Chapter 11
Soren
“Ah!” Pru practically shouted, pillow in hand striking him—if one could call what she was doing with the bluntest object known to man, striking.
All of this, he really should have been prepared for considering he had snuck into her bedroom through a window, but he was surprisingly not prepared for it.
“Dear God in Heaven, where did you come from?”
Snatching the pillow from her hands, he gestured to the window.
“Give that back,” she said, lunging for her pillow as if it were her prized gown. One that she should be wearing. “Ow!”
“Does that hurt?” he tapped her side with the swinging pillow.
“No.”
“Then why are you using it as a weapon?”
“I didn’t have time to think.”
“Apparently,” he shrugged, handing her back her weapon of choice. “Why did you say ow?”
“No reason,” she replied, hugging the pillow tightly in front of her nightrail clad body.
That’s when he noticed she was rubbing the pinky on her left side. “Let me see that.” Gently, he tugged her one hand free of its viselike grip on her pillow.
“It’s fine. I just jammed it against your…bicep when I was trying to steal back my pillow.”
“Tsk, tsk. That will teach you not to steal.”
She pursed her lips at him in an attempt to chide him.
“You’re holding this like it’s a prized possession.”
“It is. Considering how I’m dressed. I need some protection. Some cover. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to answer one of your questions and to see you write the letter to Fidelia.”
“Now?”
“Did you have a better time in mind?”
“Daytime.”
“Ah…to be innocent. Nighttime is the best time. All the time.” He winked. He didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.
But her aggravated growl of a response made it worth it.
“You don’t trust me to write the letter?”
“Of course not.”
“My, what poor experiences you must have had with women to be so distrustful.”
“Both. And.”
“Please explain.” She took a seat at her writing desk while clutching the pillow he had hoped might slip a little.
“My experiences with women range from utmost pleasure to downright horror.”
“Oh my…”
“No need to fret. I have no intention of sharing any abominable events with you.”
“I’m not reassured.”
When he caught her eye, he expected to see an acerbic twist to her lips, but instead he found more curiosity. Curiosity that would only lead to vulnerability. Which would only lead to pain. That door was shut.
“What shall you write to Fidelia and how can I be of assistance?”
“You can’t.”
“Surely, I can.”
“How many people do you think it takes to write one letter?”
“That depends.”
“Color me intrigued and paint the lines, please.”
Oh, how he enjoyed her quick wit. He had insisted—to himself—to wait two whole days before approaching her. The two days had been endless torture.
“What about the elderly? Someone who can no longer hold a quill—”
“All right. I understand. But I can assure you, despite my spinster age, I can still hold a quill.”
“You’re no spinster.”
“At nine-and-twenty, I’m certainly no fair maiden.”
“I disagree.”
“Well,” she pulled out a piece of paper, “tonight isn’t about me anyway. Shall we begin?”
He chuckled as she held out her quill to him.
“Yes. That will do.” He sank into an armchair near the fire. “Read aloud what you write, please.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He chuckled at her irreverence and then listened to her steady tone express the contents of her missive.
Despite the matter-of-fact evenness of her voice that was anything but sultry, he found himself lost in her pragmatic nature and unaware of the words.
So when she finished and asked, “Is that to your liking?”
He wanted to answer, yes. He could truthfully answer, yes. But a nagging recollection of a promise of honesty tugged at his thoughts.
“To be perfectly transparent, I didn’t catch a word of that.”
“Oh botheration.” Abruptly she stood, sprinkled some pounce over the ink, and then put the letter in front of him. Quickly he scanned it and nodded.
“Well done.”
“Thank you. It’s almost as though I’ve been trained all my life on how to write a good letter.”
He smiled at her back while she replaced the missive on her desk and then watched as she joined him near the fire.
Having forgotten about the pillow—much to his delight—she sat on the edge of her armchair staring at the flickering flames.
They sat in a companionable silence for several crackles of wood. Until he couldn’t contain his own curiosity any longer.
“Have you prepared the first question you’d like to ask me?”
Attentively, he watched her head—directed to the floor—bounce up and down in affirmation.
“Would you like to ask me?”
Again. Another bounce. Further carpet staring.
“Are you ready to ask me?”
Stillness.
It had been too long ago for him to recall how he felt as an innocent.
There had been a time for that…though it was short.
Perhaps only a dozen plus years. He had been around fourteen when the first woman had approached him.
Before his first experience with a woman, he had been curious—sure—but not impatient.
He could have waited longer. But sometimes people made judgments about a person’s character and then that person just lived up to those judgments.
It had only made sense. With the reputation his father had.
And with his mother’s reaction to her husband…
Of course Soren would follow in their footsteps. And he hadn’t looked back. Until now.
“You don’t have to ask if you don’t want to—”
“I want to.” Her eyes darted up to his, and he caught a glimpse of trepidation in her eyes. It flickered, mirroring the fire before them.
He watched her fingers grip the edge of her seat, turning white. “It’s natural to be curious, my little librarian. It’s a good thing to have questions. And what happens between a man and a woman is natural, too.”
“You would think that.”
“Because I’m a rake?” His spine stiffened at her insult, regardless of the truth behind his label.
“No. Not because you’re a rake. Because you’re a man.
” In his pause, she continued. “Women are not permitted to speak of, read of, learn of anything related to the bedroom. Some of us are lucky enough—or perhaps unlucky enough—to receive a short statement from our mothers. Others are not. Any language or information on the subject is veiled in homily or diatribes. Virtue, a woman’s virtue, is all that she possesses as a bargaining chip in the ring of bidding on a husband.
A dowry, age, status, everything else is worthless without it.
So I know next to nothing about my own body. And it feels shameful.”
Whether she paused to take a breath or a break, he took the opportunity to reassure her. “It’s not a shameful act. It’s natural.”
Her eyes pierced into him, pinning him in place. “That’s not what I mean. I mean it’s shameful that I know nothing about it.”
And that’s when the significance of his promise weighed in on him. This wasn’t a simple symposium of two, a meeting of the minds, a question and answer time.
This was a discourse where only one person had a voice of experience. She had to trust him implicitly to unveil a truth that she had every right to know but had little to no means of accessing.
He was her access. And as ominous as a crack of thunder, he suddenly felt like it was too much to bear.
“I should go.”