His body was beautifully made, but Poppy took no pleasure in it. In fact, she resented it. She would have preferred a few signs of vulnerability, a touch of softness around the middle, a set of narrow shoulders, anything that would put him at a disadvantage. But he was lean and strong and powerfully proportioned. Still clad in his trousers, Harry came to stand beside the bed. Despite her efforts to appear indifferent, Poppy couldn’t stop her fingers from curling into the embroidered sheets.
His hand went to her bare shoulder, his fingertips drifting to her throat and back again. He paused as he found a tiny, nearly invisible scar on her shoulder—the place a stray shotgun pellet had once lodged. “From the accident?” he asked huskily.
Poppy nodded, unable to speak. She realized he would become familiar with every small and unique detail of her body . . . she had given him that right. He found three more scars on her arm, stroking each one as if he could soothe those long-ago injuries. Slowly his hand went to a lock of hair that lay in a fine mahogany river over her chest, following it beneath the sheets and blankets.
She gasped as she felt his thumb brush over the bud of her nipple, circling, sending runners of heat to the pit of her stomach. His hand left her for a moment, and when he reached for her breast again, his thumb was damp from his own mouth. Another teasing, acute circle, moisture enhancing the caress. Her knees drew up slightly, her h*ps tilting as if her entire body had become a vessel to contain sensation. His other hand slid softly beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his.
He bent to kiss her, but Poppy turned her face away.
“I’m the same man who kissed you on the terrace,” she heard him say. “You liked it well enough then.”
Poppy could hardly speak with his hand cupping her breast. “Not anymore.” A kiss meant more to her than a simple physical gesture. It was a gift of love, of affection, or at the very least liking, and she felt none of those things for him. He might have the right to her body, but not to her heart.
His hands left her, and she felt him nudge her gently to the side.
Poppy obeyed, her pulse racing as he joined her on the bed. He reclined on his side, his feet extending much farther than hers along the mattress. She forced her fingers to loosen from the covers as he drew them away from her.
Harry’s gaze slid over her slim, exposed body, the curves of her breasts, the clamped seam of her thighs. Heat surfaced everywhere, a flush that deepened as he drew her against him. His chest was warm and hard, with a covering of dark hair that tickled her breasts.
Poppy shivered as his hand moved along her spine, pressing her close. The intimacy of being clasped against a half-naked man, breathing the scent of his skin, was almost more than her dazed mind could comprehend. He pressed her bare legs apart, the fabric of his trousers smooth and cool. And he held her like that, his hand roaming slowly over her back until the teeth-chattering shivers eased.
His mouth traced the taut side of her neck. He spent a long time kissing her there, investigating the hollow behind her ear, the edge of her hairline, the front of her throat. His tongue found the hectic throb of her pulse, lingering until she gasped and tried to push him away. His arms tightened, one hand coming to the bare curve of her bottom, keeping her against him.
“Don’t you like that?” he asked against her throat.
“No,” Poppy said, trying to work her arms between them.
Harry pressed her back to the mattress, his eyes bright with diabolical amusement. “You’re not going to admit to liking any of this, are you?”
She shook her head.
His hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb brushing her closed lips. “Poppy, if there’s nothing else about me that pleases you, at least give this a chance.”
“I can’t. Not when I remember that I should be doing this with . . . him.” As angry and resentful as she was, Poppy couldn’t quite bring herself to say Michael’s name.
As it was, it provoked even more of a reaction from Harry than she’d expected. He gripped her jaw, his hand closing in a strong, not-quite-painful vise, his eyes flaring with fury. She stared back at him defiantly, almost willing him to do something awful, to prove that he was as contemptible as she thought him.
But Harry’s voice, when he finally spoke, was scrupulously controlled. “Then I’ll see if I can put him out of your thoughts.” The bedclothes were pushed away with ruthless insistence, robbing her of any means of concealment. She started upward, but he pushed her back down. His hand curved beneath her breast, plumping it upward, and he bent until his breath fell against the peak in light, repeated shocks.
He traced the aureole with his tongue, caught it tenderly with his teeth, playing with the sensitive flesh. Delight fed into her veins with every swirl and lick and soft tug. Poppy’s hands clenched into fists as she tried to keep them by her sides. It seemed important not to touch him voluntarily. But he was skilled and persistent, arousing deep and writhing impulses, and her body was apparently inclined to choose pleasure over principle.
She reached up to his head, the dark hair thick and soft between her fingers. Gasping, she guided him to her other breast. He complied with a hoarse murmur, his lips opening over the heat-stung bud. His hands glided over her body, charting the curves of her waist and hips. The tip of his middle finger circled the rim of her navel and wove in a teasing path across the flat of her stomach, along the valley where her legs pressed together . . . from her knees to the top of her thighs . . . back again.
Stroking gently, Harry whispered, “Open for me.”
Poppy was quiet, resisting, panting as if each breath were being torn from her throat. The pressure of tears rose behind her closed eyes. Experiencing any pleasure at all with Harry seemed like a betrayal.
And he knew it. His voice was soft against her ear as he said, “What happens in this bed is only between us. There’s no sin in submitting to your husband, and nothing to gain by denying what enjoyment I might be able to give you. Let it happen, Poppy. You don’t have to be virtuous with me.”
“I’m not trying to be,” she said unsteadily.
“Then let me touch you.”
At her silence, Harry pushed her resistless legs apart. His palm coursed along her inner thigh until his thumb brushed soft, private curls. The ragged rhythms of their breathing rustled through the quiet room. His thumb nestled into the curls, grazing against a place so sensitive that she jerked with a muffled protest.
He gathered her closer into hard muscle and smoothness and crisp hair. Reaching down again, he teased the yielding flesh apart. An irresistible urge came to press upward into his hand. But she forced herself to lay passive, even though the effort to hold still was exhausting.
Finding the entrance to her body, Harry stroked the softness until he had elicited a slick of hot serum. He fondled her, one of his fingers nudging inside. Startled, she stiffened and whimpered.
Harry kissed her throat. “Shhh . . . I’m not hurting you. Easy.” He stroked within her, his finger gently crooking as if to urge her forward. Over and over, so patiently. The pleasure acquired a new tension, her limbs weighted with thickening layers of sensation. His finger withdrew, and he began to play with her idly.
Sounds climbed in her throat, but she swallowed them back. She wanted to move, to twist in the restless heat. Her hands itched to grip the flexing muscles of his shoulders. Instead, she lay with martyred stillness.
But he knew how to make her body respond, how to coax delight from her unwilling flesh. She couldn’t stop her h*ps from riding upward, her heels delving into the cool pliancy of the mattress. He slid along her front, kissing lower and lower, his mouth measuring tender distances across her body. When he nuzzled into the soft, private curls, however, she stiffened and tried to move away. Her mind was reeling. No one had told her about this. It couldn’t be right.
As she wriggled, his hands slid beneath her bottom, gripping her in place, and his tongue found her in wet, fluent strokes. Carefully he guided her into a deliberate rhythm, urging her upward, and again, while he stroked in voluptuous countermeasure. Wicked mouth, merciless tongue. Hot breath, flowing over her. The feeling built and built, until it came to a startling summit and flared in all directions. A cry escaped her, and another, as dense spasms rolled through her. There was no escaping, no holding back. And he stayed with her, prolonging the descent with soft licks, extorting a few last twitches of pleasure as she lay trembling beneath him.
Then came the worst part, when Harry took her into his arms to comfort her . . . and she let him.
She could hardly help but feel how aroused he was, his body taut and solid, his heartbeat swift beneath her ear. He ran his hand over the supple curve of her spine. With a pang of reluctant excitement, she wondered if he would take her now.
But Harry surprised her by saying, “I won’t force the rest of it on you tonight.”
Her voice sounded strange and thick to her own ears. “You . . . you needn’t stop. As I told you—”
“Yes, you want to have done with it,” Harry said sardonically. “So you’ll have nothing left to dread.” Releasing her, he rolled away and stood, adjusting the front of his trousers with casual unconcern. Poppy’s face flamed. “But I’ve decided to let you dread it a bit longer. Just remember that if you have any idea about requesting an annulment, I’ll have you on your back and divested of your virginity before you can blink.” He drew the covers over her and paused. “Tell me, Poppy . . . Did you think of him at all just now? Was his face, his name in your mind while I was touching you?”
Poppy shook her head, refusing to look at him.
“That’s a start,” he said softly. He extinguished the lamp and left.
She lay alone in the darkness, shamed and sated and confused.
Chapter Fourteen
Sleep was always difficult for Harry. Tonight it was impossible. His mind, accustomed to working on multiple problems simultaneously, now had a new and endlessly interesting subject to ponder.
His wife.
He had learned a great deal about Poppy in one day. She had shown that she was exceptionally strong under duress, not a woman to go to pieces in a difficult situation. And although she loved her family, she had not run to them for shelter.
Harry admired the way Poppy had dealt with her wedding day. Even more, he admired the way she had dealt with him. No virginal theatrics, as she had put it.
He thought of those blistering minutes before he had left her, when she had been sweet and yielding, her beautiful body blazing in response. Aroused and restless, Harry lay in his bedroom, on the other side of the apartment from hers. The thought of Poppy sleeping in the place where he lived was more than sufficient to keep him awake. No woman had ever stayed in his apartments before. He had always conducted his liaisons away from his residence, never spending a full night with anyone. It made him uncomfortable, the notion of actually sleeping in a bed with another person. Just why that seemed more intimate than the sexual act was not something Harry cared to ponder.
Harry was relieved when daybreak approached, the sky’s low roof enameled with dull silver. He arose, washed, and dressed. He let in a housemaid, who stirred the grate and brought freshly ironed copies of the Morning Chronicle, the Globe, and the Times. As per their usual routine, the floor waiter would arrive with breakfast, and then Jake Valentine would deliver the managers’ reports and take his morning list.
“Will Mrs. Rutledge want breakfast as well, sir?” the maid asked.
Harry wondered how long Poppy would sleep. “Tap on her door and ask.”
“Yes, sir.”
He saw the way the maid’s gaze darted from the direction of his bedroom to Poppy’s. Although it was common for upper-class couples to maintain separate bedrooms, the maid evinced a touch of surprise before she schooled her expression. Vaguely annoyed, Harry watched her leave the dining area.
He heard the housemaid’s murmur, and Poppy’s reply. The muffled sound of his wife’s voice caused a pleasant ripple of awareness across his nerves.
The housemaid returned to the dining area. “I’ll be bringing a tray for Mrs. Rutledge as well. Will there be anything else, sir?”
Harry shook his head, returning his attention to the papers as she left. He tried to read an article at least three times before finally giving up and staring in the direction of Poppy’s room.
Finally she appeared, wearing a dressing gown made of blue taffeta, heavily embroidered with flowers. Her hair was loose, the brown locks shot with gleaming fire. Her expression was neutral, her eyes guarded. He wanted to peel the intricately stitched garment away from her, kiss her exposed body until she was flushed and panting.
“Good morning,” Poppy murmured, not quite meeting his gaze.
Harry stood and waited until she came to the small table. It didn’t escape him that she tried to avoid being touched by him as he seated her. Patience, he reminded himself. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” It was clear that politeness rather than concern motivated her to ask, “And you?”
“Well enough.”
Poppy glanced at the variety of papers on the table. Picking one up, she held it so that any view of her face was obstructed as she read. Since it appeared that she was not inclined to converse, Harry occupied himself with another paper.
The silence was broken only by the rustling of flimsy news pages.
Breakfast was brought in, and two housemaids set out porcelain plates and flatware and crystal glasses.
Harry saw that Poppy had asked for crumpets, their flat, porous tops gently steaming. He began on his own breakfast of poached eggs on toast, cutting into the condensed yellow yolks and spreading the soft insides across the crisp bread.
“There’s no need for you to awaken early if you don’t wish,” he said, sprinkling a pinch of salt over his eggs. “Many ladies of London sleep until noon.”
“I like to rise when the day begins.”
“Like a good farmwife,” Harry said, casting her a brief smile.
But Poppy showed no reaction to the reminder, only applied herself to drizzling honey over the crumpets.
Harry paused with his fork held in midair, mesmerized by the sight of her slim fingers twirling the honey stick, meticulously filling each hole with thick amber liquid. Realizing that he was staring, Harry took a bite of his breakfast. Poppy replaced the honey stick in a small silver pot. Discovering a stray drop of sweetness on the tip of her thumb, she lifted it to her lips and sucked it clean.
Harry choked a little, reached for his tea, and took a swallow. The beverage scalded his tongue, causing him to flinch and curse.
Poppy gave him an odd look. “Is there anything the matter?”