Surely it is not a poem after our last… mishap.
She had not heard from him since that disastrous afternoon at Hawthorne House and had assumed he was done with her. Or perhaps she had hoped he was.
Her fingers hesitated at the seal before she broke it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. No poem or innuendo. And no scandalous rhyme meant to make her blush. Theodora did not understand why she felt a tinge of disappointment.
Miss Dowell,
I owe you an apology. My temper was ill-placed, and my words were unworthy of you. I spoke out of fear, not reason. Rosalind is the most precious person in my life, and I reacted poorly when I believed she was distressed. You meant no harm. I see that now. I hope you will forgive my conduct.
— Alexander Kendall
Theodora examined the letter in silence, experiencing a physical response she found uncomfortable. She had not anticipated an apology from him, and even if she had, any warm feeling generated by it seemed uncertain.
Forgive him?
She folded the letter carefully and set it aside.
I shall but I will not write back.
She would not allow him to pull her into another argument, another kiss, or another moment where her mind went dangerously silent and her body betrayed her.
Distance was necessary and safe.
She rose from her writing desk and crossed the room to her bedside table, where a small stack of books sat waiting. Her friends had insisted she read one of their scandalous novels.
“For research,” Anna had said with a wicked grin.
Theodora shook her head and resisted. But now, as part of her experiment, she supposed she ought to examine the literature that so thoroughly corrupted the minds of young ladies.
She picked up the top volume.
“The Duke’s Forbidden Embraceby Clarissa Pennington,” she read aloud.
The name alone made her chuckle. She carried it to her bed, settled against the pillows, and opened to the marked page that was apparently the best part, according to Evelina.
Theodora cleared her throat and began reading aloud.
“His hand trailed down her spine, igniting a fire she had never known. ‘Tell me you want this,’ he murmured. His breath was warm against her ear.” Theodora paused.
This is ridiculous.
Yet she continued.
“Her knees weakened as his lips brushed the hollow of her throat, sending tremors through her very soul. She clutched his coat, desperate for more?—”
Theodora’s breath hitched because suddenly, it was not Mrs. Pennington’s fictional Duke she imagined. It was hers. The Duke of Hawthorne.
Theo imagined his large hands sliding down her spine as well as the way he would grip her close to him and tilt her head up before kissing her parted lips. His breath would brush her ear and his lips would trace the line of her throat.
Heat pooled low in her belly.
She swallowed hard and kept reading.
“He pressed her against the wall, his body a solid, unyielding force. ‘Say it,’ he whispered. ‘Say you want me.’” Theodora’s pulse quickened.
She had read enough medical texts to understand her own body’s responses, and the ways she might…alleviate tension. She had, in the privacy of her own room, even experimented once or twice. She placed the book lightly on her chest and slowly lifted her skirts up.
