Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I’m a bloody coward. Neville sat at the kitchen table with Althea, watching her polish off three rolls spread with butter, then wash them down with half a pot of tea. He liked her unabashed appetite. He liked her fresh smiles and her frank responses.
He liked her.
When she’d spoken of marriage, he should have asked her if she’d marry him. He should have simply told her what he wanted. Why hadn’t he?
Because she’d made it clear she wouldn’t marry him if her life depended on it. She might not have meant it . . . but he couldn’t take the chance that she did.
It was easier to deceive her and play on her trust until he could get her uncle’s consent. In essence, it was easier to force her into marriage.
I’m worse than a coward. I’m a bloody bastard.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself even now to tell her what he wanted. The thought of watching her stiffen in disgust, then walk out of his house, taking all his hopes with him, was unbearable. Especially now that he’d had a taste of her.
Yes, he was being unscrupulous. But what else could he do? Leave the choice to her? She didn’t know her own mind. She didn’t really know him, for God’s sake, so any decision she made based on the gossip about him wouldn’t be wise.
No, he must go on as planned. Once they were married, he’d make it up to her. He’d shower her with everything she deserved.
Unfortunately, that thought didn’t ease his conscience.
“Don’t you want anything to eat?” she asked.
“What?” he said, jerking himself from his unpleasant thoughts.
“Rolls. Butter. What I am shamelessly gorging myself on. Don’t you want any?”
Her expression, teasing and a little flirtatious, made him forget all his doubts, all his uncertainties. It made him salivate, and not for food either.
He reached across the table and caught her hand.
Before she could stop him, he lifted it to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip of one of her buttery fingers.
“I am hungry, now that you mention it.” He sucked another fingertip, watching as her eyes turned a molten amber.
Then he added wickedly, “But what I want isn’t a meal. ”
She yanked her hand away, her breath coming in staccato gasps as she stared at him. “You’re very naughty, you know.”
He leaned back in his chair to cross his arms over his chest. “I thought you claimed I was a hypocrite and quite honorable.”
Frowning, she wiped her fingers on a kitchen cloth. “I don’t know what to make of you. But I wish you would stop . . . well . . . ”
“Trying to seduce you?”
She nodded and stood to flash him a defiant look. “You told me this was my stolen night to do what I wanted, but we always end up doing what you want.”
With a laugh, he rose to offer her his arm. “Guilty as charged, madam. I shall try to behave from now on. So, what else would you like to do? Climb a tree? Shoot a pistol? Ride a tiger?”
“As if you could find a tiger around here,” she said with a snort, but took his arm and let him lead her toward the door.
Unfortunately, she appeared to be seriously considering his other proposals as they walked to his study.
What in God’s name would he do if she said she wanted to learn to shoot?
It was too dark for that, and the last thing he wanted to put in her hand was a gun.
It had been bad enough watching her nearly kill herself on that bannister.
“I detest firearms,” she said after a moment, flooding him with relief. “And believe it or not, I did climb a tree or two in my youth. Besides, after my experience with the bannister, I don’t fancy braving any more heights tonight.”
“You didn’t enjoy sliding down the bannister?” he teased.
“I suppose I did. Until I fell on you, that is.”
He led her through the door into his study. “That had its moments, too. The part on the floor was quite enjoyable.”
Her instant blush delighted him, even when she followed it by snatching her hand from his arm. “You simply can’t get off that subject, can you?”
“I’m trying. But you keep bringing it up again.”
“I do not!” She faced him, putting on an expression so prim it would have impressed the strictest governess. “We were talking about what I want to do. And I’ve made my decision.”
“That sounds ominous. What is it now? Swing from the chandelier? Learn to fence? I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think this was all a plot to break my neck before morning so I can’t duel with your uncle.”
She chuckled. “That’s a thought.”
“Not a very pleasant one,” he said dryly. “Out with it. What daring trick would you like to perform now?”
“I’d like to talk.”
He cast her a wary glance. “Talk?”
“Yes.” Moving to the sofa, she settled herself on the edge of it, her spine stiff as she smoothed her skirts. “You see, I have so many questions no one will ever answer, and I want you to answer them.”
“You may not believe this, Althea,” he remarked as he went to pour himself another brandy, “but I don’t know everything. I might not know the answers to your questions.”
“You’ll know them, trust me. These are questions about . . . well, things people say that make no sense. Everyone talks in riddles, and no one will explain what they’re talking about. Especially my uncle’s friends.”
Neville arched one eyebrow. “For example?”
“The first night we were in London, as we were leaving a dinner party, several of my uncle’s friends congratulated him on his engagement.
Just then, the butler brought my uncle his hat and gloves.
One of his friends snatched up the gloves and said, ‘Judging from the size of these, we should congratulate the bride-to-be instead of the groom.’ Then all the men laughed, except my uncle, who scowled and hurried Theresa and me out the door.
I asked him what the men meant, but he wouldn’t explain.
And for the life of me, I can’t imagine how gloves could possibly affect a marriage. ”
Turning to hide his smile, Neville drank deeply of his brandy. He suspected he’d need it for this discussion. “They weren’t commenting on the gloves, but the size of them, and thus the size of your uncle’s hands.” He shot her a glance. “I gather he has large hands?”
Her face filled with confusion. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“There’s an old wives’ tale,” he said, swirling the brandy in his glass, “which claims that the size of a man’s .
. . ah . . . most private part is directly related to the size of his hands.
Or the size of his feet or thumbs, depending on whom you talk to.
Thus a man with large hands, for example, is assumed to have a large—” He cleared his throat. “Need I be more explicit?”
Her eyes had gone very round, and she was blushing furiously.
“No.” She chewed her lower lip, looking a bit uncertain.
Then she straightened her shoulders and said, “Well, yes. I mean, I know what you’re talking about.
The housekeeper at Kensingham Hall was good enough to explain to me how children are made, so I know what a man .
. . does with his most private part. But she didn’t mention .
. . er . . . you see . . .” She drew a deep breath, then blurted out, “Is it considered good if a man is large there?”
Only with great effort did he keep a straight face. “Since I’m not a woman, I can’t say for certain. But I’ve been told women prefer it.”
“Oh.” She grew silent, and he wondered if she were working out the logistics in her mind or were simply appalled.
Then he realized she was staring at his hands. The hands themselves were average, but he had long fingers, and he wondered what she’d make of that. The very thought of her mulling it over made him grow hard.
He swigged his brandy so fast, he almost choked on it. Keeping his eyes carefully averted from her curious gaze, he dropped into the chair opposite her. “Is that the only thing you wanted to ask?” he said in a strained voice. Please, please, let it be the only thing. Of that type, anyway.
“I don’t know.” She had finally torn her gaze from his hands.
“I mean, I’ve heard or overheard so many things Uncle wouldn’t explain.
I assumed he was merely too busy to bother with my silly questions.
But now I wonder if . . . I mean . . . is it possible that everything I heard referred to something indecent, and that’s why he wouldn’t explain? ”
Neville fought to look serious. “It’s possible.”
She considered that, then shook her head.
“That can’t be true. For example, I overheard one of my uncle’s friends say he’d love to view Miss Taylor’s garden, but when I pointed out that Miss Taylor had no garden, all the men burst into laughter, except Uncle.
” Crossing her arms over her chest, she settled back against the sofa.
“Now what could they possibly have found to laugh about in that? Gardens aren’t indecent. ”
“Most of the time, no.” Neville stared into his glass, wishing he hadn’t agreed so readily to answer Althea’s questions.
Every one was making him more heated by the moment.
“But ‘garden’ is also a euphemism for a woman’s private parts.
Obviously your uncle’s friend was interested in seeing Miss Taylor without her clothes on.
” He took a great sip of the fiery liquor, lifting his gaze to see how Althea took that.
This time Althea’s blush wasn’t so marked.
In fact, she was stiff with outrage. “Do you mean to tell me someone has taken a perfectly innocent word and turned it into . . . into . . .” She gave a snort of disgust. “No wonder that horrible man laughed even louder when I volunteered to show him my garden.”
Neville nearly choked on his brandy. “What in God’s name was Kensingham’s reaction to that?”
She shot him an irate glance. “He told them my garden was inaccessible, then sent me off to find Theresa. At the time, I couldn’t imagine why he was making such a fuss over our gardens.”
“Now you know why.”
She was silent a moment. Then her face clouded. “I hesitate to ask this, but what is a House of Civil Reception?”