“A pity, then,” she purred. “For I often find those the best kinds of entertainment.”
“I beg to differ, my lady. And we should leave it at that, for Henry’s sake.”
Hang contrition. His expression had turned dark, his wide jaw firmly set. Cressida found herself desperate to have him like this. Serious and severe as he held her against him, both their bodies slick with sweat. To rile such a large, docile man… the idea was intoxicating.
And now she was determined.
Matthew looked to the massive shelves of books, hoping to move the conversation beyond Lady Caplin’s teasing. He would never risk anything significant upon something as capricious as a throw of the dice. Never again. He could still hear Uncle John admonishing him in his memory. Matthew had gone to bed without supper that night, bereft of not only his marble collection but also the comfort of a kind word and a gentle touch.
“It’s quite a collection. I had no idea Rowbotham House boasted such a library,” he said, almost to himself.
Why, there must be an Aldine edition in here somewhere, perhaps even a copy of Sir Joseph Banks’sFlorilegium. With a collection this size, he wouldn’t be surprised by any treasure found within. If only he could have one day—hell, even just an afternoon—what could he learn? What fantastic works might he uncover?
“Yes, well. My late husband fancied himself somewhat of an autodidact,” Lady Caplin said, her words dripping with derision.
“And you thought him not?”
“Ha,” she said mildly. “A dilettante, at best. A bloody fool, more like.”
Matthew tore his gaze away from the towers of books. Lady Caplin was the picture of grace in every inch of her dress, in the flawless arrangement of her thick, dark hair. But the far-away look in her eyes and her taut expression gave her away.
“Anything he’d ever wanted was given to him with little effort on his part. So, naturally, he supposed that if he wished to be seen as a brilliant scholar, then he simply already was.” Her gaze wandered, as if those deep, dark eyes searched the shelves of the library for something no book could contain. “He’d gone all in with one exceptionally stupid notion before he passed.Phrenology. Absolute bosh. If we’re to accept bumps on the head as predictive of one’s abilities, why not call palm reading a science? It’s certainly a more comfortable practice.” She snorted, then turned back to Matthew. “I told him if he ever came near my skull with a pair of calipers I would scream for Wardle.”
“You and your husband didn’t get on, I gather.”
“Oh? Whatever gave you that idea?” She forced a smile that bordered on terrifying, her eyes flashing.
Matthew swallowed. His heart raced, and he sat up straighter. It almost felt as if he were engaging in something dangerous, illicit. For a petite widow, she could be awfully fierce.
But he was learning. This time he would tread carefully.
“When I asked you about him before, during the game ofvingt-un…” He shifted forward in his seat. “Please understand, I was only trying to ask questions similar to those you’d put to me. I didn’t intend—or, rather, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He dropped his voice low. “I only meant to play the game. By the example you’d set.” He slid his spectacles down his nose and looked over the lenses at her, his gaze intense. “My lady.”
She stared back at him, blinking. And then something within her shifted. Once more she was all doe eyes and suggestive smiles.
“I thought you didn’t much go in for this sort of game, Doctor.”
“I consider myself a quick study,” his voice rumbled in his chest.
He couldn’t recall ever speaking like this to anybody. When had he ever engaged in this sort of behavior? Fleeting glances, double entendres, indecent insinuations?
“Truly?” She reached forward to pour herself more tea. Her gown was cut moderately low, he couldn’t help but notice.
Damn it. The woman knewexactlywhat she was doing. Lady or no lady, she trifled with him.
“I can see you’ve improved,” she murmured as she dropped in a sugar cube, “though I admit, I do miss your more novice efforts. You’ve such a charming way about yourself.”
And then she looked up at him with the most dazzling smile, all lovely teeth and, by god, those dimples. His head felt swimmy; he quickly lost his newfound footing.
A viscountess, a pretty—no, agorgeous—viscountess was trifling with him, found him charming. But she belonged with men of her own station. Men of consequence. Members of the Athenaeum.
It would likely be pigeon pie on the menu at the Transom Club tonight.
This time she watched him over the rim of her teacup as she sipped, that one thick brow cocked, challenging him.
Several rejoinders came to mind—all cleverly suggestive quips that invited more from her. He clasped his hands, worrying them as he weighed his options. The trick, it seemed, was to not go too far beyond the pale. For this was all in fun; there was no meaning behind it, of that he felt certain. For truly, Matthew could not make sense of the rules if this was all in earnest.
He opened his mouth to speak.
