Trouble With Harry by Katie MacAlister Page B

said absently, making a notation on the letter. “If one of them was hurt, there would be screaming and blood and such.”
    Then again, it couldn’t hurt.
    â€œHarry.”
    He looked up, the adorable lock of hair hanging over his equally adorable brow, his eyes dark and shadowed behind the glass lenses. “Plum! You’re…er…up.”
    Temple quietly left the room, closing the door behind him as Plum walked toward the desk, glancing at the variety of objects lining the tables and bookcases. “Yes, I’ve found that if I really put my mind to it, I often manage to arise before the sun has set for the day. Good morning, Harry.”
    â€œOh, er…” Harry stood up, more than a little bit flustered, Plum was delighted to see. He pushed back his spectacles, leaving a smear of blue ink on the bridge of his nose. Her fingers itched to push the lock of hair back from his brow as he tugged on his neckcloth (leaving blue smudges on it, too), greeting her with a hesitant (but needless to say, adorable) smile. “Good morning. How did you…er…sleep?”
    Plum sighed to herself. There was no avoiding the fact, Harry was just all-around adorable. “Quite well, the bed is very comfortable. I did, however, have a complaint concerning my bedchamber.”
    â€œOh?” Harry came around the edge of the desk and pulled back a chair for her. Two apples, a number of crumpled neckcloths, and a small brown-and-black salamander tumbled from the mass of papers that sat on the chair. “What—just ignore the salamander, it’s one of McTavish’s pets, it’s harmless, I’m quite sure. Temple’s story about it biting off one of the footmen’s fingertips is nothing but the grossest sort of fiction—what did you find lacking?”
    Plum took a deep breath, and reminded herself that she was neither a shy virgin nor a woman inexperienced with men and the intimate acts they did with their wives. She knew thirteen different standing positions alone for said intimate acts, and women who knew such things did not blush when they were mentioned in casual conversation. She was a mature, rational woman. Harry was her husband. She very much looked forward to investigating his person in a thorough and lengthy manner. She might even take notes about things he particularly enjoyed. She would not, under any circumstances, act maidenish.
    Harry’s eyes narrowed as he peered into her face. “Are you well? You look flushed, as if you have a fever.”
    â€œI’m quite fine,” she answered, ignoring the fact that her cheeks were so hot she could probably fry an egg or two on them. “What I found lacking in my bedchamber last night was your presence.”
    Harry looked confused. “You threw me out of the room.”
    Drat the man, he would have to remember that point. “Yes, I did, but I didn’t mean it.”
    One dark brown eyebrow rose over the top of the spectacles. “Ah. That would be why you said, and I believe I’m quoting you accurately, ‘You deceiving mongrel of a man! You have five children and you never told me? Five? F-I-V-E, five?’”
    Plum’s blush, to her everlasting mortification, deepened even more. She avoided looking into his lovely, changeable eyes and glared at the dirty window instead. “I might have said that, but I was a bit upset at the time—”
    â€œFollowing which, you marched over to the door leading to my room, threw it open, and with a dramatic gesture that would have done Sarah Siddons proud, informed me that I might go to my own room, or to the devil, whichever I preferred so long as I removed myself from your presence.”
    She made a face. “I have often found people with exceptionally good memories to be the worst sort of annoying—”
    â€œI might have been left in some doubt as to what, exactly, your thoughts were on the subject of our marriage, but