Page 4 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

J eremy bore his quarry through the rows of bookcases, toward a chaise longue screened from the door—a nook made for reading, and for anything else a body might prefer to do in private.

He knew that in the game they played, the anticipation was almost as pleasurable as the act of love. From the letters he had exchanged with this French ex-patriot whose family had fled Napoleon, she regarded teasing as an essential part of the dance. Her words, and he was happy to oblige.

By the Devil, she is made to unman a saint: onyx hair, moon-pale skin, curves that beg a man’s hands to learn them by rote…

She watched him silently, chest heaving, hands around his neck.

The proximity of her body was intoxicating.

Jeremy wondered if his thundering heart could be felt.

That would make her confident, knowing the power she held over him.

He was not sure he wanted her to be too confident, though.

Fierce enough to be a challenge but submissive when he wished it.

“Your proposal was very daring. Most women regard the brushing of hands in public as grounds for potential scandal. Holding a gaze for too long is seen as intimacy. Your boldness is refreshing.”

Still, she remained silent, watching him, biting her lip, color flaring in her cheeks. Never had he wanted to kiss a pair of lips more. The temptation was almost overwhelming. He reached the chaise and knelt, carefully laying her down.

“Allow me to tend to you,” he said, laying his hands on her left ankle.

He felt the muscles of her calf tense under his probing fingers. Gently, he felt for the nature of the injury.

“I fence and play many sports. One learns to read the messages of the body. I think a minor sprain is all you have suffered.”

She nodded mutely. He did not take away his hands but caressed her ankle, allowing his fingertips to drift up her calf, waiting for her to draw her leg away, to give a sign that she did not want to give so much.

She did not.

Eyes locked on his, she lay with her leg outstretched as he caressed her.

“Your notion of games was very… attractive. And imaginative. I must say, I certainly look forward to exploring some of your ideas ...”

He lifted her feet so that he could sit at the end of the chaise, resting her soles on his lap.

He casually unlaced one of her shoes, removing it gently and tossing it aside.

She pursed her lips. He caught the hint of movement under the mask as of a raised eyebrow.

Still, she did not speak, and he found her silence maddeningly sensuous.

He eased off her other shoe too, set it aside, and worked his thumb into the arch of her stockinged foot.

Tension unwound from her shoulders by degrees; her lashes lowered, teeth worrying her lip.

When she clutched a cushion to her chest, he plucked it away and tossed it behind him.

He leaned over her, hands to either side of where her head rested on the cushioned arm of the chaise.

Then, slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers, savoring the decadent thrill of first contact.

Her lips were warm, soft—hesitant in a way he hadn’t expected. That hesitation was crumbling quickly, replaced by a hunger that rivaled his own.

As they kissed, his hand slipped into his pocket and emerged with the gleam of metal. Without warning, the cool snap of a shackle encircled her left wrist. He leaned back, fastening the other about his own right wrist. Her eyes widened as she stared at the restraint.

“When you wrote of wanting to be bound, each of us captive to the other’s pleasure, I found I could think of little else,” he rasped, voice low, threaded with a dangerous sort of amusement. “I haven’t slept in a week. And when I did… the dreams were—”

Mademoiselle de Rouvroy immediately snatched her raven mask away. Jeremy’s smile fell, and he found himself looking at a familiar face.

“You are not... cannot be. You are... Good God. I know you! You are—”

“Harriet Tisdale!” she blurted. “I'm sorry I did not speak up as soon as you entered the room! I do not know what I was thinking. I did not intend to mislead you, Your Grace! Well, I did, but I... I...” she stammered, face bright red and eyes filling with panicked tears.

“I know your brother! Christ, I have been to your house. Last time I saw you, you were just a girl!”

She hid her face in her hands. “It was my debut. Oh, this is such a mess! I have been a fool!”

Jeremy had tried to stand but had forgotten the shackle. It pulled Harriet's arm up, hauling her half upright.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered hastily, “I will unlock these and then... damnation, if Ralph finds out about this, he will call me out! I have no desire to kill my oldest friend or be killed.”

He fumbled in his coat pocket, searching for the key but not finding it. Awkwardly, he tried the other pocket, reaching across his body to do so.

“Is he here?” he asked, trying to distract from the embarrassing situation.

“No, he's in Bristol on business and then taking ship somewhere. I do not know where,” Harriet murmured.

He exhaled briskly. “Thank the lord above. It will be Calais in all likelihood, then Paris. He should be isolated from any gossip. He has a fearsome temper when roused, and nothing more certain to rouse him than his sister being...”

“Being… what?” Harriet put in slowly.

Jeremy stopped his frantic searching at the tone of her voice.

It had been... anticipating ? Under the panic of discovering who she really was, Jeremy could feel the same desire that had governed him just a few moments ago.

If anything, that desire had just intensified.

He remembered Harriet as a pretty debutante, but he had paid her little mind then.

That must have been two years ago? And in that time, how she has changed. Matured. Blossomed… the keys!

“I cannot find the keys!” he blurted.

Her eyes widened, and an expression of disbelief ruled her face.

“But… but surely you have the keys if you have the shackles…” she put in with more hope than anything.

For one horrified moment, Jeremy believed that he must have dropped them as he had walked in search of his raven, toying with the keys in his hand.

Surely I would know. I could not drop something and not realize that it was no longer in my hand!

Then he remembered. Remembered putting the keys into the pocket of his waistcoat before entering the library.

His fingers dived, found the chill shape of metal, and relief snapped through him so sharply he almost laughed.

Harriet must’ve sensed it too, for she sagged against the chaise, her free hand covering her eyes as if she, too, had been holding her breath.

Working one-handed and far less elegantly than he liked, Jeremy drew out a ring of three small keys. The narrowest looked promising. He angled it toward the tiny lock biting his wrist, the wards brushing the keyhole—

The door creaked.

He went stone-still.

“A magnificent library, is it not?” boomed a voice that was recognized immediately.

Chelmsford. Of course it had to be Chelmsford!

Harriet drew a breath to speak. He pressed his palm to her mouth. Her lips were warm against his skin—altogether, disastrously distracting. He met her gaze, a single warning shake of his head. She nodded; they became statues.

“The finest I have seen in many a year, Your Grace,” came an older voice in reply.

Those next words struck like a lash.

Winchester .

Heat fled Jeremy; ice rushed in its place. The key nearly slipped from his fingers. Of all men—now. Of all rooms—this one. If Winchester discovered him…

“Our own library at the house in town is much more modest, though an eclectic collection if I do say so myself,” murmured a female voice.

“Lady Margaret, you are too modest. The library of the Earls of Sutton is the talk of the town. I have heard the Regent comment on it,” Chelmsford replied, “come, let me show you the pride of my collection.”

Jeremy leaped to his feet as the footsteps began to near.

Harriet followed, wincing as she put her weight down on her injured ankle.

She leaned against him, and he put his shackled arm to the small of her back to steady her.

The keys flew from his hand and skidded across the polished floor to disappear beneath a wrought iron bookcase that looked as if it weighed as much as a shire horse.

Three people appeared and stopped at the sight of Jeremy and Harriet. A large bear of a man led an elderly man and woman. He had a beard of brown, shot through with gray, and a shock of hair that was mostly white.

“Oh, I didn't realize there was anyone else in here…” he began, “and who might you two be?”

“I am the Duke of Penhaligon, Your Grace,” Jeremy replied as politely as he could, “and this is...”

“Lady Harriet Tisdale of Oaksgrove,” Harriet added.

“So the rumors are true… You are betrothed,” said the elderly woman.

She had the face of a hatchet and hands that showed prominent blue veins. She managed to look down the length of that nose to all gathered. The man next to her had a red face and a portly frame.

“Erm... yes,” Jeremy replied, pouncing on the opportunity, “our engagement has not been publicly announced as yet, so I would very much appreciate your discretion. We wished to get to know each other before the attention of the county descends upon us—”

“Without chaperone?” the woman cut in disapprovingly.

“Ah, her brother, our chaperone, declared he would be waiting outside the door, though I fear the taste of a good time has seduced him away.”

“Very commendable, nevertheless,” the old man declared, clapping his hands together.

“Thank you. We were also appreciating this library, Your Grace,” Harriet replied smoothly, “and looking for the poetry section. It is something my mother and I shared a love for.”

The elderly woman, Margaret Winchester, owner of the famed Winchester Opera House, softened her expression. Her chin lowered, and she patted her husband's hand.

“Ah, the Countess of Oaksgrove. I was so sorry to hear of that terrible accident. One can never know what the good Lord has in store for us, nor understand his plan.”

“We can only have faith and rejoice that those who leave us are with him,” said Alfred Winchester, from whom the good Lord had seen fit to take three of his ships in storms. Those reversals had almost bankrupted him, according to rumor, and prompted his wife to sell the only asset she retained from before their marriage.

The property that Jeremy coveted and intended to use to eclipse the achievements of his family.

“I thank you for your kind words. Faith has helped both myself and my brother,” Harriet said in a heartfelt manner.

Jeremy could have kissed her all over again for playing the part to perfection! If the Winchesters thought him a womanizer, they would never consider him as a suitable owner for their precious opera house.

“Well, we were going to look at my private collection. You will appreciate this very much. A collection of Bibles, some of which date back five centuries,” Chelmsford said gruffly.

“How fascinating!” Harriet enthused.

“Yes… indeed,” Jeremy replied. “Would you mind if we tagged along?”

“Not a bit of it. The more the merrier!” the man boomed.

He led the way, followed by the Winchesters.

As they passed the bookcase that the keys had slid beneath, Jeremy tried to get a look.

He could glimpse the gleam of metal, but it was too far under for him to reach.

As he tried to nudge his foot under the narrow gap between the unyielding iron of the bookcase and the stone floor, Lady Margaret turned, opening her mouth to speak to Harriet.

Jeremy straightened quickly, pulling Harriet close beside him to hide the shackles that had become visible momentarily.

Whatever Lady Margaret had been about to say, she swallowed. Instead, she smiled indulgently.

Jeremy smiled back, trying hard to look like a devoted fiancé and praying that Harriet continued to play along.

Chelmsford led them to a door which opened into a small room in which a number of ancient-looking tomes were arranged on pedestals.

Jeremy and Harriet made suitably awed noises as they walked around the collection of historic bibles, trying to keep their conjoined wrists out of sight as they moved about the small chamber.

When they were finally led back into the library, Lady Margaret looked from Jeremy to Harriet, smiling.

“You have done yourself some good this evening, Your Grace. Your… history , alongside your unmarried status, was a cause of grave concern to us in considering you as a purchaser of the Opera House.”

“In fact, we had decided not to sell to you at all because of it,” Lord Alfred croaked a chuckle, one that almost had Jeremy sneering.

“Knowing you have learned to appreciate the sanctimony of marriage, and selected a suitable bride, has changed… much ,” Lady Margaret nodded soberly.

Jeremy experienced a momentary thrill at those words, followed by the cold chill of dismay as Chelmsford indicated they should precede him out of the library.

If we walk ahead of him, he will surely see the shackles. If we leave, we will not be able to recover the key. And if we are discovered, then all my plans will be ruined…

“Dear, I have dropped my brooch. Remember, I was telling you the clasp was faulty,” Harriet said suddenly, “it was my mother's, but I think I know where it must have fallen. If you will excuse us?”

“Yes, we will catch up momentarily,” Jeremy smiled triumphantly.

What quick thinking! A sharp mind and a beautiful body. This young woman will make some man a lucky husband.

Chelmsford and the Winchesters seemed to accept Harriet’s excuse at face value, departing the room but leaving the door open behind them. Acting on impulse and driven by sheer relief, Jeremy took hold of Harriet's face between his hands and kissed her.