Trouble With Harry (18 page)

“It is indeed. Very charming.”

“Are you here with your family?”

“Yes, my eldest daughter is coming out. That's her near the duchess—Mariah, her name is.”

“She's very pretty,” Plum answered, noting the resemblance between the short, red-haired girl and her partner. “Is your wife here as well?”

“Yes indeed, Lady Davell is just beyond Mariah.”

Davell—he was Sir Ben Davell, the first man ever to send her a bouquet following her coming-out. And here he was, a middle-aged balding man with a daughter almost as old as she had been when they first met.

And he didn't recognize her.

“I am Lady Rosse,” she said as they clasped hands and made a bridge for others to pass under.

“Yes, I know, you were pointed out to me.”

“Really?” Plum stiffened, wondering why anyone would point her out unless it was to pinpoint her for rumor mongering.

“My wife pointed you out to me. She said you are newly wed to Lord Rosse.”

“Oh, yes, we are.” He was polite, respectful—everything a gentleman should be. There wasn't even the faintest whiff of anything condescending or smug about him. Plum relaxed again and danced the rest of the figure in a thoughtful mood, returning to Harry even more grateful than before that she'd found him.

“Happy?” he asked at one point in the dance.

“Ecstatic,” she answered a few minutes later, when they were again brought together.

And she was. Everything Harry had promised had come true—she had met nearly everyone present, from the duchess who was a cousin to the hostess to the Feehan sisters, two very old wrinkled ladies who were said to have been the late George II's mistresses. The Feehan sisters of Plum's memory had sharp eyes for scandal, and sharper tongues, and yet when she was introduced to them, they cackled over her newlywed status by making a rather questionable remark comparing Harry to a stallion and her to a mare, but not one eyelash did they bat over her. It was as if the last twenty years were nothing but an unpleasant dream, lingering in the back of her mind, but groundless, with no substance.

The fiddles drew out the long last notes of the dance, and she sank into a deep curtsy, smiling at Harry as he took her hand to guide her off the floor. “Thank you.”

“For the dance?”

“For making my life wonderful. No one else could do it but you. No one else could give me such happi—”

The words froze on her lips as the people before her parted, baring to her view the sight of a man bending over their hostess's hand in greeting. The man straightened up, his eyes meeting hers, recognition dawning as she froze into a giant lump of solid horror.

“Gack,” she gasped, her blood turning to ice.

“What?” Harry asked, his voice concerned.

In a panic, Plum's first thought was to run. Since that was impossible, nor would it do any good, her second was to get rid of Harry. “Water. I need…water. Or punch. Could you please get me a cup, Harry?”

“Yes, of course.” Harry guided her over to an empty chair. “I'll be right back.”

Plum cast a quick glance around the room, but no one seemed to have seen anything out of the norm. Thom was chatting with a pretty young woman, and didn't in the least bit notice when Plum got to her feet to greet the man of middle height and nondescript brown hair who approached her.

“Plum?” the man said, his nostrils flaring for a second, his mud-colored gaze sliding over her bodice. The boldness with which his gaze rested on her left her feeling dirty, as if she needed to bathe in order to remove the taint of his attention. “It is you, is it not? My dearest Plum, what a pleasure to see you again.”

Plum closed her eyes for a moment, swaying a little as the room dipped beneath her feet. “Yes, it is me, Charles. What a horribly unpleasant surprise. They told me you were dead.”

“They were wrong. I was insensible for several months, having received a blow to my head in a boating accident, but as you can see, I am now quite well.” He took her hand and made a show of kissing the back of it.

Plum snatched it back. “Go away.”

“My dear, wild horses could not drag me from your side. Can it be you hold some animosity toward me regarding that regrettable experience so many years past?”

“Regrettable experience? You ruined me, deliberately and willfully.” Plum's hand itched to strike the smug smile off his face.

He shrugged, still wearing the abominable smile. “A young man's folly. My family told me you had gone into seclusion, and yet here I return to my native shores to find you as delightful as ever—and quite in the thick of Society. You have done very well for yourself, Plum, very well indeed. Might I ask who your protector is?”

“Protector?” Plum's eyes widened as she realized just what he implied. “Harry is not my protector, he is my husband.”

“Really?” Charles drawled, looking about himself with his quizzing glass. “You managed to marry? How very droll. I had assumed no man would wish to burden himself with another man's leavings, but then, I have been away for many years. Evidently not all is as I remembered.”

“Not every man has as crass and disgustingly low a nature as you possess, Charles,” Plum said, noting that Harry had returned to the room and was starting around the dancers with a cup of punch in his hands. She had to get rid of Charles, and fast, and at the same time squelch any notions he had of discussing her past. If she could just get through the evening, then she could think how best to deal with him. “Some men have honor. My husband is well aware of the sad trial I have lived through, and doesn't give a fig for it. As you can see I am received by all, so nothing you can possibly say about the past will have any effect.”

“No?” Charles said, raising his hand in acknowledgment when an acquaintance beckoned to him. “Indeed, you have done well for yourself, Plum. My congratulations on your success…both in your happy marriage and your literary endeavors.”

Plum froze again, this time into a glacier of fear and horror and every last one of her worst nightmares.

Charles leaned close, his breath hissing in her ear as he whispered, “How very satisfying it is to be the man who taught the infamous Vyvyan La Blue everything she knows.”

For an awful moment, Plum was sure she was going to vomit, but as the seconds passed and Charles took himself off, she managed to push down the bile that rose within her enough to give Harry a feeble smile when he made it to her side.

“Your punch, my lady… Plum? Are you unwell?”

Harry's voice was warm with concern, breaking through the wall of ice that had enclosed Plum. She turned to him, desperately needing his strength, needing him to comfort her, but the look of concern in his eyes was her undoing. How could she repay him with cruelty for all the kindnesses he had shown her?

She couldn't. She wouldn't. Harry had done everything he said he would do—he had effectively erased her past. It was up to her to deal with Charles…somehow.

“I'm not feeling terribly well, no. Would you mind if we left now? I'm sure Thom won't care, and if you're done speaking with your friend—”

“We will leave at once,” he said soothingly and went to collect Thom. Plum used the few minutes to say good-bye to her hostess, keeping a wary eye out for Charles. She wouldn't put it past him to confront Harry, although she suspected he would not be happy with a mere scene in public. She had experience with Charles—he was a coward at heart, and would not wish to risk giving Harry the opportunity to call him out.

“If only I knew what he wanted of me,” Plum said softly, then dismissed that thought as Harry and Thom came up to her. She was certain Charles would make his desires known to her by one means or another. He was never one to disregard his desires.

***

“Plum?”

“Hmm?” Plum absently checked the leather cuff that bound Harry's left hand to the massive ebony headboard. What would Charles want from her?

“You seem to be distracted.”

“Am I?” How was she to keep Harry from finding out about Charles until she could take care of the situation?

“Yes, you are. Distinctly distracted. In fact, I sense that you are disturbed about something. Are you?”

“Am I what?” She slid across his body to secure his other wrist. How Charles knew she was Vyvyan La Blue was no surprise—they had made it a game to name all of their connubial calisthenics; no doubt he remembered that—but what would he do with that knowledge?

“Disturbed.”

“No, not particularly. Why do you ask?” Perhaps he just wanted to gloat over his knowledge? Perhaps he just wanted to revel in the power he must feel in knowing her secret?

“Well, for one, we were supposed to be doing Gladiator and the Shy Dove tonight, and yet you seem to be bent upon Gallant Knight at a Blind Maiden's Mercy.”

No, that wasn't like Charles; he didn't enjoy hoarding secrets, he enjoyed profiting from such knowledge. No doubt he thought to profit from hers. A toe nudged her calf. She looked down, somewhat startled to find her husband spread out naked before her, tied to his bed with the fur-lined leather cuffs he had given her just two weeks before. “I thought you were going to be the gladiator tonight? Why are you bound?”

He frowned. “You
are
distressed about something. What is it, Plum? Did someone say something to you at the ball?”

She couldn't look at his eyes while she lied to him. Her gaze dropped to his chest, then stayed there awhile as she enjoyed the scenery. “No, no one said anything. I just feel a bit…”

“Neglected,” Harry said, nodding his head. “I understand completely. It's my fault, but I was thinking of you, Plum. I knew you were tired from the travel, and since we had little privacy in the inns, I felt our nightly exercises would be best curtailed until we arrived. Therefore, as the fault is mine, so must the solution be. Climb on.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Climb onto me. Onto my…er…you'll feel better afterward, I promise.”

Plum thought of pointing out that
that
would never be in dispute, but decided instead to humor him. Clearly he was worried about her—as a dutiful and loving wife, it was her responsibility to ease his worries as best she could. “Well, as long as we're doing Blind Maiden and Knight, we might as well do it properly.”

She blew out the candles so they were in the dark, the faintest sliver of moonlight showing silvery blue through a gap in the curtains. Enjoying the experience of relying solely on touch, Plum slid her fingers up Harry's chest, reveling in the way his breathing hitched as she stroked a path up the warm hills and valleys of his chest. Her hands slid higher until both palms framed the long planes of his face. Her fingers teased his short little side-whiskers, then traced downward along the strength of his jaw until they met together on his gently squared chin. She bent her head and lightly brushed her lips against him, a fleeting kiss that promised much, and which was so sweet she had to repeat the action. Harry's mouth opened in invitation beneath hers, allowing her to tease the entrance to his mouth with her tongue. She captured his bottom lip between hers and bit gently, his resulting moan coursing through her, igniting fires deep in her center.

Of their own volition, her fingers slid up his head, plucking off his spectacles before returning to comb through his close-cropped hair, her head dipping again to his, this time allowing her tongue to enter the warmth within. He lay strangely passive, allowing her to stroke his tongue, to tease his mouth into reacting, but when he did it was as if he had set her afire. A groan of pure pleasure rose in her throat as his tongue swept into her mouth, demanding that she match his passion, firing her to greater heights.

The leather straps creaked as Harry tried to reach for her, but could not. Plum pulled her mouth from his, having forgotten for a moment that she was supposed to be comforting him.

“Do you want me to unbind you?”

“Yes.”

She nuzzled his neck, sliding away from him as she said. “I'm sorry, but I'm not feeling terribly merciful at the moment. Perhaps later?”

“Plum! Come back here!”

“Yes, my lord?” Blindly, Plum slipped out of her dressing gown, smiling in the dark. She knew Harry was hot and hard—he always was whenever they were in bed together, bless him—but he really should know better than to think she'd leave him in that unpleasant state.

“Come back here. I…er…you intend to finish what you've started?”

“I do?” With one hand on the bottom of the bed, she padded softly around to the other side.

“Yes, you do,” Harry said sternly. She smiled again. How adorable he was. “You are suffering from the trauma of attending a ball after a prolonged absence. If I do not affect a cure for your condition, it will return and leave you helpless come other such engagements. Therefore, you will straddle yourself across my thighs, and seat yourself upon me.
Now!
”

“Such a thoughtful husband you are,” Plum said as she climbed into the bed. Linens rustled provocatively beneath him as she stretched out a hand, finding the hard muscle of his thigh. “Thinking only of me.”

“I am the very best of husbands. There are none better than me,” Harry answered, sounding oddly as if the words were coming from between grinding teeth.

“That goes without saying, Harry.”

“Plum?”

“Yes, my dearest?”

“If you do not wrap your long, luscious thighs around my hips in the next ten seconds, I will die. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” Plum stroked a path up his thigh to where the texture of the light down covering his legs changed to a denser hair. She closed her fingers over him, tracing the long, velvety length of his arousal.

“St. Peter's cods,” Harry groaned, thrusting his hips upward in her gently stroking fingers. “This is for your own good, wife: GET ON ME NOW!”