Chapter 9 #3
She remembered the look on his face when she’d given him the book of poems, like an urchin being handed his first pair of shoes. “But you’ve read Gray a hundred times.”
“Not your copy.”
She laughed. “It’s the same as yours.”
“It’s not.” He rose and came to her side, pulling back her chair. “Bring your food and wine, and I shall prove to you why mine is different.”
Intrigued by the man and the notion, she gathered her plate while he wrapped their cutlery in napkins and slipped them into his coat pocket. He told one footman to clear the table and have the food sent to the sick in the parish; another carried her meal through the lofty halls.
In his private drawing room, firelight flickered across dark wood and burgundy furnishings, lending the space an unmistakably masculine air. She noticed the shift in him at once, the softer shoulders, the deeper smile, the whisper of relief.
The footman set a small table before the fire, arranged her plate and wine, then withdrew, leaving her alone with her husband.
How strange that a word, a title, a noun could create a sense of belonging, as if each syllable and vowel were invisible tethers.
She watched him cross the room to retrieve a volume from the narrow bookcase, allowing herself a moment to study his strapping physique. He had the strength and will to conquer the world, yet hid himself away in this quiet corner of the house.
He returned to the fire wearing a grin that said he knew he’d won the argument, then handed her the book bound in burgundy leather, open at one particular page.
“You’ve read it before?” he asked as their fingers brushed.
She tried to steady her heart. “Many times.”
“Good. Read the final stanza, and tell me if your thoughts are the same.”
While he settled in the adjacent chair, she read Gray’s lament for innocence lost, for the bitter wisdom that comes with experience. The poet warned that knowledge brings sorrow, that it is better to remain ignorant than to face the truth.
Gabriel was right. The words conjured new images, of a man whose trust and heart had been broken long ago. Her throat tightened as she reached the line he had underscored in pencil.
And happiness too swiftly flies.
That’s when she knew. He had studied the book she’d given him, noting every mark and crease on the page, the faint smudge where she’d gripped it too tightly, searching for truth in every leaf.
He was trying to strip her bare.
New images formed in her mind’s eye. Not him delving into her psyche, but sliding her nightgown slowly from her shoulder, his warm mouth tracing her collarbone, his strong hands cupping her breasts.
“You wish to know more about me,” she said, forcing away the erotic thought. “And believe my secrets are hidden within the pages of a book. Why not simply ask?”
He relaxed back, his legs wide, a picture of masculine dominance. “Because I doubt you’d have told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you linger on the pages where the poet speaks of love. That you wept as you read. That you believe yourself undeserving.”
She might have snatched her wine and taken a gulp, anything to still the traitorous thud of her heart, but she refused to let him see her fingers tremble.
“Then what’s baffling is why a man who seeks to solve every problem, a man whose heart has shrivelled and died, would marry a woman with an interest in love.”
Something flickered in his eyes, perhaps surprise, but it was gone as swiftly as it came. “To prove that a marriage based on romantic love is folly.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” There were flaws in his reasoning he had not considered. “Your view is biased. How can a woman who’s never felt love or desire judge if it holds any merit?”
His fingers flexed against his thigh, a subtle tightening. “What are you saying, my lady? That you want your husband to give you a lesson in pleasure?”
“You should call me Olivia when we discuss pleasure.” Just saying the words sent a delightful shiver down her spine. “I’m saying that without knowledge of it, I cannot agree with you.”
“Desire is nothing more than a story conjured in the mind. The body reacts to a thought, nothing more.”
And yet merely sitting beside him, every nerve alive, told her it had nothing to do with thought, and everything to do with feeling. “It’s not a topic I can debate.”
Silence settled, but his gaze remained dark, impenetrable. The air seemed to hum with palpable tension. This was not the conversation he had intended.
They finished their meal and drank their wine, the space between them tight with expectation. Did she want to feel his hands on her body, to feel like a desirable woman on her wedding night?
She didn’t know.
She knew one thing: Gabriel would not want to be found lacking. Better to leave before either was tempted to test the theory.
“It’s late. The peacocks will be wondering what’s kept me.”
“You don’t have to sleep there.” He paused, catching himself. “There are fifty bedchambers in the house. I don’t like you being so far away.”
“You said the house is impenetrable.” Almost as impenetrable as the master himself. “That I’m perfectly safe here.”
He hesitated, long enough to unnerve her. “You are. Still, I shall walk you to your room.”
“So I don’t get lost?”
“So you can tell me how you like your desire best served.”
“There’s an option?” It didn’t matter how it came so long as it came from him.
“Yes. You might like it tender, smooth on the palate.” There was something undeniably seductive in his look. “Or hot, straight from the pan.”
The air seemed to thin. Where did the kiss at the altar fit into his menu of temptations? An aperitif, perhaps, for the touch of his mouth had only whetted her appetite.
“You’ve studied me closely. What do you think I’d like best?”
“I imagine you’d want to savour every sensation. Tender might be the best place to start. But if your inquisitive mind insists on comparison,”—his mouth curved, a slow hint of amusement—“then I’ll oblige you.”
She steeled herself and rose. Something told her she might not get another chance to catch him so unguarded, and she refused to spend her life ignorant of her husband’s charms. There was a reason women wanted him, and she had a strange compulsion to know why.
“Then I would like to sample the tender dish now.”