It’s as good an excuse as any. “Yes, a bird was stuck in the hedge.”
He arches a brow. “Birds don’t get stuck in hedges, Miss Fallon.”
“Call me Sybil,” I say impulsively.
“You want me to use your first name? Is that proper?”
“No.” I shake my head, then sit down on the path, pulling my skirts up to my knees so I can put my shoe back on. “Neither is this.”
A broad grin spreads over his face. “I knew I liked you. Allow me.”
He kneels with surprising grace for someone of his size, and he takes my stockinged foot in his hand.
Lightning zips from my toes to the hollow of my thigh, tingling at my core.
He’s touching me. Men don’t touch me, ever. Even exchanges of money or goods are usually cautious procedures when I’m involved, as if people think my odd ability might be contagious.
Yet here is Theron Beresford, kneeling beside me in the garden, with my ankle cupped in his hand.
I hold out the shoe, but he doesn’t accept it right away. Instead, his other hand moves up my leg, all the way to the knee. The heat of his fingertips lights up my skin, turning every nerve incandescent.
He pauses at the edge of my gown, giving me time to protest. When I don’t, he pushes the skirts higher, until he reaches the top of my stocking at mid-thigh, where the garter straps attach.
I should be embarrassed that he’s seeing the holes in the stockings and the frayed edges of the garter straps. But the onlything in my mind is every place where those big, thick fingers press against my leg.
Beresford lifts his index finger above the edge of the stocking and strokes the bare skin of my thigh with that one fingertip.
I want to whimper. I almost do. I want him to spread his hand over my whole thigh and slide it even higher. I want to seize his wrist and guide his fingers between my legs.
My mother gave my sister and me a fairly thorough education about sex, delivered in a no-nonsense tone and accompanied by many warnings about pregnancy and diseases. I’ve touched myself before, but I’ve only reached orgasm twice in my life. Both times I could barely enjoy the experience because I was so worried that it would result in a summoning. Shortly after I began that type of experimentation, Grandmother Riquet ordered me to refrain from any sort of sexual pleasure. I followed her directive, but I resented it for a long time. That was one of the issues we argued about on the last day of my lessons with her.
And now a beautiful man with reckless eyes and a strange blue beard is touching my thigh, and the mere presence of his fingertips is driving me wild with need.
Without a word, Beresford removes his hand, takes the shoe, and slips it onto my foot. I watch his heavy rings flash in the moonlight as he buckles the strap.
“We shouldn’t remain here together in the dark any longer,” he says. “But if you need something more, return four nights from now.”
“Anne and Mama, too?” I ask.
“Your mother and sister will be invited to another dinner in the future, never fear. But this particular gathering would not suit them. Let’s just say that chaperones are not welcome.” He gives me a wolfish smile.
I realize that my mouth is open, and I shut it abruptly.
Beresford chuckles. “You look shocked.”
“This party… it involves debauchery?”
“Does that frighten you?”
“Yes.” For the reason he thinks, and more. Because I’m a virgin, and because I could summon something and ruin the night for everyone.
“Perhaps I can alleviate some of your concerns,” Beresford says. “I burn a special incense at such parties, one which suppresses fertility and lowers inhibitions. Your choices will remain your own, but you’ll feel more relaxed, and you won’t have any unwanted reminders of the pleasure you choose to enjoy.”
“Incense that is both relaxing and contraceptive?” I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds too good to be true.”
“I’ve used it for a few months, with full understanding and consent from my guests, and it works. But if you have qualms, you can certainly decline the invitation.”
I chew my lip, unsure.
