Page 5 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
“I am. You are six years younger. Is there a problem?”
“You’ve waited rather a long time to—” Well, why not say the obvious? “A long time to look for a bride.”
“I’ve had other occupations.”
She harrumphed. Yes, she knew two of them, too. “Aren’t you getting long in the tooth?”
He chuckled, looked about and leaned closer. “Do you think me so doddering that I might be incapable of begetting—?”
“No!” She burned with the power of her blush. “No. I do not.”
He laughed whole-heartedly. “I am in want of a wife. And I have looked for one for many years.”
“With any results?”
“None. Until lately.”
So by their fifth meeting (at Lady Elsworth’s tea), they were jovial friends who appeared to one and all to sit and discuss the cartoonist Rowlandson’s ability to portray the ironies of the Royals.
“May I call on you, Miss Harvey?” he had asked her when those in the room finally left them alone in their cozy corner.
“Why?” she’d been bold enough to inquire.
“I find I need your company.”
She stared at him and dared not believe it. The way he made her breath hitch just by gazing at her told her that if he pressed his magnificent mouth to hers, if he touched her arm or (please, God) her breast or (yesss) her quivering thigh, she could dissolve into little puddles of goo. And that was no way to maintain one’s reputation, especially if one liked to ride out at dawn or drink three glasses of champagne without comment or censure.
“Have dull friends, do you, sir?” She challenged him. Had to.
“Too many.”
“What of the lady you met in the small salon at Lady Wimple’s?” She had to know from his lips if he was engaged in a new affair with anyone. She wouldn’t stand for him having mistresses. She couldn’t bear the competition. She was no Diamond, no Incomparable. But she had her assets. Good hair. A straight nose. Abundant breasts. So she’d brook no competition. Never. If he wished to marry her, he had to be hers, all hers…or not at all.
“Esme, listen to me.” In that crowded drawing room with dozens of thetonchatting on and noting every eye that drifted to every heaving bosom, he put a hand to hers and held it tightly. “That was no lady.”
Oh, how she wished to believe him.
“May I call?” he asked once more, his face full of earnest hope.
“Yes.” She wanted him, as she’d wanted no other. “Tomorrow.”
And so he had.
For three days in succession.
By the fourth day, her Mama (reading the air, Esme supposed) left them alone on some flimsy excuse.
He moved to Esme’s side on the settee and took her hands. Into both palms, he’d placed hot little kisses. Her nipples had beaded. Her belly had swelled. And her head had swum as he threaded his fingers into her coiffure and placed his firm lips on her own. And oh, he felt like heaven.
“Darling, I want to marry you,” he whispered. His mouth traveled her cheek and he bit her earlobe.
She sank her fingers into his thick soft curls and kissed him back with an ardor that (afterward) frankly shocked her.
“That’s yes,” he stated with finality. “I know it is.” He stood up so fast she thought he’d been shot. He left her there, aching to have his hands on her everywhere. But to his credit, he went in search of a footman and asked for her father. Straight away, he asked Papa who gave his immediate approval.
And then, quick as you please, Northington had disappeared.
The man who had rushed her into courtship, who had teased and bantered and lured her to fantasies of lying abed with him naked, had simply vanished.
