Nell endured it all in relative silence, trying to be as polite and cooperative as she could but wholly unable to enter into the spirit of things. She left most of the decisions to Lady Gosforth, Cooper, and Bragge.
She felt sick at heart. What if Torie was one of those babies they’d seen and her own mother hadn’t recognized her?
The mantua maker, the boot maker, the tailor—for her habit—and the milliner’s assistant noticed nothing amiss, but Lady Gosforth did.
The moment they’d finished, Lady Gosforth dismissed them all. As soon as they were alone she pushed Nell onto the settee and plumped down beside her. “What’s the matter?” she demanded, fixing her with a gimlet stare.
“Matter?” Nell began.
“Don’t try any of that nonsense on me, young lady. Do you think just because I use spectacles for reading that I cannot see what’s as plain as the nose on my face? Whatever it is that’s been taking you and my nephew out all day every day, it’s got nothing to do with Harry’s legal business or the estate. It’s all about you. I can see it in his eyes.”
Nell bit her lip.
Lady Gosforth continued, “Last night you came home looking as sick as a parrot, and now both of you have returned with faces as long as a wet week. And you, my girl, have approached the purchase of some beautiful clothes—clothes that any other young woman your age would give her eyeteeth for—as if it were a . . . a visit to the dentist. So . . .” She waited.
Nell didn’t know where to start. She’d wanted to explain to Lady Gosforth about her daughter; it hadn’t felt right not to tell her. She was relieved now that the moment had come, but it was all so huge, she didn’t know how to begin.
Lady Gosforth leaned forward and took her hand. “Listen, my dear,” she began in a much softer tone, “I never did have a daughter, though it was the dearest wish of my life, and you don’t seem to have a mother, so—”
Nell burst into tears.
By the time Harry came to fetch Nell, wondering what had held her up, Nell had sobbed out most of her story on Lady Gosforth’s large and comforting bosom.
As soon as he entered, Nell jumped to her feet, saying, “Is it time to leave now?”
Harry’s gaze shot straight to her red-rimmed eyes.
“It’s all right, Harry,” Lady Gosforth said. “Nell has told me everything and we’ve both had a good cry, which has done both of us a power of good, though you wouldn’t think so to look at us, I know. Now off you go and find that baby.”
They walked together to the front door, where the curricle was waiting. Lady Gosforth gave Nell a quick hug. “You will know her when you see her, my dear, I am certain, so don’t worry.”
Harry gave Nell a shocked look. “Was that what upset you before?” he asked as they drove off. “The fear that you wouldn’t recognize Torie?”
She nodded miserably. He put his arm around her, saying nothing.
They returned late again that night after another long and fruitless day. Harry tried to boost Nell’s spirits all through supper, but a small stone of doubt had settled in her heart.
If her daughter was lost forever, Nell didn’t know how she could ever live with the knowledge. If she’d only slept that night with Torie in her arms, instead of leaving her in the basket . . . It would haunt her forever. She could never forgive herself.
Harry sat beside her, talking with quiet resolution of what tomorrow might bring and passing her dishes he hoped would tempt her appetite. Though her fears had driven away all appetite, Nell ate to please him and because she knew she should.
She might be plagued with doubts and fears and riddled with guilt, but she would never give up on her daughter. While there was breath in her body, she would search.
Thirteen
T
he following morning, Nell awoke to the soft sound of rain pattering against her bedroom windows.
It was too wet to go riding in the park. She would copulate with him this morning, she decided. She owed him that, at the very least.
Harry lay on his side, one arm sprawled protectively across the pillow above her head, the other curved around her waist, his hand loosely splayed across her midriff, just beneath her breasts. Nell lay curled against him, his relaxed, brawny body a source of warmth and comfort. Her feet were tucked between his calves. She felt safe, protected.
She turned her head so that her cheek lay against his arm and breathed in his clean, masculine scent, now so familiar to her, and so dear.
With Harry sleeping beside her she didn’t feel so alone, so lonely. Amazing how in such a short time she’d grown accustomed to sleeping with a man in her bed.
Or rather awakening to one. Every night she went to bed alone and each morning woke up, well rested in his arms. Presumably she was still walking in her sleep.
His breathing was steady and regular. His arousal pressed into her bottom, as always. It intrigued her. She knew about how horses reproduced, and dogs, and it seemed people were much the same. Except, she wasn’t in season, so why would he be aroused?
The why didn’t matter, she told herself. He was ready for her and this morning they would . . . what was the correct word? Mate? Copulate?
He stirred, moving sleepily. His legs brushed against the skin of her thighs, and the sensation shivered through her, not unpleasantly. His arousal pressed insistently against her.
It was time.
She took a deep breath and turned over to face him. He was awake and watching her.
“Morning,” he said in a deep, slightly hoarse voice. He smoothed a curl of hair out of her eyes and tucked it gently behind her ear. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. Thank you.” His hot flesh brushed against her stomach and she blinked.
“I’m disturbing you,” he said instantly. “I’ll leave.” He made to move away.
“No, s-stay.” Her voice came out as a thread.
Harry frowned. She looked and sounded scared stiff. He glanced around the room, but all was still and silent. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She swallowed. “I want to c-copulate with you.”
Harry scrutinized her face. “No, you don’t,” he said after a moment. She was strung tight as a bowstring. So was he, though in a different way.
“I do, I really do. You’ve been so kind to me, so good.” Her eyes were wide and clear and anxious. “I want to thank you, and I know you want me, so . . .” She swallowed again.
She was
grateful
. Harry tried not to let his feelings show. He was angry, not with her, but with himself, for not seeing this coming.
She wanted to thank him—dammit!—by making the ultimate sacrifice.
He wanted her body, yes, but not like this, as some kind of payment. And he sure as hell didn’t want her
gratitude
.
“You don’t want me, and you don’t need to thank me. I’m away to my morning ride. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He leaned forward and kissed her briefly on the mouth. Her lips were cold and trembling. He flung back the covers to get out.
“No,” she said and made a grab for him. He was pretty sure she’d been aiming to catch him by the waist. Or the thigh. The hem of his drawers, perhaps . . .
It wasn’t what she ended up holding. Through the cotton of his drawers she held him. His body responded instantly.
She gripped him more firmly. He tried not to arch against the pressure. He clamped his jaw tight. He must have made some sort of noise because her eyes widened in concern.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked. The hand gripping him loosened, but didn’t let go.
“No,” he managed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I want to copulate with you. Today. Now.”
Yes, to pay off her debt, he thought bitterly. “And what if I don’t want to copulate?”
“You do,” she said with flat certainty. “I might be ignorant of many things but I’ve watched enough stallions covering mares to know you’re ready to mate. With me. Now.”
Shudders rippled through him. God, yes, he was ready to mate with her now. He had been since the moment he’d clapped eyes on her. But he wasn’t an animal and he could control his desires. He could.
Her hand tightened around him. He gritted his teeth and waited. There was a long silence.
He ought to pull away now. She was shaking like a leaf. But he couldn’t make himself move. He’d wanted her too long. He wasn’t in control at all he realized. Only part of him was, the part that refused to leave. He couldn’t help giving in to it. To her.
“I don’t know what to do next,” she said in frustration. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Tell me what to do.”
He was tempted to just take over and do what he’d been dying to do ever since he first saw her: take over, make love to every inch of her.
But then he remembered what had been done to her. If he gave free rein to his lustful instincts, she’d be even more terrified than she was already.
It was probably going to kill him, but if he didn’t want to bed a sacrificial lamb—and he sure as hell didn’t—he had to let her feel her own way into this.
Feel being the operative word.
“Do whatever you want,” he grated. Bad enough that his body was racked with the effort of restraining every instinct, now she wanted instructions?
She gave him a frustrated look and he recalled that she might be a mother but she was virtually inexperienced. He swore silently.
“Look, touch, taste,” he explained. “Do whatever you want to me, I won’t mind.” He gave a rueful smile. “I’ll love it whatever you do. You’re right, I want you, badly. But I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to. I’m putty in your hands.”
“Putty?” she said with a glint of humor. “This doesn’t feel like putty to me.” She squeezed.
He gave a small choke of laughter. It lightened the moment, eased the tension. He felt her relax a little.
He watched her thinking it over, still holding firmly to his cock through his drawers.
“I’m usually naked,” he said.
Her eyes went to the buttons on the waistband, then she slowly let him go. He wanted to tell her to take it back, but he gritted his teeth and waited. It was going to be hell, but if he could only be patient and keep himself under control, heaven could be just around the corner.
Heaven was here in a thin white cotton nightgown, frowning and blushing as she undid the buttons of his drawers. There were only three. She had them undone in a trice.
She glanced at him. “You really did mean naked?”
“Yes,” he ground out. She seemed surprised. So the bastard had been dressed, Harry surmised. Good. The more differences between them the better.
She pulled his drawers slowly down, past his belly button and pausing at the place where the arrow of dark hair down his belly thickened. Without taking his eyes off her, he lifted his backside off the bed to enable her to pull his drawers off. She took a deep breath and dragged them down past his knees. Her eyes widened as his cock sprang free.
He kicked his drawers off the rest of the way and tried to look relaxed as she examined him. She was blushing furiously, but her jaw was set at a determined angle. She was going to go through with it.
So was he. The thought gave him a spurt of wry amusement. Which of them was the sacrificial lamb? He was starting to wonder.
Her lips were parted; her breaths came in soft puffs. She was aroused, Harry saw. Not as much as he was, but it was a hopeful sign.
Her hand hovered indecisively over his cock. Harry held his breath, but she moved to his chest. She smoothed soft, cool palms over him, exploring the difference between them. The friction of skin on skin.
She leaned over him, her breasts swaying behind their white cotton shroud. He followed the sharp peaks of her nipples with hungry eyes. She explored his body, running her hands across his shoulders, down his arms, her brow furrowed in concentration. Learning him. Her lips were parted and he caught the scent of her. He craved the taste of her in his mouth.
But if he moved, if he touched her, started kissing her, he might not be able to stop. She lightly brushed against his nipples and he arched involuntarily. Make that would not be able to stop.
He closed his eyes, thinking that might make it easier. It didn’t. With each caress, each stroke, his body thrummed to the call of male to female. And the scent of warm female intensified. Every particle of his body strained and ached and throbbed to join with her.
Harry clenched the bedsheets in determined fists. If it killed him, he would endure this. For her. It didn’t matter that every shred of control he had would be stretched to the limit.
Because that’s what she needed from him.
She was a coward, Nell thought, avoiding his . . . thing. She didn’t have a word for it. A horse’s was called a pizzle, but it didn’t seem right somehow, to use the same word for a man.
It had felt hot through the cotton before. But it had grown bigger since she’d stripped him naked, and she was a bit hesitant to touch it again, yet. She would, of course, in the end.
She tried not to think about the end. This was different. This was fascinating. To have this big, magnificent male animal naked under her touch, lying there like a big lion, tense, but so willing to be petted . . .
His desire for her was palpable. She felt warmed by it. More than warmed. Scorched. And yet she didn’t fear it.
His skin was so smooth and resilient, nicked and scarred in a number of places. Years at war, he’d said once.
“Where did you get this?” She traced a jagged white scar with her finger.
“A French bayonet,” he told her. He didn’t take his eyes off her.
She placed a finger in a puckered hollow of skin. “And this?”
He frowned. “A ball, I think. Or maybe some shrapnel.”
“You don’t know?”
He gave a faint smile. “I believe I was insensible at the time the surgeon dug it out. I got this at the same time.” He turned his head and she saw a scar running behind his ear and up into his scalp.