Page 25 of Their Wildest Dreams

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

She shook her head, though the movement brought her face nearer his. “No. I do not believe so.”

“You do not believe so?” His arm tightened as though she might fall again while already held against him. “Harriet, either you are injured or you are not.”

“I have only just ceased falling. You must allow me a moment to determine it.”

The answer ought to have provoked one of his customary retorts. None came. Benedict continued to hold her while his gaze moved over her face, searching for some evidence of pain she had failed to identify. Harriet became aware of every place their bodies touched. One of his hands rested upon her side just beneath her arm, his fingertips dangerously close to the curve of her breast as he cradled her against him. His other arm was a firm pressure against the backs of her thighs, that hand curling about her knee. But above all else, she could feel the firm, steadiness of his body against hers, the heat of him even through layers of clothing. She had been embraced before by her father, her sister and Mrs. Mercer. Nothing in those innocent expressions of affection had prepared her for this.

There was nothing innocent in the way her body answered his nearness.

Heat unfurled low within her, swift and bewildering. Her breath caught when his fingers shifted against her flesh. Benedict’s face was very close, stripped of the easy confidence that so often provoked her. Alarm remained in his eyes, but beneath it lay something darker and more intent. She recognized it because she had seen a shadow of the same expression on their wedding night.

Desire. Not the impersonal expectation of a husband who had acquired a wife, but desire for her.

“You may put me down,” Harriet said. The words lacked the firmness she intended.

“I should,” he agreed.

He did not.

Instead, Benedict lowered her feet slowly to the floor while keeping one arm about her. Harriet’s slippers found the carpet, but her knees had not recovered their reliability. She remained against him, her hands still resting upon his shoulders. Neither spoke. The old house seemed to settle into silence around them, the very air stilled by an awareness neither of them could pretend belonged only to the other.

His gaze lowered to her mouth.

Harriet knew what was about to happen. She had been kissed once, years before, by an earnest young gentleman who had spent so long requesting permission that curiosity had prompted her to grant it. The result had been damp, awkward and wholly unmoving. She had afterward concluded that kisses had been much exaggerated by poets and women of limited occupation.

She did not think Benedict’s kiss would resemble it.

His hand moved slide along the line of her back, down to her waist, where it rested upon the curve of her hip. He leaned nearer, slowly enough that she might turn away. Harriet did not. Her fingers tightened in the wool of his coat, and her eyes closed when his breath warmed her lips.

“My lord?”

Mrs. Mercer’s voice came from the doorway.

Benedict released Harriet so abruptly that she nearly stumbled. He steadied her by the elbow, then stepped back. Mrs. Mercer stood just inside the library with an expression of perfect composure. Only the slight lift of one brow betrayed that she had observed anything beyond two people standing too near an overturned ladder.

“The gentleman from the London agency has arrived, my lord,” she said. “He has come regarding the position of butler and is waiting in the study for you.”

Benedict looked at Harriet. Whatever she had seen in his face moments before had vanished beneath the restraint he wore before others. “Thank you, Mrs. Mercer. I shall speak with him directly.”

“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. Mercer’s gaze fell upon the volume lying open upon the carpet and then moved to the ladder. “Shall I send someone to assist her ladyship?”

“No,” Harriet answered before Benedict could. “I have finished with the upper shelves.”

“She has,” Benedict said, his tone leaving little room for dispute. He righted the ladder and moved it away from the bookcase. “And she will not climb it again unless someone is present to hold it.”

Harriet ought to have objected. Under Mrs. Mercer’s observant eye, she could summon no argument that did not sound either childish or revealing. “You have an applicant waiting.”

“So I have.” Benedict bent to retrieve the fallen book. His fingers traced the crease in its cover before he placed it upon the desk. When he straightened, his attention lingered upon Harriet with an intensity that made the interrupted moment seem more present rather than less. “We will discuss the ladder later.”

He departed without waiting for her reply. Mrs. Mercer watched him cross the hall, then turned back to Harriet.

“The cook requires my attention,” she said mildly. “Unless you have need of me here?”

“No. None whatever.”

“Very good, my lady.”