How to Treat a Lady (4 page)

Stifling a sigh, she approached the bed and looked down at the patient. He seemed sound asleep, no movement on his face, his breathing even and deep. “Sophia's being melodramatic.” Harriet took the cloth she'd dipped in the water and sat on the edge of the bed.

If he'd been handsome before, he was dangerously handsome now that he'd been cleaned up a bit. She frowned again. Was he
really
asleep? She tilted her head to one side, leaned over and peered closely at him, her nose only an inch from his.

Nothing happened. She breathed a little harder, letting her breath fan over his mouth. Again, noth
ing happened. His breathing never altered, his lashes didn't tremble, nothing.

Oh, for heaven's sake, what am I doing?
If he was awake, he would open his eyes, ask for something to eat, want to know where his horse was—something other than lie there dead to the world.

Relaxing a bit, Harriet straightened, though she found herself smoothing back the man's hair. Thick and soft to the touch, the black waves slid through her fingers. He remained deeply asleep, his lashes on the crest of his cheeks, his lips slightly parted…

Harriet looked at his mouth. Heaven had never made such a perfect pair of lips. Never.

Sophia had kissed those lips. Harriet wondered for just the barest moment what it had been like. Heaven knew she hadn't ever kissed such a beautiful man. She supposed she never would.

Harriet's heart lowered. It was a pity there was no real Captain John Frakenham. If there had been, she'd want him to look just like this man, with his dark hair and blue eyes…She sighed, admonishing herself for her silliness.

Still, somehow her fingers found their way through the man's hair, and then traced the line of his brow to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, his skin shadowed by a day's growth of facial hair.

If this really were the captain, she could kiss him with impunity. Kiss him because he was a man and because he was hers. The idea made her tingle, and, without another thought, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

For an instant, a warm shiver shot through her, raising the fine hair on her arms and tightening her
chest. It was as if she'd stepped through a blast of hot air, her body absorbing the warmth.

Then something happened. The heat intensified. Harriet opened her eyes and found she was right. She had indeed stepped into a blast of heat—one that emanated from his blue, blue eyes. The man was no longer asleep.

Just as in the story, Prince Charming had awakened with a kiss.

C
hase wasn't sure what was fantasy, what reality. One moment, he'd been floating in a sea of darkness, an ache behind his eyes as he struggled to find his way to the surface. The next moment, he was being summoned forth by a pair of soft, feminine lips.

His gaze dropped to those very
real
lips now. Full and moist, they were amazingly sensual in a face
that was otherwise rather plain. Indeed, the little servant or housemaid who had just kissed him wasn't his usual fare.

For one thing, she was far too thin—completely without the beguiling plumpness and lush curves he usually sought. She had brown eyes, brown hair, even her skin was brown, as if she spent a great amount of time outdoors. Nothing about her appealed to him.

Still…she was close. Within reach, in fact.

He slid his hands up her arms and down again, the cap sleeves on her linen gown crisp against his fingers, the fresh sweet scent of lemon tickling his nose. Chase didn't hesitate—despite the nagging ache behind his eyes, he pulled her across his lap.

She gasped and struggled, her eyes widening in surprise, but he held her firmly. Chase wasn't sure who the chit was, but he had to admit that she affected him. His body was warming by the second, his manhood stirring as if he held a prime morsel in his lap and not a plain mouse of a maid. It was a lovely distraction from his rather annoying headache. He must have drunk too much port the night before.

“Let me go,” she said, her voice pitched low, the sound both soft and unyielding.

Something about that voice tickled the back of Chase's memory. He wasn't sure where he'd heard it, but he had. All he knew was that if the woman now lying across his lap was half as seductive as her voice, he was in for a hell of a night.

Wherever he was, he might as well take advantage of all the amenities. He pulled the little maid against him, holding her imprisoned to his chest. Servant
girl, daughter of the house, he really didn't care. He wanted to taste her and b'God, he would.

“You—what—” she sputtered. “Let me u—”

He kissed her. Hard. Pressing his mouth against hers, halting her words, and capturing her breath in his mouth. She didn't fight him, but lay stiffly in his arms as if suffering his touch.

Chase paused. Most housemaids pretended to resist, but only for a second. Most of them wanted to be romped as much as he wanted to romp them. But this woman offered no encouragement. None at all. In fact, she was unbending, stiff, anything but pliant.

His interest piqued, Chase deepened the kiss, covering her mouth with his. He ravaged, plundered, took, and demanded. She stiffened in his arms, and then…slowly, ever so slowly, she relaxed and let him do his worst.

And Chase's worst was good. Better than good—his efforts were masterly, and he knew it, had worked to perfect them. He might have failed being a St. John in many ways, but never in the bedroom.

He'd pleased and tormented, seduced and fulfilled more women than he could remember. And he took pleasure in their pleasure—took satisfaction in the realization that none would ever forget him or their time together.

He'd sampled beautiful women aplenty and usually found his delights in the more sophisticated connections. Yet here he was in the middle of the godforsaken country and a slip of a woman, this rather unremarkable housemaid, not only had an astonishing effect on his senses, but she also was not responding to his caresses. At all.

It was a challenge of the first order.

He applied himself with increased ardor, getting even more aroused as he did so. His head hurt like the devil, but that was nothing compared to the maelstrom of heat that swirled through his veins and pooled in his loins while holding this woman. B'god, he'd teach her a lesson or two.

Chase deepened the kiss, lengthened it, stretched it across time until he forgot all of his aches and pains and remembered nothing but the hot, sweet warmth of the woman in his arms. Of her taste and her scent and the heat of her skin beneath his fingers.

For her part, the little maid began to move restlessly beneath his ministrations. Soon, she was busy kissing him back, though not in a particularly satisfying way. She was hesitant, almost shy. As if perhaps she'd never—

Bloody hell, he was kissing a virgin! The thought cleared his muddled senses and iced his ardor. Chase would never know how he was so certain of that fact, but he'd have staked what was left of his life on it—the woman had never been kissed. Never been held in this manner. Never been anything.

Reluctantly, Chase lifted his head and looked down at her. For an instant, she remained where she was, a bemused look in her brown eyes, her lips parted and moist. She was a taking thing, he decided, mildly surprised to discover that she wasn't nearly as plain as he'd first thought. Up close, he could see that she was delicately made, her nose perfectly drawn, her eyes thickly lashed, her body whip thin, but gently curved.

She was, in fact, quite fetching. It was a pity she was a virgin. Chase avoided innocent women like the plague; they were far too prone to nervous twitters for his liking. He loosened his hold, and she in
stantly scrambled out of his arms and off the bed. Her feet thumped on the floor, and she whirled to face him, her eyes flashing fire.

She was even prettier mussed and upset, he decided. Her eyes shone with indignation, the velvety brown depths sparkling gold. Her skin, an unfashionable tan, was now touched with pink.

For some reason, Chase found himself grinning. “That's enough pleasantries for now. I am, after all, a wounded man.”

“Pleasantries?” She sounded as if she was about to choke. “You call that a pleasantry?”

“Among other things.” He nodded a greeting. “'Tis time for an introduction. Who are you?”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” she said. “Who are
you
?”

“I asked first,” Chase said gently. “So you have to tell me first.”

She smoothed her skirts, the gesture amazingly calm, considering she was a virgin and had just been sitting in his lap. By his reckoning, she should be…upset. Instead, she eyed him with something ridiculously near disgust, even though her lips were still plump from his kisses. “I am Miss Harriet Ward. And you, sir, are in Garrett Park, my home.”

So she wasn't a housemaid, after all. Garrett Park…the name meant nothing to him. “Where is this place?”

“North Walton. Near the coast.”

The coast. His memory came flooding back. He'd been on his way to catch a ship. He'd left his home, his family, everything. Not because he'd wanted to, but because he'd had to. Because he'd lost the right to be a St. John.

The thought tightened his throat, and it was with
difficulty that he managed to say, “How did I come to be here?”

“We found you, in the forest.” Her gaze flickered to his forehead and back. “Remember?”

Chase touched his forehead gingerly. It felt curiously tight, almost as if—his fingers found the bandage. He closed his eyes and let the thoughts flood over him. The attack. The robbery. The sight of Mother's ring falling to the ground…

He opened his eyes and found his companion watching him narrowly. What was her name? Ah yes. Harriet. Harriet Ward.
Miss
Harriet Ward.

Her voice broke his musings. “Do you remember?” she asked again, softly insistent.

Chase opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. If he told this woman who he was, considering that his brother Devon owned a house somewhere around here, word was bound to leak out. And the last thing he wanted was the sight of his brothers, all four of them, arriving to bundle him back to London. He'd made his decision and he was not about to waver, even with this little setback.

He glanced from under his lashes at the woman who stood beside the bed. She gripped her hands together, her body erect, her shoulders set. She looked as if she was ready for the firing squad, though he detected the faintest tremble to her soft lips. A smile tickled the corner of his mouth at the sight. Inexperienced she might be, but she possessed her own passions.

“Well?” asked Miss Harriet Ward, her silken voice edged with a shred of prickly lace. “What is your name? I gave you mine.”

Chase leaned back against the pillows, aware that besides a great ache in his head and a general over
all weariness, he really didn't feel all that unwell. “Miss Ward, I would tell you my name if I could, but I cannot.”

A flicker of disbelief crossed her face. “You don't know your name?”

“I don't
remember
it.”

“Oh. Do you…do you know where you came from?”

He paused a moment, as if thinking, then said, “No, I don't know that, either.”

Her gaze narrowed. She was a tough one, he realized with a faint sense of appreciation.

“Do you remember where you were going?”

Chase pursed his lips as if he could almost remember that. But then, after a moment, he shook his head. “No.”

“Are you married?”

“No! I mean,” he added hastily, “I don't think so.”
Damn, I have to be careful or she'll figure me out.

She muttered something that sounded to his fuzzy ears like “piffle,” if that was indeed a word.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking.” She crossed her arms, staring at him as if he were a particularly nasty bug to be pinned to a display. “Do you remember being attacked?”

Chase frowned. Should he pretend to remember that? Or not? Perhaps the best answer was a nonanswer. “I suppose…I think…you said you found me in a forest?”

“Yes. Not far from here. By the way, your horse is fine.”

He brightened, then caught her eye and realized his error. He forced himself to frown. “A horse? I must have been riding, then.”

“And drinking.”

Of course he'd been drinking. He'd been desperate to dull the pain of his homesickness. Still…that was not something he wished to admit to the little puritan facing him now—and he was quite certain she was a puritan. No one else could look so disapproving and for nothing more serious than a few gulps of brandy.

Chase opted for an innocent lift of his brows. “Are you
certain
I was drinking?”

“You reeked of brandy, and an empty bottle was found nearby.”

“Perhaps it was in my saddlebag and just leaked out,” he suggested mildly.

“Hm.” She appeared unconvinced. Completely unconvinced.

Chase's amusement was quickly leaving, replaced by a sort of wary fascination. Miss Harriet Ward was obviously no fool. And she ruffled up like a wet hen when she was upset. For some reason, Chase found that he rather liked that outraged expression. Liked it a lot. Liked it so much that it made him want to reach out, scoop her up, and kiss her senseless.

He touched his forehead and wondered how hard he'd been hit. “I need to see a doctor.”

She turned and picked up a cloth and dipped it in a bowl that sat steaming beside the bed. “Dr. Blackthorne just left. He said you'd be fine.”

Chase had no doubt that Blackthorne was some sort of country bumpkin who knew more about torn horse ligaments than doctoring actual people. “What exactly did the good doctor say?”

As if she detected the sarcasm he'd tried to hide, Harriet shot him a look from beneath her lashes. She
wrung out the cloth, then reached over and pressed it against his brow. “You can speak to the doctor yourself when next he comes.”

The warm cloth worked magic on Chase. He closed his eyes, a strange lassitude weighing him down. The ache behind his eyes began to melt away.

Harriet, for her part, was having a difficult time remaining stoic. The man was so handsome, resting against the pillows, his black hair falling over the bandage in the most interesting way. His eyes had especially caught her attention. Bright blue and clear, she had the feeling that she could see all the way into his soul.

Heaven help her, but he was a beautiful man. And the realization that this bit of perfection had held her in his arms and kissed her madly, passionately, as if she were the only woman in the world…Harriet thought she would burst into flames at any second. Not from embarrassment, though had she any sense she would feel at least a little, but from pure hot lust.

Harriet was no stranger to kisses. She'd been kissed before. Twice, in fact. Once was three years ago, at the farmer's fair in Newmarket. She'd been walking along the stalls, a basket over her arm, when a lad had run by, grabbed her, and planted a firm kiss on her lips, then run off.

And then, two years ago, Colonel Hillbright's grandson, Mr. Landry, had come from London for a visit. Harriet later learned that Mr. Landry was actually in hiding from his creditors, but when she'd first met him, she'd thought him dashing and pleasant.

Indeed, they'd embarked on a three-week flirtation that had ended in the back garden of Garrett Park with a very brief kiss. He'd left the following day, his pocket stuffed with the draft for funds that
he'd finally wormed out of his grandfather. Harriet was certain that he never again gave her or his grandfather another thought.

For her part, Harriet had been similarly disaffected. Still, she'd been glad for the episode as she'd thought it would be the only taste of passion she'd ever have—her only brush with the fires within. Apparently she'd thought wrong. Mr. Landry's kiss, which she'd managed to romanticize over the last two years, suddenly faded into insignificance. It was a mere peck on the cheek in the face of this new kiss.

A real kiss, she realized. From a real man. One who was obviously very experienced in such matters.

Harriet dipped the cloth back into the basin, noting that the patient's eyes opened reluctantly. He gave her a sleepy half smile, his lids lowered over his eyes. “That felt soooo good.”

Harriet resolutely subdued the hot tingle that flashed through her. What was it about this man that ignited such feelings? Perhaps it was the mystery. Yes, that's what it was. She was a tidy person, one who liked all the chess pieces left on the board in their proper places. And this man, lying before her, was definitely out of place. She lowered the warm cloth to his face once again. “Better?” she asked in her most practical, efficient voice.