Trouble With Harry (6 page)

McTavish's lower lip emerged, and his eyes clouded for a moment, then just as quickly the tears were gone and the lip was retracted. “Can I have a kitten now, Papa? You said I couldn't have one because it would eat Ratty, but now Ratty's gone to heaven, so can I have a kitten? Can I? You said I could! Can I?”

Harry sent Plum an apologetic look that begged her forgiveness for his lapse in not mentioning he already had a child. She returned it with one that said although she would have preferred being told earlier, she understood, and was more than happy to be mother to his adorable son. His responding look offered fervent and profound thanks for her complete acceptance of his hitherto unmentioned son, along with general admiration for her maternal nature, and the promise that he would give her many other children of her own. At least that's what she thought he was trying to convey; truthfully, he looked more concerned than anything else, but she was sure she had read the emotions so plainly visible in his lovely, changeable eyes. What man didn't want his new wife to love and adore his child?

“We'll talk about it later, son. Here, you take Ratty and put him in a box. We'll have a funeral for him in the morning. Give it to Gertie on your way back to bed.” Harry pushed the small child toward the door, giving Plum another apologetic look over his shoulder.

“I want a kitten! You said I could have a kitten, and I want one. I want one now!”

“Later,” Harry hissed and tried to shove the boy through the opened door.

McTavish grabbed the door frame with the hand that was not holding the rat. His hazel eyes, so very much like his father's that it tugged on Plum's heartstrings, pleaded with her from across the room as Harry tried to pry the five pudgy little fingers off the door. “Mama, I want a kitten. Papa said I could have one.”

He called her Mama! She melted into a big puddle of maternal goo. “And so you shall have one, my sweet little lamby-cake. The first thing in the morning I will take you to find a kitten all your very own. It will be our special time together.”

“Later,” Harry snarled, prying the last finger off the door frame.

He yelped as McTavish kicked him smartly on the shin before spinning around to run through the doorway, yelling to someone named Gertie that his new mama was going to get him a kitten.

Harry shook his fist after the boy. “You little bas”—he glanced back at Plum—“blighter! I'll remember that, see if I don't!”

Plum smiled a shy little smile that went straight to Harry's groin as he closed the door and turned to face her. She was a wonder! Not only was she the most delectable morsel of womanhood he had seen in a very long while; she had lovely breasts; an amiable temper; seductive hips; an intelligent wit; long, lush legs; various other good nonphysical qualities that couldn't at that exact moment be called to mind; nipples that cried out for his touch; a mouth that begged to be kissed; a body that felt like heaven against his… Unable to bear the distance between them, Harry lunged forward, intent on possessing himself of that warm, wonderful woman he had had the extremely good sense to marry.

Plum stopped him with one hand on his chest. He almost whimpered, but he recalled that he was a gentleman, and gentlemen do not whimper, or grovel, or plead, or even get down on their knees and beg when their wives wish to talk rather than make love. No, gentlemen like him drag their minds from the contemplation of just what they'd like to do to the temptresses who stand before them in almost completely transparent bits of cloth, cloth so thin the shadows of her lovely nipples were visible, nipples that called to him, nipples that pleaded with him to take them into his mouth and suckle them with every ounce of desire he possessed, and he possessed an ocean's worth of desire.

“Harry, dear Harry, how silly you are.” Silly? She thought he was silly? Was that good? She was smiling at him, it must be good. Hurrah! “How could you possibly think I wouldn't want to know about your son?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask which son she meant, but he remembered in time the grand scheme he had concocted just that morning for easing Plum into the knowledge that she was now stepmother to five hellions, a plan necessitated by the fact that said children had set the vicar's carriage alight while the vicar was examining the special license Harry had presented him. She seemed to be pleased with McTavish—then again, it wasn't her shin the little monster had assaulted—which boded well for the future. If he spread out introductions to the children over the next few weeks, relying upon Gertie and George and the rest of the staff to keep the children out of sight, perhaps she wouldn't be too upset with them. And him. He particularly wanted her to be happy with him, because a happy wife was a wife who allowed her husband to do all sorts of wonderful things to her delicious, desirable person.

“He's adorable, he really is. How old is he?”

Harry looked down at the hand that was now softly caressing the middle of his chest, and was struck with a sudden desire to take each dainty fingertip into his mouth. “How old is who?”

She giggled. It was such a delightful, joyous sound, Harry wanted to giggle with her. He probably would have, except he'd never giggled before and wasn't sure if he knew how.

“McTavish. How old is he?”

“He'll be six in December.”

“He's sweet, and he looks just like you. You must be very proud of him.”

Proud? Of McTavish? Harry dragged his mind back from the vision of what else Plum possessed that he'd like to taste, and thought about what she had said. He owed her that much. Gentlemen did not feel lust for their wives. A gentleman might desire his lady, but he also appreciated her keen intellect. Lust was for lesser people, men who thought solely of their own base needs, and never those of the enticing woman before them. “The lad likes animals. Doesn't care if they're alive or dead, he likes them all. I suppose that's an admirable trait. Yes, I'm proud of him. Underneath the surface clay, there's good soil in him.” Harry gave her a curious look. “You're not angry that I didn't tell you about him?”

“Angry?” She smiled again, one of those lovely, charming smiles that captured his heart and filled him with utter and complete lust…
desire
. And joy. There was lots and lots of joy, too. Much more joy than base physical desire. “No, I'm not angry. After all, you didn't know that Thom came with me when you offered to wed me.”

“But I knew about her before we were married. Temple told me what you'd told him about your niece. You had the decency to tell me everything about you, whereas I—”

A sudden frown diminished the lust…
joy
running amok inside him. She nibbled her strawberry-ripe lower lip. “About that—”

He couldn't resist. He had to taste her lips just one more time. Her breath caught and held as he plunged into her sweet mouth, feeling himself harden even more as she moved against him, sliding her fingers into his hair, tasting him as he tasted her. She was heaven, she was bliss, she was—

“There you are. What are you doing in here? Gertie says I can't wear my hair up until I'm fifteen, but I think—oh.”

Harry could have cried, he could have sat right down on the floor and cried. He tore his lips from Plum's, smugly satisfied by the misted passion in her eyes, then released her so he could glare at his daughter. She wasn't supposed to be here. He had her down for an introduction to Plum tomorrow at tea.

India was examining his new wife, her brows drawn together, her hands on her hips in a pose that was very much like Beatrice's whenever she had been displeased with him. “Is that her, then?”

He frowned. McTavish might not know better, but India certainly did. “Plum, this young woman who has apparently lost her manners is India, my daughter.”

“A daughter.” Plum blinked a couple of times, but didn't demand an immediate annulment, something Harry was profoundly thankful for. “You have a daughter. Named India. What an unusual name. Good evening, India. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He could have kissed Plum, he was so grateful. She didn't rail at him, she didn't accuse him of not being truthful about the children, she just cast him a curious glance and went forward to give India one of those polite little hugs that women who don't know one another well give each other. Yes, she deserved to be kissed, and he was just the man to see the job done.

“You're Plum?” India asked, her eyes meeting Harry's in surprised horror as Plum hugged her.

Kissing his wife was his duty, after all.

Plum stepped back and divided a bright, sunny smile between India and him. “Yes, I'm Plum. Your father didn't…er…that is, I hadn't expected to meet you tonight, but I'm so glad you came in to say hello.”

Kissing her would tell her just how much he approved of and appreciated her.

“We must have a good long chat in the morning. I know some very fetching hairstyles that I'm sure will make you even prettier than you already are.”

Oftentimes, kissing led to other, more full-bodied experiences.

“My niece, Thom, will want to meet you, as well. Thom has curly hair, like yours. I'm sure she'll have some advice as to the best way to wear it.”

Plum liked kissing him; therefore, he would be selfish to keep such a pleasure from her. Cruel, even. Harry was not a cruel man. He might not be madly in love with Plum, but he liked her, and he wanted her happy and sated. Particularly sated. Although happy was good, too.

“Papa?” India said, her eyes huge as Plum lifted her braid and wrapped it in a coronet on the top of her head, prattling all the while about hair-related subjects that were so dear to the female heart.

“Yes,” Harry said, agreeing to whatever it would take to get India out of the room and Plum into his bed.

“Yes?” India dipped away from Plum, unwinding her braid and giving his wife an outraged look.

“Yes.” He glanced at Plum. Both of her deliciously straight brows were raised in mute surprise. Evidently yes wasn't the answer she expected him to give. “No,” he corrected himself. Plum's eyebrows lowered to their normal straight line. He smiled at her, pleased he got the answer right.

“Papa!” India gasped as Harry grabbed her arm. He opened the door to the hallway, and still smiling at Plum, tugged his daughter out. “Papa, you didn't even hear—”

“We had an agreement, didn't we?” Harry whispered, leaning close to India's ear. “You agreed not to disturb me tonight for anything short of death, dismemberment, or the apocalypse, and in return I will buy you the Hamilton's gray mare with white stockings. That was our agreement. I have your signed statement, which I do not hesitate to point out is binding in any court of law.”

“Yes, but—”

Harry gave her his best annoyed father look, the one he kept in reserve for emergencies. India, an intelligent little whelp, knew that she hadn't a leg to stand on, and after uttering a word he would take up with her another time, and stomping her foot perilously close to his bare toes, she huffed off. Harry lost no time in zipping back into the bedchamber and resuming the activities that had twice been so grievously interrupted. He didn't even give Plum time to say anything other than a startled, “Harry!” before he was engaged in a tactile exploration of her wonderfully warm, wet mouth.

“India says you're getting the gray mare for her. You said you'd get me a horse as soon as we were settled! I'm an earl, she's just a lady.
I
should have the next horse.”

Harry pulled back until his lips just brushed Plum's as he spoke. “That's my oldest son, Digger, Lord Marston. Ignore him and he'll go away.”

He tried to possess her lips again, but she slipped out of his arms. “Digger?”

“It's short for Diggory. You're Plum. India said you were scrawny and you touched her hair. She doesn't like to be touched. She's a girl,” Digger said, as if that explained it all.

Harry fought back the desire to throttle his son and heir—he had other sons, as he had pointed out to Digger on many occasions—and prepared to explain the situation to his wife.

She was looking at Digger with pursed lips, a look she transferred to him. “Another son. Exactly how many children do you have, my lord?”

He winced at the “my lord.” Her tone had gone from warm and arousing, to cold and suspicious in the matter of a few seconds.

“Er…at last count I had—”

The door to the hallway was slammed open, Anne and Andrew rolling through the doorway in an angry assortment of elbows, knees, and feet.

“It's mine! It has the blue top, that's mine! Yours is the one with the yellow top!” Andrew jerked a small wooden boat out of Anne's hands.

She got to her knees and punched her twin in his belly. “Stupid! Mine is the blue one, yours is yellow!”

“—five children.”

“Five?”

“MINE!” Andrew kicked out with both of his legs, one of which clipped Anne on the jaw. She yelped and dived onto him, her fists and feet flying.

“That's Anne and Andrew. They're twins,” Digger said helpfully.

“Yes, that's correct, just the five children,” Harry said with a weak smile at Plum.

The twins barreled into the dressing table, knocking over various bottles and pots of feminine unguents and scents that Temple had purchased upon Harry's order. A box of powder exploded as the table went flying, filling the air with a rose-scented cloud while twin sapphire blue bottles holding extremely expensive scents crashed onto the floor, spilling their contents onto the rose and damask rug. Various small pots scattered, disgorging their contents as well. Anne and Andrew began to cough, having gulped in rose powder-laden air. Andrew pulled Anne's hair. She bit his hand. Digger sauntered over to Plum and told her he didn't think she was scrawny at all, she just needed a bit of fattening up.