‘Trust me, I find no delight in London society. I have business to attend to regarding my father’s estate. And it is for the best, as you should not drag my character out into the light. It dwells in darkness and is comfortable there.’
She frowned and sighed. ‘See, you remain hidden.’
‘Alright. Let us cast light on each other, for we had no courtship to do so.’
Grace regarded him with suspicion.
‘I will start. Tell me what accomplishments you possess, Grace. Am I to expect you to play and sing for my entertainment?’ he said.
‘I have no accomplishments that might interest you.’
‘Now that cannot be true, so which of us is hiding now? William was obviously captivated, so he must have seen something in you. Come, we must have some conversation while we await Mrs. Percy, for she will soon sniff us out and be bearing down on us with her tea tray.’
A shadow of a smile played on Grace’s lips. ‘I can play the piano tolerably well, but not for your entertainment. I am proficient in Latin and French, though I rather regret the latter now that Napoleon has wreaked havoc in Europe and taken someone dear to me. I want nothing to do with the French at this point in time.’
‘Is it not important to know your enemy?’ said Rawden.
‘Perhaps,’ she shrugged. ‘Is that why you are questioning me now?’
Rawden smiled at her verbal sparring. She had a quick wit. ‘What else?’
‘I pride myself on being well-read.’
Rawden took the book from her hand, brushing his fingers against hers. ‘And where does that take you, Grace?’
‘In truth, the more I discover through my reading, the more downcast I become by knowing a world beyond my reach. I sink into books and disappear to the vineyards of Italy, the heroic battlefields of Greek mythology.’
‘A lovers tryst in an exotic palace somewhere.’
Grace’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, and she cast her eyes down. Rawden was taken by how beautiful and thick were her coppery lashes. ‘So you dream of worlds you cannot touch, taste or feel. There is a certain cruelty to hope, isn’t there?’
Her eyes widened, and for an instant, there was a spark of understanding between them. ‘So you think it unwise to read books,’ she said in a high little voice.
‘No. But the world outside this window is a far more stirring place than my imagination can give rise to. I like to be outdoors and cannot bear to be confined within some dusty old pages, living a second-hand life.’
‘See, we are opposites. Not suited at all,’ she said.
‘Yet in some ways, we fit perfectly,’ he replied, tilting her chin up. ‘I can see you described in the dusty pages of some self-important tome of poetry. Were I a Wordsworth or a Keats, I would gush that your hair is like a flame, your eyes the colour of hazelnut shells, your lips a cushion of carnality into which I long to sink. But no words can convey the drum of my heart when my fingers caress your gentle curves, the tightening in my belly and the twitch in my crotch as it stirs for your beauty, the longing to press you beneath me and plunder your body. No dusty book can hold all that longing, all that sin.’
Her eyes widened. ‘That is not very romantic, Rawden, and it certainly is not poetry,’ she said breathlessly.
‘No, but there it is. I speak as I find. Don’t you want to live life instead of experiencing it through musty pages and the eyes of others? I think you are a caged bird who longs to stretch her wings and fly free?’
‘I long for a great many things, but the course of my life is ordained by men. I do not have the indulgence of exploring my desires.’
‘Yes, you do. You are my wife, so I would heartily support you indulging your desires.’
‘Stop it, Rawden. You are teasing me, and it is not kind.’
He laughed. ‘What I mean is, you can live life as you please.’
‘As long as it pleases you.’
‘What is wrong with pleasing me if I please you in return? And I can, you know, if you would only trust me. I think you want to.’
‘You will lead me to ruin, Rawden.’
‘I already ruined you, remember?’
