If she were the swooning type, she would have swooned then and there.
“So I decided to match the gem to something else instead,” he went on.
Tilting her head, she gave him a dreamy look. “What did you match it to?”
“Your pretty mouth.” He rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip. “And your lovely nipples.”
She blinked. “You bought me a ring to match mynipples?”
“The most beautiful nipples I’ve seen.”
He tugged down her sheet. Lifting her left hand, he positioned it on her left breast so that her nipple rose proudly between her ring and middle fingers. The stiff bud and the gem were indeed of a similar hue.
His gaze molten, he said, “See? A perfect match.”
“That’s wicked,” she sputtered.
“It is rather.”
He tumbled her backward onto the mattress. She gasped at the filling thrust of his manhood, the long, proud heat of him drilling into her core. Of their own accord, her hips arched for more.
A devilish smile lit his eyes.
“Lucky for me,” he murmured, “I have a sweet, accommodating wife who doesn’t mind a bit of wicked.”
24
After Fancy accommodatedher husband not once but twice, Knight left for his office. He’d promised to be back for supper and, with that irresistibly wicked glint in his eyes, told her to expect him afterward. Then he went on with his day and Fancy went on with hers.
After Fancy ate her breakfast on a tray, Gemma helped her don one of the latest items Madame Rousseau had sent. The visiting dress of peach silk had a long bodice, narrow sleeves, and skirts that flared in an elegant dome. The crisscrossed bodice was ornamented with ruched ribbon of paler peach, the ruching repeated on the double tiers of the skirts.
Fancy adored her new dress. Not only was it the most stylish frock she’d ever owned, but the modiste had granted her request as well: there were hidden pockets in the skirts. Stashing her tinker’s friend and Knight’s old button, which she carried around as a secret good luck token, Fancy put on her new ruby ring, squared her shoulders, and descended to her lessons.
Her mornings were split between classes with her dancing master, Maestro Agostino and her elocution master, Mr. Stanton. Her hour with the former passed quickly for she enjoyed dancing and, to her instructor’s delight, had no trouble learning the steps to the more formal dances that had not been in her repertoire.
Her time with Mr. Stanton, however, required more concentration and effort.
“Today we are focusing on the letterH.” The teacher, who had a ring of hair around his gleaming pate, stood before a chalkboard with a pointer in hand. “I’ll read first, Your Grace.”
He read the lines he’d written, his pointer following the words:
Does Harry Hunt hunt heavy hares?If Harry Hunt hunts heavy hares, then where are the heavy hares Harry Hunt hunts?
“Your Grace?” Mr. Stanton asked.
“In ’Arry ’Unt’s belly?” Fancy guessed.
Mr. Stanton frowned. “I meant it is your turn, Your Grace. To repeat the phrase.”
“Oh, I see.” Clearing her throat, Fancy followed the crisp movement of Mr. Stanton’s pointer as it went from word to word. “Does ’Arry ’Unt…hunt ’eavy…heavy ’ares? If ’Arry ’Unt ’unts…hunts…heavy ’ares, then where are theheavy ’ares ’Arry ’Unthunts?”
She peered hopefully at her teacher.
He sighed. “Again, if you please.”
By the time the lesson was over, poor Mr. Stanton looked ready to tear out what little hair he had left, and Fancy wished she’d never heard of Harry Hunt and his fat rabbits. Luckily, it was time for luncheon; she was starved and ready for a break.
She arrived at the cavernous dining room to see Aunt Esther already seated at one end of the long table. The lady wore her customary black and an impatient expression. The only other setting on the table was to the right of her.
