He thought of nothing else but fucking her for the entirety of the following week.
Well, that wasn’t completely true. He spent nearly as much time excoriating himself for his perverse disposition. But he could not be swayed.
She would have him.
She’d said as much, both with her words and with the exhilarating way she’d responded to his kiss, writhing upon himlike she’d been driven mad with hunger. She hadn’t blanched at his rough handling, hadn’t turned up her nose when he’d revealed his hand. In fact, she’d smiled with those fetching dimples, looking very well pleased with herself.
Matthew had never been wanted like that before. Certainly not by someone like her.
It made him delirious.
The feeling could not even be tempered by the dining room of the Transom Club, where he stared at the wall, thinking only of howpainfullyglorious she’d felt through the loose silk of her gown. Matthew sighed, resting his chin upon his hand.
He’d only need to say the word, and she would meet him at that Euston Station hotel. But how? How could he?
How could he request for her to come to him? It seemed both impossible and utterly necessary, if he were to continue living.
“What is this now? Are you planning to ever rejoin us on this plane of existence?” spat Mr. Hudgill.
“I highly doubtthat,” interjected the sour Mr. Mordaunt. “I have it on good authority that he was seen dining at the Athenaeum last week.”
Somehow, once again, he’d found himself seated with the former newspaperman and the mysterious old Scot.
Matthew could barely hear the sound of his fork clattering to the plate, on which rested a still-intact carrageen pudding, looking quite forlorn and deathly pale. He loathed the dessert.
“What?OurDr. Collier, guilty of such perfidy?” the elder man sputtered. “I don’t believe you.”
“Oh?” Mr. Mordaunt cocked a wild gray brow. “Why not ask him yourself?” He lifted his fork to point at Matthew. A repulsive globule of white, gummy pudding dripped from its tines onto the tablecloth.
Matthew wished very much to be excluded from this conversation, indeed from the entire course. But it wouldn’t do to get up just now.
So he remained seated, still as a stone.
“I will not,” declared Hudgill, summoning all the strength he could muster from his reedy voice. “My trust in the doctor is implicit. I would not drink my madeira with anyone less than forthright.”
Matthew suddenly felt even more uncomfortable.
“Bah, you miserable pinchpenny. I doubt your madeira is anything to boast about.”
“Wouldn’t you wish to know,” the stooped Hudgill snorted.
For a moment Mordaunt appeared to consider this, but his baleful look quickly returned.
“No, I truly do not.”
“At any rate, I don’t believe you.” Hudgill did his best to straighten himself up. “Whoever suggested thus is a miserable liar.”
Matthew began to clear his throat, wishing to correct his defender before this tangle blew up into something far more serious. But he was far too slow to forestall the old man’s miserable temper. Mordaunt slapped the table with his open palm. The remaining dishes jumped, clanging mutedly against the tablecloth. Matthew felt the eyes of the dining room turn to them.
“My sources are solid, damn you!” Mordaunt growled.
“Then name them, you ruffian!” Hudgill shouted in reply.
“Gentlemen, the bylaws, the bylaws!” Matthew hissed.
“Oh, now you care for our bylaws?” Mordaunt regarded him skeptically. “Who’s to say you’re not sitting here dreaming of your name upon the Athenaeum entrance ballot? Even as you dine among us, sharing our conversation and enjoying our carageen pudding?”
Matthew looked at his untouched dessert dish one more time, then pushed it as far from him as seemed polite.
