“Pleeease.” She pressed her hands to her abdomen. “Me belly is rumbling so.”
“And all you have to say is one word, properly, to feed it.”
She narrowed those lovely eyes and glared at him. “Hhhungry.”
That one word was growled in an octave lower than her normal tones, and John felt it deep in his gut. The pressure against his pantaloons increased.
Wisdom wasn’t always his strong suit.
He cleared his throat. “How delightful. You can be trained.” He flicked his finger to the door, and the footman standing guard slipped out to tell the cook they were ready to eat. As he left, another visitor slid inside and made straight for John’s ankles.
John picked up the cat and plopped it on the chair next to him before she could destroy his boots.
“Now, on to other matters.” He tilted his head. “I can’t introduce you as Miss Pickle. That name just won’t do. We’ll have to come up with another.”
“Wot’s the cat’s name?” Netta jerked her chin at the orange fluff-ball.
“Judith.”
Netta’s mouth widened into a perfect ‘O’.
John’s cock throbbed. She had a delightful mouth. Wide and plush and just the right size to wrap around his—
“You named your cat Judith?” she asked. “Wot ahhhorrible name for a cat.”
“She’s not my cat.” The animal in question batted the air and hissed at him, apparently not liking the disdainful tone of his voice. John modulated it. “Wilberforce found her in the yard, bloody after a fight, and took her in.” He gave Netta a pointed look. “The man is wont to do such foolishness.”
The woman had the gall to stick her tongue out at him. He blinked, his shock somewhat lessoned by images of her using that clever tongue in imaginative ways. Would she lick a man’s cock like a cream ice or would she dive right in and—
“Well, I’m not letting you name me. Not if you thought Judith was a good name for a cat.” She plunked her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “‘Ow about…ooh, I’ve always wanted to be a Miss Moulin.”
John blew out a breath and focused his thoughts. Netta was fully-clothed, and she would remain that way. He needed to restrain his imagination. “Too showy.”
“‘Ow about Miss Pa-pi-llon. Me mam told me that meant dove.”
“Butterfly. And no.”
“Fontaine?”
He shook his head.
“Labelle?”
Jesus, it was like she knew the name of every French whore in London.
Two footmen stepped through, each carrying a platter. One laid a plate before John, and removed the lid, refilling his wine glass before stepping back. The other didn’t get a chance to place his plate down. Netta jerked it from his hand and dug into it as though she hadn’t eaten in a month.
John cut off a small bit of meat and fed it to the cat. “That’s not the right fork.”
She didn’t respond, only squinted her eyes over the table at him, her cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s gorging on nuts, and continued shoveling food into her mouth with the salad fork.
“We’ll stick with calling you Netta for now, shall we?” There was nothing delicate or proper about this woman. He still refused to call her, to call anyone, Pickle, but Netta would do well enough. “We’ll hold elocution classes in the morning, deportment in the afternoons, and lessons in dining etiquette at dinner.”
She took a large swallow of wine. “Wot’s et-cut?”
“To begin with, it means not eating with one’s elbows planted on the table.” He stabbed his knife in the direction of her elbows and was gratified when she slid them off the wood to her sides. “Next, instead of shoving the entire breast in your mouth, cut off a piece small enough where you need chew only three times before swallowing.”
She cut a wedge and stuck it in her mouth. She bobbed her head with each gnash of her teeth. Counting in her head, no doubt. “Three times?” She spoke with her mouth half full. “I’m already at ten and that was a small bite.”
