He raised his hand to skim her bare arm above her glove for a millisecond before returning it to his lap.
Her head snapped around, and she glared at him, saying under her breath, “Did you not learn your lesson about touching people without permission?”
He grinned, responding at a similar volume. “I beg your pardon,Mistress. You should smack my knuckles with your fan.”
Deciding to accept his apology for that delicious image alone, she simply replied, “Sadly, I do not have a fan.”
“Right. Well, then, you shall simply owe me one.” A dimple formed as he gave her a cheeky lopsided grin and a wink. “Of the non-deity characters, whom do you like the best?”
“Hmm. Not really fair, as you likely know I would have said Calypso or Athena…”
He nodded, still grinning.
She considered the question. “I think Odysseus’s opportunity to travel and see the world makes me envy him a bit. But ultimately, the women, including Penelope, seem stronger than the men, do they not?”
“I agree. I was glad you had found it, as I thought it might suit. Do many countesses read Homer then? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
She snorted. “Honestly, I’d have no way of knowing, but I doubt it.”
“Yet you chose it. And you’re here learning about steam engines. With only a handful of other women.”
His comment drew her gaze around the room, making her realize the women were quite outnumbered. She’d never noticed or cared when she had come with Charles, but now felt conspicuous. Thankful it was a small crowd, which included more people she knew than the ball had, she shrugged.
“I admire that.”
Gracious, the puppy eyes were back, and they were affecting her. Heat bloomed in her belly as she recalled the last time he had looked at her that earnestly, and she shifted on her chair.
Just then, the host came to the front of the room to introduce the guest speaker, and to remind everyone that there would be refreshments served afterward.
Needing to nip the rakelet’s pursuit in the bud and get a grip on her own interest, she managed to slip out when the gathering broke for refreshments.
Chapter Six
The following night over a solitary dinner eaten at her desk, Charlotte reviewed her notes from the articles she had read on steam powered locomotives to compare them to her notes from the salon. She was fascinated by this particular invention, but still struggled with the science.
Might William share his learnings from university with her, as Charles had?
Gracious. She had no business wondering if he would share education with her. They were not going to spend enough time together for him to do that. Besides, he likely hadn’t even taken classes that would allow him to explain the science to her, he was so young.
Forcing herself to concentrate on the documents, she put William from her mind. Soon, however, the diagrams and her scribbled notes with arrows were replaced by visions of hands, slender with youth, ensnared in a cravat. That eager gaze, staring up at her as she leaned over. Her nipples hardened, and she shifted on her chair, tilting her hips as though to grind herself against the wooden seat. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine straddling those slim hips, rubbing up and down the hard length between them, building a delicious friction for her and—No.
She refocused on learning the new technology, only to begin the daydream again.
Giving up, she abandoned the remains of her meal and took her wine with her upstairs. After changing for bed and fluffing the pillows, she lay down and opened Homer. In her first few months of widowhood, lying in their shared bed had been unbearable, and she’d taken to lounging in a chair and reading. These past months, she’d changed the furniture and bedding, enabling her to sleep better, although she still read for as long as the candelabra by her bed would allow, or until she fell asleep with her book on her, whichever came first.
She could not immerse herself in Odysseus’s quest tonight, however. Even the calming neutral shades of taupe and white, echoed on the walls, curtains, bed linens and upholstery of the two Chippendale armchairs did not soothe her. William’s challenges regarding the tale remained forefront in her mind. Her forearm tingled from the ghost of his touch.
Shifting, she sat with two pillows behind her and legs extended. She tried lying on her side, the book on the bed beside her. Then sat again, legs bent with the book propped on them, then back to her side.
Her nightrail shifted against her skin, chafing her belly and puckering her nipples. Instead of the paper, she felt hair as fine as silk, gold shot with cream, and saw wrists wrapped in snowy linen, with a mouth-watering bulge in the lap below them.
Gah!
She rolled over to her back, abandoning the book. She stared at the canopy of her bed, but still saw William’s face. His wide eyes as he stared at her, trying to assimilate why she had tied his wrists. She’d been dying to ask how long he’d taken to extricate himself from the cravat bond.
Her devilish imagination conjured him contorting his fingers to reach the knot, it tightening a hair, and him drawing in a breath of worry. Considering how he would explain it to his friends if he could not undo it. Now his wrists a bit reddened from twisting back and forth to move it closer to his hands. His fingers reaching again, those long, aristocratic, pale fingers with the neatly trimmed nails. How they’d feel inside her.
Stop! He’s too young for you.She threw one arm across her eyes as though to block the images.
