“…Not yet. I am awaiting correspondence from the Winchesters or the next opportunity to be seen, where word would get back to them.”
Jeremy had been staring at her legs. She had pretty feet, he realized. Dainty and well-formed with pale, blemish-free skin.Her ankles, revealed in the absence of stockings, were delicate, her calves nicely curved with smooth, milky skin.
“What happened to your shoes and stockings?” he asked, suddenly realizing the oddity of the sight.
Harriet grimaced, hiding one foot behind the other as though embarrassed.
“I removed them to paddle in a stream, and... they fell in. I could not recover them without soaking my dress, so chose not to.”
Jeremy grinned despite himself, standing up. “You walked the rest of the way home barefoot? You must be terribly footsore.”
“It was field and wood for the most part,” she added defensively, “this morning, when I awoke, I spotted a church spire in the distance that I had not seen the day before. I recognized it as Danbury and headed as straight for it as I could.”
“Very… resourceful,” he murmured in thought. “I do not think I have known many women as... competent as you.”
She arched a brow at him. “Do not try to flatter me, Your Grace. I am beyond it. Immune.”
As she stood before him, she shifted from foot to foot, and Jeremy could see that she was indeed footsore.
“Allow me to help. I have a particular skill that I learned from a lady of Indian origins...”
Jeremy stepped towards her, and Harriet danced away, holding up a warning hand.
“I propose apurelymedical intervention,” he said seriously with his own hands raised, palms facing her. “On my honor.”
“I do not know if that exists,” she shot back.
“Most of the ton asks the same question, but I am endeavoring to prove them all wrong.”
He moved forward swiftly and caught Harriet up in his arms. She thumped his chest hard enough to make him wince, but he bore her and her blows to the nearest armchair, where he deposited her before kneeling and taking one of her feet in both of his hands. He began pressing and kneading at the ball of her foot, massaging and rubbing to dispel the tension and ache of sore muscles.
At first, she stared back at him with a stony expression. Then he saw the moment the pleasure began to work its way up from her feet. He knew the warmth that she would be feeling. The cessation of pain and the release of a golden contentment. In the right hands, that could beeuphoric—alas, his were not. But he knew he had sufficient skill to bringsomepleasure.
Harriet's head fell back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut.
“That is… rather marvelous, but you should not be touching me,” she whispered before her words dissolved into a pleasured hum.
“Purely medicinal,” he assured her softly, “we can at least be friends. It will help the illusion.”
Harriet's eyes opened for a moment. Jeremy looked up into the fierce green gaze of an Amazonian goddess.
“Is that all there is? Our illusion and your business?” she breathed.
He held her gaze, feeling the arousal it sparked within him and trying to conquer it.
It did me no good and has more than once almost derailed my plans entirely. That rakish lust led me to embark on this foolish plan in the first place. I must behave like a gentleman. If I am to surpass my forefathers, I must be strong. Disciplined.
“…Yes,” he finally uttered.
No word had ever taken more effort to utter than that simple monosyllable. He glanced away, lest Harriet should see the effort it took to push the affirmative past his lips.
“I should like to be taken to the National Gallery,” she said suddenly.
“The National Gallery?” His eyes flicked to her face, “Whatever for?”
He was well aware of the National Gallery, recently opened after the purchase of an extensive art collection which had belonged to a Russian émigré. Jeremy had paid close attention to the news of this enterprise over the last few years, for he wanted a collection of art of similar stature to be on display in theEl Doradosomeday.
“It is said to be the finest collection in all of England,” she pointed out.
