seeing her alive and well was warring with his anger at her frosty attitude.

He expected some contrition. It seemed ludicrous to him that someone could become so lost in Essex.

This was England, not the interior of the African continent or the Russian steppes.

She appeared exhausted and had a leaf in her hair, dirt and green stains on her skirt, and a smudge across her nose.

“I expected you to return to Penhaligon with Mademoiselle de Rouvroy,” she murmured, dropping the washcloth into the bowl and holding it up for a servant to take away.

“I gave her short shrift. She tricked me, and... played a practical joke on me.”

“Ah, as you once did on me?” she responded with a brittle smile and a sharp eye.

“That was mistaken identity.”

“Did Eloise de Rouvroy mistake you for another?”

“Harriet, that is no way to speak to a Duke. He is a peer of the realm!” the Dowager chided.

“Grandmama, I have told you of the arrangement which this peer of the realm seeks with me. That should tell you the kind of man he is,” she scoffed.

“The kind who responds to circumstances and has only ever acted to prevent a scandal that would damage you more than me,” Jeremy retorted.

“That is true, Harriet. From what you have told me, this arrangement is mutually beneficial, regardless,” Lady Agnes nodded thoughtfully.

“Oh, but I do not wish to purchase an opera house, nor have I social standing to speak of,” she grimaced sharply at him. “So, I fail to see how a scandal would impact me.”

Jeremy looked exasperated, turning away. Harriet rose delicately and walked to the door with wet feet, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the carpet.

“Grandmama, I think His Grace and I should continue our conversation in private for a moment,” she said.

“Unfortunately, I heartily agree,” the Dowager sighed.

Harriet led the way across the hall and into the library. It was lit by a single rectangular skylight in the middle of the ceiling, with walls on all four sides covered with tall shelves. Wheeled ladders stood in the corner, providing a means of reaching the highest of those shelves.

“Do I take it that you have no desire to continue with our arrangement?” Jeremy demanded as he closed the door.

Harriet rounded on him immediately. “I do not wish to let you off so lightly and fall back to the life I had before.”

He folded his arms. “Then what?”

“It is only a matter of time before Ralph returns from his business trip, and then the decision will be made for us. Before then, I still want to experience as much of life as I can. I have enjoyed a night under the stars and an exploration of the local countryside. It was invigorating. I… wish more.”

Jeremy suppressed an immediate surge of relief.

That she was willing to continue meant that all was not lost. It also meant that he had the opportunity to spend more time with her.

His frantic determination to find her was not simply born of his ambitions but of his emotions.

The thought of something happening to her had been too much to bear.

It felt like a foggy memory, though, the worry that had driven him through the night.

Now he was irritated and frustrated. There was much he needed to do.

Judge the feasibility of cutting Simon into his deal, write to the Winchesters to try and secure another meeting.

Deal with the jealousy of Eloise de Rouvroy.

“Tell me what you want. Specifically ,” Jeremy began.

Harriet glanced around, then reached for the bellpull. Jeremy intercepted her hand, not wanting the moment interrupted.

“Tell me.”

“I forgot to bring a towel and my feet are wet,” she rolled her eyes at his antics, “I want some linen to dry myself on.”

Jeremy stripped off his waistcoat immediately, tearing a button in his haste, and dropped to his knees.

He used the cloth to dry her feet—at first briskly, then with slower strokes.

She stood over him, watching silently. He traced the arches, rubbed her soles, brushed over the delicate bones at her ankles.

She carried the scent of the woods—damp earth, moss, crushed flowers—fresh and wild.

When he glanced up, her eyes were fixed on him.

“I am not ready to return to my old life,” she began, her voice low.

“Not after tasting a piece of the world. But I do not wish to be tangled in your personal affairs, nor to play any part in them. What lies between us will remain a transaction—professional—until either Ralph returns or you have your opera house.”

Jeremy sat back on his heels, looking up at her. In her disheveled state, she looked like a woodland nymph. Or an earth goddess. He rebelled inside at the notion that there could be nothing between them. He pressed the emotion, putting aside desire for the sake of ambition.

“I agree,” he uttered, “but you must know, there is nothing between...”

“Please!” she blurted, lifting a hand, “I do not wish to know. Not any of it. It is not my place.”

Jeremy's hands were still resting on her feet, his waistcoat still wrapped around them. Harriet stepped away from him, giving herself some distance, folding her arms. Jeremy stood.

“I will pay for the waistcoat,” she said.

“There is no need,” he replied.

“There is every need. It has been ruined. It must be replaced,” she insisted.

“I have many, and this is not even a particularly favored one.”

As if to emphasize the point, he tossed the garment towards the fireplace. It fell within the metal mesh guard, but missed the fire itself. Harriet shrugged.

“Very well. As you wish. Do you have an engagement for me to attend?” she started formally.

“…Not yet. I am awaiting correspondence from the Winchesters or the next opportunity to be seen, where word would get back to them.”

Jeremy had been staring at her legs. She had pretty feet, he realized. Dainty and well-formed with pale, blemish-free skin. Her ankles, revealed in the absence of stockings, were delicate, her calves nicely curved with smooth, milky skin.

“What happened to your shoes and stockings?” he asked, suddenly realizing the oddity of the sight.

Harriet grimaced, hiding one foot behind the other as though embarrassed.

“I removed them to paddle in a stream, and... they fell in. I could not recover them without soaking my dress, so chose not to.”

Jeremy grinned despite himself, standing up. “You walked the rest of the way home barefoot? You must be terribly footsore.”

“It was field and wood for the most part,” she added defensively, “this morning, when I awoke, I spotted a church spire in the distance that I had not seen the day before. I recognized it as Danbury and headed as straight for it as I could.”

“Very… resourceful,” he murmured in thought. “I do not think I have known many women as... competent as you.”

She arched a brow at him. “Do not try to flatter me, Your Grace. I am beyond it. Immune.”

As she stood before him, she shifted from foot to foot, and Jeremy could see that she was indeed footsore.

“Allow me to help. I have a particular skill that I learned from a lady of Indian origins...”

Jeremy stepped towards her, and Harriet danced away, holding up a warning hand.

“I propose a purely medical intervention,” he said seriously with his own hands raised, palms facing her. “On my honor.”

“I do not know if that exists,” she shot back.

“Most of the ton asks the same question, but I am endeavoring to prove them all wrong.”

He moved forward swiftly and caught Harriet up in his arms. She thumped his chest hard enough to make him wince, but he bore her and her blows to the nearest armchair, where he deposited her before kneeling and taking one of her feet in both of his hands.

He began pressing and kneading at the ball of her foot, massaging and rubbing to dispel the tension and ache of sore muscles.

At first, she stared back at him with a stony expression.

Then he saw the moment the pleasure began to work its way up from her feet.

He knew the warmth that she would be feeling.

The cessation of pain and the release of a golden contentment.

In the right hands, that could be euphoric —alas, his were not.

But he knew he had sufficient skill to bring some pleasure.

Harriet's head fell back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut.

“That is… rather marvelous, but you should not be touching me,” she whispered before her words dissolved into a pleasured hum.

“Purely medicinal,” he assured her softly, “we can at least be friends. It will help the illusion.”

Harriet's eyes opened for a moment. Jeremy looked up into the fierce green gaze of an Amazonian goddess.

“Is that all there is? Our illusion and your business?” she breathed.

He held her gaze, feeling the arousal it sparked within him and trying to conquer it.

It did me no good and has more than once almost derailed my plans entirely. That rakish lust led me to embark on this foolish plan in the first place. I must behave like a gentleman. If I am to surpass my forefathers, I must be strong. Disciplined.

“…Yes,” he finally uttered.

No word had ever taken more effort to utter than that simple monosyllable. He glanced away, lest Harriet should see the effort it took to push the affirmative past his lips.

“I should like to be taken to the National Gallery,” she said suddenly.

“The National Gallery?” His eyes flicked to her face, “Whatever for?”

He was well aware of the National Gallery, recently opened after the purchase of an extensive art collection which had belonged to a Russian émigré.

Jeremy had paid close attention to the news of this enterprise over the last few years, for he wanted a collection of art of similar stature to be on display in the El Dorado someday.

“It is said to be the finest collection in all of England,” she pointed out.

“It is, but I did not think you had an interest in art.”

Harriet shrugged. “I appreciate it, but Ralph certainly does not. He would never take me and would never allow me to visit London without him. It seems this is an opportunity to experience something I might never have the chance to again. So, I should like you to take me. As part of our agreement.”

Jeremy considered carefully, still massaging her feet and glimpsing the drooping eyelids and occasional bitten lip that gave a hint to her pleasure. Despite the illusion of it being therapeutic, touching her in this way held a delicious eroticism.

“…Very well. I will leave the subterfuge to you. Another illness for Lady Agnes?” he asked.

“Or me. Either will work to occupy Beecham.”

With a final sigh, she withdrew her foot from Jeremy's hands, and he immediately missed the contact. Hiding his disappointment, he stood.

“I thank you for your medicinal intervention. It was most soothing, Your Grace,” she declared.

Jeremy bowed formally, trying to ignore the sting that he felt at the icy formality of her words. He wondered if he could have done anything differently to hold onto her affections, but then dismissed the thought.

I do not need her affections.

Did not need them—but that was not the same as not wanting them.