Read Online The House of Velvet and Glass by Katherine Howe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Howe
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whispered. “I’m dining at the club.” He tightened his grip a little and felt the inviting give of her flesh under the apron and shirtwaist. She wasn’t pulling away. He wondered with a shiver of pleasure if he could press further.
She half-smiled in return, gripping the platter with both hands. “Why, Mister Harlan,” she chided. “Whatever will your father say.”
“Hmm,” he said, pretending to look concerned. “Why, I hadn’t thought of that. What shall we say to him?” He ducked his head nearer Betty’s freckled cheeks, crinkling his eyes in commiseration.
“What indeed?” she whispered. Their eyes met, his sparkling with mischief, hers watchful.
Thrilling at the window of opportunity she seemed to have cracked open for him, Harlan leaned in and pressed his lips to Betty’s mouth. He felt resistance, and then beneath his insistent pressure felt that resistance give. She tasted as he knew she would, like flour and salt and cinnamon, and his fingers pressed into the small of her back, sensing the texture of her skin. He pressed himself closer, slipping his tongue between her lips and probing the roof of her mouth. Her mouth was delicious, warm, yielding, but oddly inert under his kiss, accepting without participating. After a moment she broke herself away, wiping her mouth with the back of her free hand and then batting him on the cheek.
“Brute,” she scolded, but with a knowing smile.
Harlan laughed. She was a fine, game girl. He’d suspected she would be.
Just then the kitchen door opened to reveal the back-lit silhouette of Mrs. Doherty, her face impassive. “Is the girl bothering you, Mister Harlan?” she asked without preamble.
“Why, not at all, Doherty, not at all,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But I am bothered.” He reached up to confirm that his tie was in order.
“In that case we’ve the table to see to,” she said, frowning, in a manner both commanding to Betty and dismissive to Harlan.
He winked in Betty’s direction, but she wasn’t looking. Instead she hurried, head down, to the door into the dining room, opening it with her back, platter of chickens in both hands, eyes averted. Mrs. Doherty turned an icy glare on him and seemed on the point of saying something. Harlan flashed her his most winning smile, brushed his hand over the mint sprig in his buttonhole, and slipped out the back door.
“Two spades,” said Rawlings around the pipe between his lips, coils of smoke leaking out the corners of his young mouth.
“Pass,” grumbled Bickering. Harlan wished Bickering would have a better card face. This was bound to be a wasted rubber if he couldn’t keep his cards to himself.
“Four spades,” tossed out Townsend. He was a smooth fellow, with shrewd eyes. The sort of man who’d have hobbies about which he could be an insufferable bore. Chess? Philately? It didn’t matter. It could solve a number of problems, having a bridge partner like Townsend.
“Pass,” said Harlan, as evenly as he could.
“Well, dummy’s you,” Townsend said to Rawlings, who laid his hand out faceup with resignation and rekindled his pipe.
“Well, Allston,” he said, slipping the pipe back between his lips. Rawlings cultivated the pipe at college because clenching it in his teeth forced him to flatten out his vowels. Trying to obscure a southern boyhood, was Rawlings.
“Well?” Harlan remarked, eyes on his cards. He shifted a few in pairs, considering his strategy.
“Sir.” A murmur by Harlan’s ear stirred the fine hairs at the base of his neck. A uniformed porter bent in a confidential attitude by the card table, hands behind his back.
“I’m rather occupied,” Harlan said, without looking at the houseman.
“So sorry, sir, but you have a telephone call. Where should you like to—”
“I’m in the middle of a game.” Harlan’s voice tightened. “I should not like to take it at all.”
The porter cleared his throat, saying, “Very good sir. What time shall I
She half-smiled in return, gripping the platter with both hands. “Why, Mister Harlan,” she chided. “Whatever will your father say.”
“Hmm,” he said, pretending to look concerned. “Why, I hadn’t thought of that. What shall we say to him?” He ducked his head nearer Betty’s freckled cheeks, crinkling his eyes in commiseration.
“What indeed?” she whispered. Their eyes met, his sparkling with mischief, hers watchful.
Thrilling at the window of opportunity she seemed to have cracked open for him, Harlan leaned in and pressed his lips to Betty’s mouth. He felt resistance, and then beneath his insistent pressure felt that resistance give. She tasted as he knew she would, like flour and salt and cinnamon, and his fingers pressed into the small of her back, sensing the texture of her skin. He pressed himself closer, slipping his tongue between her lips and probing the roof of her mouth. Her mouth was delicious, warm, yielding, but oddly inert under his kiss, accepting without participating. After a moment she broke herself away, wiping her mouth with the back of her free hand and then batting him on the cheek.
“Brute,” she scolded, but with a knowing smile.
Harlan laughed. She was a fine, game girl. He’d suspected she would be.
Just then the kitchen door opened to reveal the back-lit silhouette of Mrs. Doherty, her face impassive. “Is the girl bothering you, Mister Harlan?” she asked without preamble.
“Why, not at all, Doherty, not at all,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But I am bothered.” He reached up to confirm that his tie was in order.
“In that case we’ve the table to see to,” she said, frowning, in a manner both commanding to Betty and dismissive to Harlan.
He winked in Betty’s direction, but she wasn’t looking. Instead she hurried, head down, to the door into the dining room, opening it with her back, platter of chickens in both hands, eyes averted. Mrs. Doherty turned an icy glare on him and seemed on the point of saying something. Harlan flashed her his most winning smile, brushed his hand over the mint sprig in his buttonhole, and slipped out the back door.
“Two spades,” said Rawlings around the pipe between his lips, coils of smoke leaking out the corners of his young mouth.
“Pass,” grumbled Bickering. Harlan wished Bickering would have a better card face. This was bound to be a wasted rubber if he couldn’t keep his cards to himself.
“Four spades,” tossed out Townsend. He was a smooth fellow, with shrewd eyes. The sort of man who’d have hobbies about which he could be an insufferable bore. Chess? Philately? It didn’t matter. It could solve a number of problems, having a bridge partner like Townsend.
“Pass,” said Harlan, as evenly as he could.
“Well, dummy’s you,” Townsend said to Rawlings, who laid his hand out faceup with resignation and rekindled his pipe.
“Well, Allston,” he said, slipping the pipe back between his lips. Rawlings cultivated the pipe at college because clenching it in his teeth forced him to flatten out his vowels. Trying to obscure a southern boyhood, was Rawlings.
“Well?” Harlan remarked, eyes on his cards. He shifted a few in pairs, considering his strategy.
“Sir.” A murmur by Harlan’s ear stirred the fine hairs at the base of his neck. A uniformed porter bent in a confidential attitude by the card table, hands behind his back.
“I’m rather occupied,” Harlan said, without looking at the houseman.
“So sorry, sir, but you have a telephone call. Where should you like to—”
“I’m in the middle of a game.” Harlan’s voice tightened. “I should not like to take it at all.”
The porter cleared his throat, saying, “Very good sir. What time shall I
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