Chapter 1

Oxford, England, 1816

He had been hard for her for the better part of the morning. If you did not count the last seven years that is.

For seven agonising years, he relied on his own imagination and self-relief to keep his sanity in place. Or his insanity in check, more like.

Samuel Bryce McDougal, or Sam as the McDougal and his wife Aileen called him, sat at the desk in his professor’s study with Mrs Stratham. Her role in this household comprised of being the professor’s children’s governess, doubling as assistant when her duties allowed. For now, she was Sam’s assistant, since Professor Walter Hayley travelled to Cambridge on an academic assignment together with Mrs Dora Hayley and their two children.

Which meant Sam and Harriet were alone in the house.

Which meant they had to make progress with the paper he would present shortly.

And it also meant he was at bursting point for the woman he had wanted since he first set eyes on her as a freshman at eighteen.

In a few weeks, he would present the lecture to a group of visiting botanists. The professor had presented Sam as a highly specialised scholar.

For fear of giving himself away, his green eyes went no higher than her creamy bosom. A bosom amply covered by her demure dress. Those prominent mounds had haunted his dreams and carnal fantasies for such a long time. Had he the improbable chance of one day coming within touching distance of her beautiful breasts, he’d know exactly what he wanted to do with them.

The image almost undid him. His rampant erection engorged to the point he was sure he would shame himself. The breeches he wore squeezed his poor flesh cruelly. His nostrils sucked in air, twitching his spectacles, his skin flooding with the kind of colour that afflicted only a red-haired person. In short, him.

For years, his fellow students, rich noble heirs that they were, tried to convince him to frequent those rackety bawdy houses. In between lectures, they boasted their prowess with the so-called Cyprians on offer.

Invariably, he declined.

He wanted none of those women. He had no wish for a meaningless tumble when there was only one woman who never left his mind.

The result being he remained a virgin.

Perhaps, he should have followed their advice and assuaged the urges of his body with one of those dolls. He careened too close to obsession for Harriet, and it was getting out of hand.

“Is anything the matter, Samuel?” Even her lyrical voice contained the power to unbalance him.

With no other choice, his stare met hers. Those enormous blue eyes seemed to engulf him in a maelstrom of madness. On an oval face, framed by wheat ringlets, they frayed him.

At twenty-five, his hormones clamoured for the satisfaction his own hands were not capable to provide. Solely, a woman. This woman.

“Not at all, Harriet,” he answered, unable to control his gaze when it lowered to her full lips. Her tongue moistened them, causing his heart to speed up and pump even more blood to the wrong place.

Sam well knew he would be no woman’s choice—not the first choice, at least. He was too awkward, too red-haired, with too big spectacles, and bookish to distraction. He did not come out as exactly charming or manly. Paying for the Cyprians’ favour might be his last resort.

“We should continue then,” she replied., Instead of their work, her gaze roamed toward the sleek hair falling on his brow. How his green eyes fixed on her, zeroing in on his lips, which were as red as his— Well ... the tip of him, the very leaky tip of him.

The things his friends said a woman’s lips could do!

Fuck!

He needed to leave the room. At this second, or he risked shaming himself. Worse still, his distended member demanded its due fare. One unavailable to him. So, he must relieve himself.

“Excuse me,” he said and stood up fast and clumsy. In shirtsleeves, without a coat to cover his projecting midriff, he turned in a quick motion. Out of the study, he nearly ran to the guest bedchamber Professor Hayley allowed him to use in his absence. For convenience’s sake, the Professor said, as he would be working late to finish the paper. And also to protect Harriet as she would be mostly alone in the house.

At that instant, he was not so sure she was protected.

With that thought, he burst into his chamber and shut it with an urgent click.

Harriet followed Samuel’s retreat with interest. She assumed what was happening, having a knowledge of men’s lust.

At thirty-one, widowhood did not intimidate her. Long ago, such status meant she got release from a bad marriage. If her late husband understood that drinking and brawling in London’s underworld consisted of the best amusement life could offer—and then perished from one of those soused fisticuffs—she wanted nothing to do with his mistakes. Except she had been left poor, indebted, and desperately in need of employment.

The polished education her father, an attorney for the crown, bestowed on her came in as her salvation. One year into her position, the Professor had brought the Scot. Mr. McDougal had been barely more than a lad at the time.

She thought the awe with which he boyishly regarded her endearing, certain he would grow out of it. The freshman possessed his own lodgings near the campus, afforded by his powerful Highlander of a father. Academic assignments often brought him into the house to work with the Professor.

He grew into a man before her very eyes. Lean and tall, six feet four probably, the round spectacles did not hide the clear green eyes or the freckles on his translucent skin. As he came into adulthood, though, his hair darkened into a reddish brown and his cherry lips firmed into a sensuous shape. It made him compelling in a distinct way. The fact he treated her with nothing but the utmost respect, despite his obvious desire, counted points in his favour.

Suddenly, her mind had started weaving the most absurd reveries involving her employer’s protégé. Together with shameful body reactions she never dreamed would transpire in her arid and infrequent marriage bed. She had noted this awareness of him several months ago, the discomfort of it wreaking havoc with her lucidity and composure. She must be an inglorious wanton to harbour such unacceptable tendencies towards a man who not only was much younger, but also a part of the Scottish aristocracy.

As Samuel took his leave, she did not miss the immense bulge in the front of his breeches. She itched to have her fingers undo each button on either side of his hipbones, letting the flap fall, and wrapping her hand around him. Test the hardness, the heat—tunnel her fingers along its whole extension. The ache and moistness the image produced got her breathless. And eager for any resolution.

Would the hair cradling him between his thighs be lighter or darker than the strands on his head?

The afterthought brought a scalding flush to the surface.

What the deuce?

Not ten minutes had passed when she heard a click on the study door. Her gaze raised to him. His flushed skin and heated eyes, unmistakable even with his spectacles, caused a warm ripple to course through her. To her mind, there was no doubt of why he had excused himself. Her head flooded with images of him finding self-relief. That ripple turned into an incendiary rush to the core of her. The likes of which she had no memory. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment One would think five years of an empty marriage would be enough to douse such eagerness. And they were, considering her deceased, incompetent husband. But this was Samuel, once a boy, now reaching his prime, lusting after her with guileless green eyes and all the force of his ready body.

His attention collided with hers, installing a veritable magnetic field between them. If anyone lit a match, they might go up in flames. Her fingers clutched the desk’s edge, else the force of that field drive her to him mindlessly.

Surreptitiously, her lungs drew in air in a feeble attempt to cool her insides and clear her foggy thoughts. Her throat cleared enough for her to utter level words. “You’d better hurry, or we won’t finish this.”

That seemed to bring him to his senses. He blinked, and returned his eyes to its usual scholarly expression. His lean frame acquired a more relaxed stance. The engrossed botanist slotted back in place. He resumed the seat across from her, and they worked the rest of the morning without further incidents.

“I need to know the size,” she asked. Bent over open books and scattered sheets on the solid surface, they did not realize it was almost time for luncheon.

His reddish-brown head snapped up, wide orbs meeting hers. “The size?” A furtive glance darted down his abdomen and back to hers.

A new wave of crimson invaded her skin when she guessed what crossed his mind. Not even a Titan would have prevented her from looking down his chest. Her scrutiny lowered further to where his legs lay, wishing his erection became transparent. Or more precisely, the top of his thighs. Oh, she would love to know the size of him at every stage of the way.

Way to what, you brainless wanton? She berated herself.

“We must list the peak growth of each species of Bromeliaceae encountered so far.” Perhaps she had worded the question incorrectly. Or perhaps she committed a slip. A patently revealing slip.

The paper he would present to other botanists would be about Bromeliaceae, widely known as bromeliad, one of his pet projects as he had been studying the species since before he came to Oxford.

His nostrils flared with the strong intake of air, one hand lifting to adjust his round spectacles unnecessarily, which drew her attention to his darkened irises. “Evidently,” he murmured. “I made notations of other botanists’ observations.” He rummaged in his notebooks and pulled a sheet of paper. “They’re here.” He extended it to her.

She reached for the paper, making their fingers touch. Both froze. The sheet transferred to her hand, leaving his free. In the brief moment it took for her to react, she felt his forefinger twitch as if it wanted to test the texture of her skin. Their gazes clashed, her breath stalled. The air around them almost sizzled with pent-up energy. Still locked in each other, he slid his hand slowly from hers, causing a trail of lightning to climb up her arm, goose-bumps in its wake. Her breasts puckered, her middle fluttered, and she thanked the fact she sat. She’d have no support resting on her knees. Seeking to disguise her reaction, she lowered her head to the paper. “What about your own observations?”