The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel) Page 11

  Thomas put his drink down on the mantelpiece and rubbed his naked upper lip. Harriet sat up a little straighter, reaching around in her scrambled brain for something innocuous to say.

  Thomas got there first. “It will be a new year tomorrow.”

  Obvious to anyone with access to a calendar. Harriet nodded.

  “I don’t want to waste our time together. Please cancel all my acceptances for any future engagements. I don’t want to share you with anyone else.”

  “Sh-share me?” He couldn’t mean—

  Thomas leaned over her and squeezed her hand. “You should see your face. Of course I don’t mean it that way. I would never—that is to say, some people might, but—oh, hell. I can’t seem to make any sense around you, Harriet. I’m famous for my gift of gab, do you know that? Of course you do—you know everything. I chatter like a magpie with my friends. That’s what’s gotten me into this predicament. I am all talk and no action.”

  Harriet sighed and squeezed back, then pulled her hand back to her lap. “I’m supposed to fix that. But I honestly don’t see how. Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off experimenting with one of your lady friends? Your other ‘sister,’ for example?”

  “Amy? Oh, no, no. She wouldn’t do at all. I’m likely to do something wrong, and she’d be bound to tell everyone of my faux pas. She’s a nice girl, but she’d blabber it all over town. My reputation would be in tatters.”

  How unfair it was that a man rose in society’s estimation if he was a rakehell. A woman could be ruined by one clumsy kiss.

  Or an incontinent pigeon. If there had been no pigeon, there’d be no soiled handkerchief, no misunderstanding with her father, no need to seek shelter with a man she’d come to . . . admire.

  “At least I have no one to tell.” Harriet couldn’t imagine discussing this impossible situation with anyone.

  “You are discretion itself. Don’t you like your sherry?”

  Harriet shrugged. “Not really. I’m not used to such things.”

  Thomas picked up his glass and took another sip. “It’s the finest of its kind, you know.”

  Everything at Featherstone House was the finest of its kind: the furniture, the paintings, the food.

  Except for her.

  No. No. No. She needed to stop feeling so . . . inadequate. She had many good points, her exposed bosom being one of them. She shifted in her chair, willing herself to see what Thomas saw in her. No more spinster past the prime she never had. No more starchy secretary. Tonight, she was a mistress, mysterious and—

  Oh hell. The mystery was how she would figure out what to do once dinner was over.

  Chapter 19

  Thomas felt as if he’d drunk a whole bottle of sherry. Even with her spectacles askew, Harriet had exceeded all his expectations in that dark red dress. She was simply beautiful. Queenly. Throw a crown on top of her head and she’d rule all of Europe in no time. His first impression of her had been accurate—she was a goddess.

  Would any stores be open tomorrow? He needed to buy her new glasses. Some jewels. Her neck was bare; her earlobes, too. Rubies would suit her, and she was tall enough to carry off something fit for royalty. She’d have them to remember him by.

  The thought of their eventual parting left a sour taste in his mouth the sherry couldn’t mask.

  Thomas had finally read the contract. There was that business about her shift staying on, but he’d soon settle that. If he had to, he’d strike it from the contract and make her initial it if she were to go all legalese on him. And the poor girl was deluded enough to think he wouldn’t give her presents beyond the sum they’d agreed upon. But it would be his pleasure to bedeck her with rubies and whatever else Garrard’s had to offer. He wanted her to know that he valued her.

  Money didn’t solve everything, but it was better than a kick in the posterior.

  Or a slap in the face. He wasn’t sure yet what he was going to do about Harriet’s father. But the man had to be punished.

  He frowned. His friend Nick had thought to teach a bully a lesson, and things had gone dreadfully awry. Eventually Nick had married his Eliza, though, so it ended well, if one thought marriage was a happy ending. He’d seen no real evidence of that himself.

  Damn. Why was he thinking of anything but Harriet? She looked nervous, sitting with her hands twisting in her lap.

  “Dinner should be ready soon.” Thomas wondered if Hitchborn’s ear was plastered against the door. There was bound to be some speculation amongst the servants, but Thomas had stressed to his staff that Miss Benson was staying because of a family emergency. He paid them too well to gossip outside of his walls, but he imagined they were not hesitating to do so in their dining hall.

  “We—we don’t really need to eat together every evening, Sir Thomas.” Harriet was going to wear off the silver from her gloves if she kept fidgeting.

  “Thomas,” he reminded her. “Why do you say that? Everyone needs to eat.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’d be just as happy with a tray in my room.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t. How are we supposed to get to know each other better? Become friends.” Ah, that had got her attention.

  “Friends!” She sounded shocked, almost appalled.

  “Of course. You don’t expect me to just jump on top of you later, do you?” He was rather ready to do that right now, if truth be told.

  “I don’t know what to expect,” Harriet said. “I’m becoming horribly, horribly nervous.”

  “Well, we can’t have that. Finish your sherry.”

  She wrinkled her nose but dutifully obeyed. He was feeling like a lackwit himself. All his regular avenues of conversation were strewn with girders and assorted debris, much like that old derelict mill. He really could think of nothing but her golden shoulders and the shadowed crease of her ample bosom. Thomas had the urge to bend over and lick her skin.

  He’d get the books after dinner. They could go over them together, pick a mutually satisfactory pose and start from there. It needn’t be awkward if they planned ahead. Harriet was a planner, and that should reassure her.

  Would it have been simpler to hire a complete stranger to give him his long-delayed sexual experience? Perhaps. He’d thought about it more than a time or two. But it had seemed . . . distasteful. Businesslike. True, he’d entered into a formal arrangement with Harriet, but Thomas liked Harriet quite a bit, and was pleased to know his remuneration would change her life for the better. It was a win for the both of them, was it not?

  The drawing room door opened. “Dinner is served, Sir Thomas, Miss Benson.”

  Thomas looked for any hidden inflection in Hitchborn’s stentorian tone. His butler was much too proper to show any emotion.

  “Shall we?” He reached for Harriet’s hand again. With a quick tug from him, she was on her feet, only slightly unsteady.

  Thomas guided her into the candlelit dining room and came to an abrupt stop. The table had every one of its leaves in, and the two ornate place settings were a rugby field away from each other. Harriet probably wouldn’t even be able to see him over the flower-filled epergne. He should have spoken to Hitchborn before.

  “We shall serve ourselves, Hitchborn. Tell the footmen to bring everything up at the same time, or as best they can and not get crowned by Cook.”

  One had to be vigilant to notice Hitchborn’s eyelid twitch. “Very good, Sir Thomas.”

  “We can’t have this,” Thomas said as his butler disappeared into his pantry. He grabbed the plates and cutlery. “Will you pick up the glasses? Make two trips if you must. We’re moving you.”

  Harriet licked her lips. “What if I drop something?”

  “There’s more in the cupboards. Lots more. I’m not going to spend the whole meal shouting at you.” He plunked down the place setting next to his.

  Harriet clutched the stemware to her luscious ruby-covered breast. Lucky crystal. She squinted, then arranged them properly. Thomas was impressed.

  A bottle o
f champagne stood chilling on the sideboard, and Thomas poured. “Another toast—to friendship!”

  Harriet raised a doubtful eyebrow but drank. They seated themselves as a fleet of footmen brought in platters, a soup tureen, covered dishes and numerous bottles of wine. Thomas waved them away after they lit the chafing dishes, then he rose.

  “I shall serve you.”

  Thomas acquitted himself well, pairing the wines with the appropriate courses. More sherry with the consommé à la Victoria. Halibut with hollandaise sauce and a good German Moselle. Mutton cutlets, Green peas à la Française with claret. Teal, with gravy, watercress, and lemon, game chips and more claret.

  Harriet’s eyes were wide. “I can see straight through this potato it’s cut so thin! Do you eat like this every night?”

  Thomas laughed. If he were having a dinner party, some of the usual courses were actually missing. “No. I believe Cook must be trying to make a good impression on you. When I dine alone, it’s just soup, fish or beef, the odd veg, and pudding. Very fond of pudding, I am.” He got up, feeling more or less stuffed. But never too full for dessert. Life was to be savored, was it not? “Let’s see what the old girl has got for us tonight.”

  Savarin of peaches, his favorite. There were a cheese board and fruit and nuts as well.

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Harriet gasped.

  “Oh, but you could.” He cut a section of cake and peach and dangled it on his fork. “Open wide.”

  Her blush was delightful, rising from that intriguing shadow right to the tips of her ears. She took it neatly between her white teeth, her eyelids dropping in delight. It was as if she’d never had a proper dessert before.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  “It’s indescribable.”

  “Exactly!” Thomas chuckled.

  “I think my apple tart is better, though,” Harriet ventured.

  Thomas had a vision of Harriet in his vast kitchens wearing an apron. And only an apron. “Shh. Don’t let my cook hear you say that. You know your way around a stove then?”

  “Of course. Else my father and brothers would starve to death. They depend on me. I wonder what they’re doing tonight.” There was a little V of worry between her brows.

  “I forbid you to think about them. Let them fend for themselves for a change.” Damn the lot of them. In his heart of hearts, Thomas knew Harriet was doing this for her brothers’ school fees. He hoped she might enjoy herself with him anyway. He realized his responsibility there, and prayed he would not make a complete mess of it all.

  Supposedly men were born “knowing how to do it.” Thomas counted on that being true for Harriet’s sake. From what he’d observed, it all looked a bit painful and ridiculous.

  Blast. That wasn’t the spirit. He was usually a confident man. No one would ever guess his embarrassing secret. How difficult could it be? He was hard already.

  Chapter 20

  Harriet paced the room in a flimsy negligee set. It was not as bad as that transparent fleshlike thing from yesterday, but not much better. She had asked the Dickins and Jones saleswoman for a good plain flannel gown to be sent to Featherstone House. Obviously the woman’s hearing was defective, or she knew that Harriet was not really Sir Thomas’s sister. She probably thought Sir Thomas was keeping a seraglio after yesterday and that Amy person.

  The clock on the mantel ticked inexorably towards midnight and the New Year. Dinner and all those courses had taken an inordinate amount of time, but if Sir Thomas didn’t hurry up, he’d miss his first night as her master. Second, really, if she were to be technical. It was not her fault he’d squandered his first opportunity.

  Goodness. Harriet shivered, imagining Thomas in total control of her. She saw him in riding breeches and boots, and nothing else. His broad chest might be a little furry, and he would look down on her—

  Well, if his pants were still on, they’d never have any success. Harriet wasn’t inclined to tack an extra day on because of his dillydallying. The dates and terms of the contract were clear.

  Unless she was supposed to be going to his room. She didn’t even know where it was! Unthinkable to ask a footman, or worse, Hitchborn, who was no doubt lurking about even at this hour guarding his domain.

  No. She was fairly sure Sir Thomas had said he would come here. And she had to stop thinking of him as Sir Thomas outside of their working hours, and she was still working. Before the misbegotten shopping trip, she’d accomplished quite a bit regarding the Mount Street house. She’s go there tomorrow to make sure that porter fellow had arranged the new furniture in a sensible manner.

  There wasn’t to be a housekeeper. The running of the household was originally meant to fall to her. But now that she wasn’t going to be in charge after next week, she’d need to speak to the newly hired cook until Thomas could hire another secretary. The woman must be capable of supervising the skeleton staff.

  Harriet had looked forward to the artists’ venture, even if some of the art she’d seen was strange indeed—blobs and dabs and colors not found in nature. But she couldn’t keep working for Thomas after what they were going to do.

  Starting tonight.

  Or perhaps tomorrow morning, at this rate.

  What was keeping him? Was he as nervous as she was? Minnie had plucked her eyebrows and brushed Harriet’s hair a hundred strokes and it had been all she could do to sit still at the dressing table gaping at her reflection. She didn’t look like her usual self at all. The mark on her face was mostly still covered by powder. She’d wait to wash her face until after Thomas left.

  He would leave, wouldn’t he? Harriet had shared her bed when the boys were little, but she had no interest in Thomas’s elbows or anything else poking into her during the night, or listening to him snore.

  He was so tall that he made Harriet feel, if not dainty, somewhat normal-sized. But the reality was that both of them were nowhere near normal, and they would never fit on a bed together.

  Harriet threw herself down into the hearth chair and willed her heart to stop racing. She could do this. She must. The amount of money Thomas was paying her was so outrageous she would have to have been a saint to turn him down. Harriet was no saint. And if she were truthful, the idea of coupling with Sir Thomas Benedict Featherstone had its distinct appeal.

  Despite the best of her intentions and all those lessons in deportment at secretarial school, she had developed a pash for him after all.

  A tap at the door! At last.

  “Come.”

  She sounded like she had a case of laryngitis, but Thomas heard her and entered. He wore a handsome dressing gown the color of the port he’d had after their dinner. She’d had some, too, and that was part of her problem—though she’d only taken small sips of all the various wines he’d poured, her head was still spinning.

  Even without her spectacles, she could see he was carrying a book and a top hat. What on earth?

  “You look very fetching. But I think you should put on your specs. Don’t get up! I’ll get them.”

  “They’re on the dressing table.” More croaking.

  “I know. I can see.”

  Harriet sat in her chair as Thomas gently slid them on her nose. He was even more handsome now that his edges were crisp. His wavy dark hair gleamed in the electric light, and his face was so smooth he must have shaved again. He sat down in the chair opposite and grinned.

  “Now, we have a choice. We can get right to the book, or we can play a game first.”

  “A game?” Harriet closed her mouth before a fly wandered in.

  “To break the ice. Whoever wins gets first crack at looking at the book to decide how we proceed.”

  It must be one of the books, released from its dark drawer. She was instantly suspicious. Surely he’d read the thing before, many times judging by the worn leather spine. Did he mean for them to replicate one of the forbidden images? Harriet had presumed they would have carnal relations the regular way.

  Whatever that was.

/>   Thomas set the book down and pulled two decks of cards out of his hat. At least they weren’t rabbits.

  “I’m afraid I’m useless at cards. My brothers beat me regularly.” Harriet could never remember what had been played, and was too timorous in her betting. She’d been so damned conservative all her life.

  Except for right now, of course.

  “Oh, we won’t be playing vingt-et-un or anything like that. This is a children’s game that anyone can win. Well, anyone with the necessary appendages. I suppose one could use one’s toes in a pinch, but it would be devilishly difficult.”

  What did he mean? Harriet’s toes curled in her new satin bedroom slippers. Thomas placed the top hat a few feet away from them and handed her the red-backed cards. He kept the blue ones for himself and sat down. “Watch.”

  He tossed a card in the direction of the hat. It bounced off the brim to the rug. “The object of the game is to see who gets the most cards inside the hat. Your turn.”

  “But—” This seemed so silly. Thomas had the advantage, sitting taller in the chair and with longer arms to boot. The clock struck twelve and began to chime. Harriet looked over to Thomas in consternation but he was busy shuffling his deck.

  Likely he wasn’t playing with a full one. They had wasted their first day of sexual exploration and now were reduced to playing children’s party games!

  And he hadn’t even wished her a happy New Year, with a kiss or anything else.

  “Go on. Don’t be shy. Give it a try.” He sounded like a carnival barker.

  Harriet’s card tumbled through the air and straight into the hat. She felt absurdly pleased.

  Thomas’s next card joined hers. Soon they were winging the missiles at a furious pace, taunting each other and laughing at the absurdity. Many more cards were on the floor than in the hat. After an initial bout of luck, Harriet thought it would be Thomas who’d be flipping through the pages of that dratted book.