It made him all the more eager to impress her. He held out the book to her.
‘The Naturalist’s and Traveller’s Companion,’she read, stroking the cover and taking it from him.
‘It is really intended for explorers,’ he said. ‘I know that you do not approve of capturing and killing specimens for no reason, but the illustrations are interesting. And there is much that you might find useful about the pressing of flowers and taking rubbings from coins and monuments. And so forth,’ he added, feeling rather lame about the whole thing.
‘And I expect you read it, as a boy?’ she said. The corners of her mouth turned up just a little and the hooded gaze that accompanied her half-smile held fondness, curiosity, and something else he could not quite name.
Whatever it was, his body recognised it immediately. The last time he’d felt something similar, he’d probably been reading the very same book, ready to share the interesting illustrations, only to look at the girl next to him and see that there were things in the world infinitely more exciting than a collection of brightly coloured beetles.
He cleared his throat, and tried to focus on the book. ‘As a boy, yes, I studied it religiously. Most lads plan to go on a great adventure at some point in their life. Mine was on the Peninsula, of course. And Belgium. But at one point, my ambitions were far more tame. Exploration of the Congo.’
She made that face again, the frustrated grimace she often wore when coming up against one of the strictures of womanhood. ‘When I was that age, my governess was dead set on my learning to draw flowers without actually learning anything about them. My watercolours are dreadful. But I did do a pastel of Anne Bonny the pirate. She was standing on the severed heads of her enemies with a raised sword dripping blood.’
‘You must have been quite proud of it,’ he said.
‘Miss Soames showed it to Marietta. They made me burn it. I had to spend the next six months embroidering samplers with uplifting verses.’
‘Horrifying,’ he replied.
‘The picture or the samplers?’ she asked.
‘Both, I should think. I would rather have framed and hung the pastel than received any number of moralising cushions or candle screens.’
At this, she smiled and it was as if she had never done so before. He had seen the expression directed at others and been jealous of their luck. When she smiled at him, he knew it was with mockery or insincerity. At worst, it was a masking expression used to hide her annoyance at whatever he had just said or done. At best, she seemed to mute any real joy she felt, as if convinced that he would only spoil it if he knew her to be happy about something.
But right now, she was smiling at him.
He blinked slowly, trying to focus on the book she was holding and not the graceful curve of her shoulder as it dipped into the bodice of the gown, the fabric of which he knew was hiding a pair of stunning breasts that should be pressed into the pillows on his bed and not the grass next to an anthill.
‘Be careful what you wish for, Mr Challenger,’ she said, and for a moment, he was sure she’d read his thoughts. Then she continued. ‘I’ve a mind to take up sketching again. Then I will reproduce my lost work and insist you hang it in pride of place over your desk.’
‘I will consider it an honour, madam,’ he said. And what a relief it would be if that was the most shocking thing in his future.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As George laid in bed that night, she could not help thinking that it had been a delightful evening. She would not have thought it possible, but she had enjoyed talking with her husband even more than the dancing and kissing at the ball. Tonight, he had been the one to instigate the conversation. And though they had talked for almost two hours, she could not remember a single criticism in the whole time.
He had shared a favourite book with her. Even though she had her own copy and knew it as well or better than he did, she had read it again for his sake.
As she had done so, he had been staring at her. Her body grew warm at the memory of his gaze and she pushed the bedcover off, causing Sargent to groan in his sleep. She could not blame him. The memory of those dark eyes fixed on her would make sleep impossible.
He had not been angry. There had been no reason for it. But the intensity was much more than casual interest. Had he wanted to kiss her again? Then why had he not done so? It was not as if they needed to fear discovery. They were in their own home. The servants would think it quite normal should one of them accidentally catch newlyweds kissing in a public room. If the idea bothered him, he could have suggested that they go to bed. Even now, she could open the connecting door between their rooms.
And then what would happen? Somehow, when she imagined the scene, she could not see beyond the first kiss. He would hold her. He would kiss her. Then, suddenly, they would be unclothed, like the people in the paintings at Vitium et Virtus.
She frowned. It was not a very accurate imagining, if that happened. There was no fumbling with buttons or laces, no calls for a maid to undo a troublesome knot, or requests to wait, just a moment, while one put shirt studs or eardrops on the dresser where they would not be lost.
Instead, one moment they were clothed and the next they were not, as if there was some reason to hurry. Once her clothes were off, she would know exactly what to do that would make him happiest, for he would be smiling as he had tonight instead of frowning like he usually did. He would call her his beautiful love and not a troublesome nuisance.
She remembered him that first night, disciplined yet angry, waving a cat-o’-nine-tails and driving the lechers away from her. She had never seen a man so fierce, so powerful, and so attractive. The libertine residing just beneath the carefully civilised veneer he presented intrigued her. Before he had rescued her from Sir Nash and been forced into a proposal, he had bought her. What would he have done had the auction been in earnest?
She stretched in bed, imagining herself at the mercy of Frederick Challenger.
He would touch her breasts, which somehow seemed to think and feel on their own at times like this. They did not precisely itch, but they were so eager to be touched that she had to clutch the bedsheets to keep herself from rubbing her nipples.
There were other places that wanted touching as well. And that, she was pretty sure, had to do with the act of procreation. One did not grow up in the country without learning a few facts about reproduction. She had learned far too much of horses until the grooms had shooed her away from the stallions and mares.
But it could not be the same with people. For one thing, gentleman could not manage to wear such tight pants, if they were anything like horses. And mares did not seem to enjoy what happened very much. There was a lot of stomping and snapping.
