He’d once thought her reserve to be an act. Possibly the speech impediment was as well, all meant to lower his guard. “Dufton. You met with him after departing Granby’s home. Convenient, I think. Far too coincidental. Did you tell him you’d be there?”
“Did I tell him…” The blue of her eyes, like a field of cornflowers, narrowed into slits. “Are you serious?”
“You claim to abhor him. Fear him. Yet you sit here calmly eating biscuits after he approached you in the street outside Granby’s home. I can only assume the meeting was planned.” Harry glared at her. “Was it?”
“I amnotcalm.” The delicate jaw hardened. “I’m merely tired of being…distressed.” She pressed her lips together at the return of the lisp. Took a deep breath. He could make out the movement of her tongue against one cheek as she composed herself. “Weak. I do not care to be—accuthed—” She stopped and slapped a palm against the chair as a sound of frustration left her, murderous glare directed at Harry. “How dare you?—”
“Is that even real?” He tapped his lip. “Or a mere affectation meant to disarm me? Answer me.”
A growl came from her. She slapped the chair again before picking up a biscuit. Lucy threw the small biscuit at him, hitting Harry on the edge of his ear. “He tried to convince me,” she said, taking a long breath through her nose, “to help myfather. Guilted me with a description of the suffering of Gerald Waterstone. Offered to annul our marriage. Pretended affection he doesn’t feel.”
“Is that what you want? His affection?”
Oh, you bloody idiot Harry.
His wife hurled another biscuit, this time hitting him in the nose, which hurt far more than he’d expected. “Do you take me for anitwit?”
Exceptional aim. He made a note never to teach her to fire a pistol.
“Given your…”
“Thnobbithneth?Thuperiorityto you?” The lisp had thickened once more to an alarming degree. Another biscuit hit his forehead while Lucy attempted to compose herself. “You think I am planning to wed Dufton behind your back? To what bloody end?”
No more biscuits left on the plate. Thankfully.
The teaspoon flew through the air, hitting him in his chest.
Lucy was now so furious at him, she had picked up the book she’d been reading, weighing the tome with one hand, eyes glittering with hostility.
“Perhaps I jumped to a hasty assumption.” He held up a hand.
“Perhaps?”She slapped at the cushions once more before taking aim with the book.
Harry took a quick step forward and grabbed her wrist. “Enough. You’ve wasted biscuits and”—he looked at the title of the tome she held—“you don’t want to injure Lord Thurston.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her beating pulse. “Your point has been made. I’m a brainless idiot.”
“Entirely true.” She looked down at her lap. Took a shaky breath. “Go away.”
“No. I’ve admitted my supreme stupidity. My baseless accusations. I’m hungry, and you’ve wasted an entire plate of Mrs. Bartle’s delicious biscuits.” Threading his hands into Lucy’s hair, he tugged the pins free, watching in fascination as the heavy, dark mass flowed over her shoulders. “I’m sorry, my lovely girl. Truly.”
She blinked up at him, her breath coming in soft pants. “H—Harry. I’m angry.”
“As you should be,” he whispered against Lucy’s mouth before nipping gently at her bottom lip. “Allow me to apologize properly, if nothing else.”
Harry claimed that beautiful mouth with every bit of finesse he possessed, moving over her lips in apology. Begging forgiveness. Waterstone had put such unwelcome thoughts in Harry’s mind, preying on suspicions he should no longer have. None of which were Lucy’s fault.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again at the corner of her mouth, wrapping those dark curls around his wrist. “Forgive me. Please.”
21
Oh. Goodness.
Lucy’s mind went blank at the touch of his mouth against her own. Which was good, because she was furious at his unfounded accusations. Her husband didn’t trust her. He might never. Which was a daunting prospect.
A sigh of pure pleasure left her.
He cupped the back of her head, lips moving sensually over her own. Devouring every inch of her mouth. This was…like floating on a soft summer breeze. Or the first taste of lemon cake, when the tartness exploded on your tongue. Bliss, in its purest sense.
“Don’t ever throw a bloody biscuit at me again,” Harry said with a hint of a smile. The graze of his teeth along the bottom of her mouth had her gasping as his tongue flicked out to storm between her parted lips.
