His chest got a peculiar ache to match the one in his cock.
He was punished, though, for his anomalous shilly-shallying. A gentleman in a beaver hat pushed in front of Kittredge with a “Merry Christmas, my good man.”
Kittredge got into the carriage after the fellow and was not pleased with the new seating arrangement. Not at all. His Scheherazade was now one place over with the new male passenger next to her and across from Kittredge’s empty place. And Scheherazade was smiling and speaking to the man.
Fuckity-fuck fuck fuck hell damn.
Kittredge clenched his fists as he resumed his seat. Moments ago he had been teetering on the edge of something he suspected was happiness and now he wanted to lash out and curse the world, Christmas, and the pompous nobody son-of-a-bitch opposite him.
Usually when Kittredge’s blood began to boil, he spiraled into a blind rage which consumed him entirely.
But not today.
For some reason, today, his fury only heightened his awareness of the Scheherazade. And he saw, after a few minutes, she jumped a little in her seat. She stopped chatting to the man next to her although the forward fellow continued to direct jovial remarks towards her.
Was she uncomfortable? Yes, she was. She hadn’t resumed reading. Her cheeks were pale. She was biting her beautiful lower lip and her eyes were glistening with tears.
Kittredge realized he could no longer see one hand of the man across from him.
He looked again at Scheherazade’s troubled face and considered the change.
She didn’t like something. She was scared—he had been taught to recognize fear. And she was trying to edge away from the man, but there was nowhere for her to move.
Was the man squeezing her bottom?
Yes, Kittredge decided. The vile man was. Never mind that Kittredge had thought about touching that beautiful bottom himself. He had onlythoughtabout it. It took a villain to touch a woman that way without permission.
This must stop immediately.
He considered seizing the man and throwing him out of the now rapidly moving coach. But the man might die. As a duke, Kittredge would not be convicted of murder, but a killing would upset the few people in the world he didn’t want to upset.
Not that, then.
But he must do something. What would Dagenham do?
Don’t think about it. Just do it.
He cleared his throat and leaned forward.
“Dearest,” he croaked. The word had never passed his lips before.
Scheherazade didn’t look at him. So he half-stood, leaning over, and said it louder. “Dearest.”
She looked up at him, trembling.
“Dearest, why don’t we change seats so you can have the light from the window? To read?”
“Uh. Yes, thank you. Dearest.” She put her hand in his and went around him, brushing against him briefly, and sat in his seat, still holding his hand.
Kittredge glared at the vile man who was suddenly very busy putting his own hands in his pockets.
“Move,” Kittredge growled. “So I can sit oppositemy wife.”
The man shifted over and Kittredge sat down, purposefully taking up as much space on the squabs as he could. Still Scheherazade clutched his hand, their arms stretched across the carriage. He nodded at her and gestured at her book.
“Go on.”
Her brow furrowed slightly.
