Chapter 2

Harriet lay on her bed scrutinising the darkened ceiling as she had done for hours since she forced herself to retire. Or she might have sat waiting for a certain man to arrive from wherever he decided to spend the night.

Spend the night, for pity’s sake. Samuel. That studious pupil as the boy he had been. A scholarly graduate keen on the advancement of science. A man who showed not an inch of tendency towards debauchery. The man whose quiet, intellectual posture had always elicited admiration from a woman who loathed carousing idiots.

Her insides twirled in a ragged mixture of feelings she did not try to decipher. Did not try or did not wish to, who knew. Her state of awakening told of restlessness, anxiety. And another emotion with a sour underlining she refused to call jealousy. Or rage. Or even hurt.

She could not deny that her ears stood alert to any noise from the entrance. She willed Samuel to not fall for that sort of degenerate amusement. The perfect example of one carousing idiot could veer him into ending up in vice and death.

Oh, she knew that despicable Trent well, she did. A spoiled rascal with more money than morals and more lasciviousness than decency. In his undergraduate years, he had made a pass at her, certain that a lonely widow would yield to any proposition for lack of options or affection. He had learned a lesson with the decisive slap he got for his lecherous words. Her resounding ‘no’ had irritated him to the point of retribution, but there was nothing he could do to someone under his professor’s protection. So reluctantly he had let it be. Harriet did not allow herself to think what would have happened had she not been under the professor’s roof.

But Samuel had gone out with that crowd before and nothing came of it. As a young man, it was only natural he would seek diversion. Why she fretted now, she had no idea. The professor’s protégé came from the Highlands, days far from the nearest big city. He grew up in a bucolic place, hence his interest in botany due to his close contact with an agricultural life. Unlike Trent, who was London born and bred, the McDougal heir showed no enthusiasm for nightlife. Otherwise he would have been swayed years earlier when being away from his family was a novelty. She should trust someone who had been a constant student for several years.

Her musings were interrupted by a noise coming from downstairs. Boot steps weighed the wooden stairs and pounded on the carpet of the narrow hallway. A sigh of relief escaped her right before he walked by her door.

And then she scented it. A woman’s perfume, pungent and distinctive even from her closed chamber, one only a Cyprian would wear. The sickening smell threatened to make her throw up right on her crispy bedclothes. Her hand clamped over her mouth while she fought tears with brave determination. No man, not even this one deserved them. And she would shed none. Ever again.

However, she had no chance of avoiding the blistering emotions which washed through her at the certainty he had been with a woman, that sort of woman. That he preferred a nameless, faceless light skirt when he had so blatantly showed how he wanted her, hurt more than she would like to confess. It served only to prove that, even if Samuel seemed to be a decent man, he was still a man. Just like everybody else, one who would choose to assuage his urges in any manner he could. Sharp disappointment speared her.

As the cloying odour dissipated, she turned to the other side and made herself fall asleep.

Samuel threw his shirt at the furthest corner of his chamber, eager to get rid of the stench clinging to it. And sat on the bed while his large hands rubbed his face and spiked his hair.

He should not have set his foot in that place. That he did filled him with disgust and loathe. Guilt ripped him apart, for the defeated women he met there and for the sense of betrayal to his inner wishes. He wanted not a nameless woman, not a harlot, not a clan lass, not a debutante. He exclusively craved Harriet, only her.

Never would he cheat himself, his feelings again. Never. Or come so close to it. The moment Amelie touched him, revulsion took over poignantly. Not for her specifically, but for her not being whom he dreamed. The very opposite to arousal had erupted in his guts. His hands held her arms to unwind them from him. He stepped back, excused himself and left after throwing a sheaf of Pounds on the side table. Downstairs, he landed in the entrance hall where no one saw him hurriedly exit the place. Putting on his coat and hat, he sped home in the first hackney he found.

The damned perfume clung to his skin now. He rushed to the basin to wash himself. It would be inconsiderate to wake anyone to prepare him a bath. He would have to wait until morning. The professor kept only a housekeeper and a footman. The latter had travelled with the family, and Mrs Marsh deserved her rest.

His breath tried to ignore the alien essence as Sam lay down and fell into a fitful sleep.

By the time Harriet heard the study door click shut, she had been in it for a long time organising books and the notations for Samuel’s paper. The soapy scent floating inside told her he had taken a bath. A wise decision after what he had done. A hot wave of irritation nearly choked her. The delicate throat worked convulsively to tamp it down with resolute finality.

“Good morning,” came his smooth greeting.

For the life of her, she did not have the ability to look at him. Pure revulsion churned her insides. Her head lifted, aiming at the painting behind him. “You’re late,” the unfair accusation escaped unbidden.

His brows crumpled at her dry tone, but he did not divert his eyes from her which provoked waves of multi-layered reactions in her badly-slept body. “It’s hardly eight in the morning,” he retorted more alert.

That he did not sleep in, even having arrived late, counted points in his favour. Points she refused to concede in the mood she found herself in at the moment. “Certainly, but we need to get on with this,” and lowered her eyes to the book she held in one hand. Her peripheral vision took in the damp hair, the warm hue of his skin, the lean torso in a pristine shirt. And the tight breeches that did not hide his long legs and, well, everything really. When had he grown to be so manly? So mesmerizing?

In large strides, he reached the chair across from hers, and sat with confident movements. The soapy essence with a hint of sandalwood became the quintessence her nostrils inhaled with eager pleasure.

She stalled her breath. Turned away and made an unsuccessful attempt to catch an ounce of neutral oxygen. The sandalwood accompanied it.

Blast it all!

“Let’s start, in this case,” he said as his spectacled gaze made a thorough perusal of her tightly coiled wheat hair, the pale skin as of this morning. His eyes rolled over the yellow morning dress she had clad herself in jerky movements after washing. She heard his forceful intake of air, and locked her muscles not to raise her eyes to him.

In her view, he lost the right to admire her.

The morning elapsed in awkward work while she tried to remind herself that they had no personal relationship whatsoever. She was his professor’s employee and he was a scholar making his way into academia. Just that.