“That was—” she began but then stopped, clearly unable to find the word.
“I know,” he said, saving her the effort, letting the satisfaction unfurl across his face. “You should have come to me from the beginning, love. I can teach you passion much better than Lord Hartley ever could.”
Her eyes narrowed in irritation, even though the heat of her climax was still evident on her cheeks.
“I didn’t realize you were available for such lessons, my lord.”
He let out a harsh laugh, not least because Henrietta hadn’t called him “my lord” in at least a decade. He remembered the last time exactly. It had been Christmas in Edington when she was twelve—her father had demanded that she practice her manners. Even then she had only said it grudgingly.
“I could say the same to you, my lady,” he mocked. Her moue of discontent at this response made his cock even harder. And he had been in quite the way already. Those pursed, red, passion-bitten lips did diabolical things to his anatomy. Damn, he was aching for her. But he wouldn’t allow himself to take her until he was sure she really wanted it. Not until she was panting and gasping and begging for it. “But I think there might be more that our good friend Hartley didn’t teach you.”
Her eyes went wide at these words, but, at that exact moment, a knock rattled the door.
“My lord.” It was his butler, Perkins.
“Not now, Perkins,” Trem snapped, putting all the lordly pomp he could muster into his words. He was not about to have Henrietta exposed to anyone laid out so deliciously on his desk.
“Very right, my lord. However, Lady Henrietta’s footman is in the entryway, demanding that he be admitted to see her. He is her, uh, chaperone.”
“Bollocks,” he heard Henrietta swear, and she moved from the desk and reached for her shift. Everything in him wanted to stop her, but he knew that they could not continue this right now.
“Please tell Frederick that Lady Henrietta will return to the carriage in a few moments,” Trem said, the words like glass in his throat. “Our business is almost done.”
When she had dressed and was about to leave, Trem couldn’t stop himself from clasping her hand. He had no idea what she wanted with him—beyond, well, what seemed evident—but he couldn’t ignore his own feelings. His own desires. He had, after all, never been good at that.
“I will call on you tomorrow. At Breminster House.”
She nodded, her face pale but resolute, and then slipped away.
*
That night, once more, Trem was barely able to sleep. He had done nothing before bed but drink brandy and ruminate. He had no energy or interest in anything else. He only had enough mental space to relive the most gratifying sexual experience of his life again and again. That it had been so gratifying was somewhat bewildering given that he had only focused on her pleasure. He wanted desperately to take himself in hand at the memory—indeed, his throbbing prick begged him to—but he couldn’t bring himself to the task. He only wanted her. Not some sordid imitation generated by his own mind.
He had no idea how things had happened so quickly—particularly when, before two nights ago, he had never considered approaching Henrietta in that manner. The thought would have felt too taboo. Wrong. Of course, in the past few years, since her debut, he had seen what every other man of the ton had seen. That Henrietta Breminster was a beautiful young woman, a gemstone cut to sparkle. But she had been off-limits.
And then he had heard that another man had touched her and it had addled his mind. He had blown right through that taboo and into a different life.
Trem understood, of course, why Henrietta had slept with Hartley. He blamed himself for not realizing that such a thing was very likely in her case. Like him, she had never been one to eschew pleasure. Hell, how many times had he walked through the Edington apple orchards with her, watching her look for the perfect fruit? When she found it, she always plucked it from the tree and immediately took a bite. It wasn’t in her nature to resist temptation any more than it was in his. They had that in common.
By the next morning, he was in panic.
The slow knowledge of what he had done, what he had really done, had settled over him. He knew there was only one remedy.
He needed to marry Henrietta Breminster. As soon as possible.
Tomorrow. This evening, ideally.
But it couldn’t be this evening. First, they were all to attend the Worthington ball. The occupants of Breminster House would be rushing to prepare for one of the highlights of the season. And even though he knew they had to marry, he wanted Henrietta to choose him. He didn’t want to be like Lord Hartley—a man trying to force her into something she didn’t want.
He had told her he would call on her this morning and he would. He needed to speak to her about their nuptials. Warm her to the idea. He had no idea if she disdained matrimony in general or just with Hartley. Perhaps she saw a future for herself as a scandalous but socially protected spinster, covertly taking lovers and doing as she pleased. It sounded like her. The idea galled him. It made him near despondent.
He didn’t think he’d ever be able to so much as look at another woman again. Not after what they had shared. His entire physiology was still disturbed by their encounter.
He had lost control with her yesterday. Obviously. He needed to talk to her tonight and convince her that they belonged together. As a man of honor, he had to make her an offer, but it was more than that. The idea that another man would have her now was unbearable to him.
The idea of her marrying someone else, of Hartley trying to still prevail upon her, sent new rage spiraling through him. He found that, over his customary egg breakfast, his hands were shaking. The idea that she could slip through his fingers tormented him. No wonder Hartley was wrecked. She would make any man give all he had for her.
God willing, he would get her to agree to marry him without John ever learning what had transpired between him and his sister on the desk in his study. Whenever he thought of John, his stomach roiled with guilt. Sure, he knew that John had, since his own marriage, taken a different approach to Henrietta. He didn’t know the details, exactly, of why John had become less protective and more liberal towards his beloved younger sister, but he understood that something between them had shifted around the time of his own marriage.
