If it were possible to die of sexual frustration, Lyman would alreadybe six feet underground.
The woman behaved as though she’d been raised in a brothel rather than the drawing rooms of Mayfair. The way she’d spread her legs over him without a trace of hesitation! Yet somehow, she managed to look perfectly innocent and rosy-cheeked—not an ounce of shame in her body—when her sister entered the room a moment later.
It was infuriating.
It was extremely arousing.
He’d never known anyone like her. During his marriage to Ellen, Lyman had been entirely in the dark. Whether she was too demure to tell him what she wanted, or whether she truly wanted nothing at all, Lyman couldn’t have said. All he knew was that they’d been like two icebergs bobbing hopelessly around each other. Their only options were a collision course or complete indifference. When he’d finally allowed himself the satisfaction of a discreet affaire, long after Ellen had banished him from her life, it had been a shock to realize how different it could be. What mutual passion could look like between a man and a woman. But even then, he’d never met anyone quite so lively as Della. She was unmatched in that respect.
“When did Miss Chatterjee leave?” Annabelle asked in an accusatory tone. “You should have called me if you were alone.”
She was watching Lyman with an extra dose of suspicion this morning. This didn’t bode well for his plan to avoid any duels. He cleared his throat and tried to look unconcerned.
“Only a moment ago,” Della replied. “Honestly, there’s no need to fuss.”
He should say something. More specifically, he should say something ordinary and reassuring. A question about Della’s book, or even the weather—anything but the fact that she’d been straddling his lap five minutes ago.
I want you thinking of this all day, she had said, her breath hot inhis ear. Well, she’d achieved what she set out to. He hoped she didn’t regret the loss of his opinion on whatever it was they were supposed to be talking about.
Lyman sipped his tea and tried to focus on the bitter heat washing over his tongue, rather than the very different sort of heat coiling low in his stomach.
Della, in contrast, didn’t seem the least bit distracted. Her smile was so dazzling that Lyman was certain it threw a reflection on his spectacles as she addressed him. “I hoped we could talk about some ideas I had last night.”
Lyman swallowed hard, his mind flooding with images of their evening, until she continued.
“There are some important subjects missing from your book, and I wanted your thoughts on whether I should add them to mine.”
“Oh.” Of course she meant her book. He should be grateful she was focusing on the business at hand, for once. Although Lyman bristled a little at the suggestion he’d left anything out. “I endeavored to be quite thorough.”
“I’ve no doubt you did,” she replied with a knowing smile. Next to her, Miss Annabelle rolled her eyes, killing any thought he’d had of forming a flirtatious reply.
This was damnably awkward.
“I wanted to add a section on views,” Della continued.
“Views?” He struggled to follow her proposal through the host of other thoughts swimming around his brain.
“Yes! Think of it—the people who come to London from the countryside for the first time want to see the whole city laid out before them.” Della grew more animated as she spoke, spreading her hands wide as if to paint him an image of the Tower and Westminster and all the other landmarks looming above the water. “I think you likened it to ancient Babylon somewhere in your guidebook, didn’tyou?” He had, in the opening chapter. He was pleased that she remembered. “I wouldn’t want to see Babylon and never look at the whole thing from a nice hillside somewhere. So, which vantage point do you think is best to take in the city?”
She’d conjured a notebook and pencil from somewhere, but Lyman had nothing to help her fill it. “I’ve never given it much thought,” he admitted.
“Never?” Della set her pencil down, looking at him incredulously. “When you come back to town after a long absence, aren’t you ever struck by the vastness of it?”
“I live in town year-round.”
“You don’t return to your country house?”
“Not in years.”
“Oh, of course. Forgive me.” Della blushed. Her assumption was evident—that he must have left his country house to the use of his estranged wife and taken up the town house as his residence. He should correct her, but he didn’t.
She’s going to find out eventually,a hateful voice whispered in his mind.And once she does, she’ll never look at you the same way again.
“I felt the purpose of my guide was to enable people to seek out establishments of quality and avoid those that would fleece them and offer little in return,” he said, ignoring the oppressive feeling that weighed on him. They were having a lovely morning. He wouldn’t ruin it. “I hadn’t considered the views important.”
“Do you think it would be silly of me to include them?” Della’s rich brown eyes were wide and earnest, her lips parting slightly as she drew a breath. Lyman was all too conscious that he might crush her enthusiasm with a careless word, though she should never have given him that kind of power.
He’d been dismissive of her at the beginning, he knew. He’d refused to put her club in his book, then scoffed at her plans to writeone of her own. But it wasn’t too late to remedy that.
