She maneuvered the sheet so that the top edge lay across her pubic bone. He could see the tiniest hint of her soft curls. She crossed her arms over her breasts.
He crawled onto the bed next to her and smoothed his hand across her bare abdomen. Chills followed in the wake of his touch. “Are you cold?”
“No.” Her eyes were tightly closed.
Fielding dipped the quill into the paste and then touched it to her belly. The skin here, less taut than on her back, gave and moved beneath the ink, making his writing messy and uneven. He pressed his hand to her abdomen to try to tighten the skin in an attempt to better his penmanship. She was soft where a woman should be soft, and he wanted nothing more than to tear that sheet the rest of the way off and spend the night running his fingers, not a quill, across her flesh.
He finished writing the phrase as she looked up at him. “Only one more,” she said, her eyes glassy with pent-up desire.
“Across the heart,” Fielding said.
She visibly swallowed. “That’s what he said.” Then her eyes fluttered closed as she unfolded her arms and placed them firmly by her sides.
Inwardly Fielding swore. Esme’s breasts were neither large nor small, but rather perfectly sized to be cupped in his hand. Pouty and round with a creamy shade of pink darkening the middles, they had exquisite jutting nipples. Already primed for arousal, it was no surprise when he hardened immediately. He released a deep breath.
“Low enough so that you won’t be able to see it when I’m fully clothed,” she said. “Please.”
He’d memorized the phrase now so there was no need to refer to the piece of paper, but he found himself checking every word. With as much speed as he could manage, he wrote the inscription across her left breast. Her mouth opened and she arched toward him. He moved his hand carefully away from her breast and set the ink and quill on the bedside table. Then with one swift movement she was upon him, her mouth covering his in a flurry of kisses.
Before he could fight her, she had him pinned to the bed, her naked body writhing across him. Fielding gave where she took and met her passion for passion. She kissed him deeply, her tongue sliding against his own. One arm wrapped around her, he moved the other down her body, eager to feel her passion. She was hot and wet for him, and when he touched her flesh she arched back and cried out.
He plunged his finger inside her. Though he could not afford to lose control of himself, he knew what she wanted, what she needed. His mouth settled on her breast while he moved his finger deep within her. Her folds, slick with desire, tensed around him.
With his thumb, he found her center. Esme’s release was immediate. She shook and shuddered while whispering his name again and again.
In that moment, he knew if they went any further, he wouldn’t be able to stop. With one movement he slid her off him, then stood.
“I don’t think this was the outcome we were trying for,” he said.
Esme’s eyes were still darkened and hooded with desire. She looked so small and delicate clutching the sheet to her chest. “No, I don’t suppose the procedure worked.” With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he came to her feet. “Tomorrow night,” she said, her chin rising slightly, “we will go the museum and find that diary.”
More than anything Esme wished her father were still alive. Certainly he’d know what to do in this situation. Granted, Esme wouldn’t tell him about her improper behavior, but he could help with the curse; she knew he could.
He’d always known what to do. As a girl, whenever she’d argued with her mother he’d been there, always her champion and advocate. On more than one occasion she’d overheard him telling her mother to leave Esme alone. “Not all men prefer brainless females,” he’d tell her. “Some of us enjoy clever banter. I should think you would remember that.”
She’d believed her father, and for a time thought she’d find one of those gentlemen, the ones who chose girls not only for their dowries or their pretty faces, but also for their minds. But then he’d died, and it seemed that her dream of finding such a man perished with him.
Esme knew it was late and that Thea was probably already sleeping, but she needed to talk to someone tonight, needed the comfort of a friendly face. Before leaving her own bedchamber, Esme made certain all the inscriptions on her body were completely covered. She didn’t bother knocking, just entered Thea’s room and found her cat snuggled up on the bed, nestled in the crook of her aunt’s bent knees.
“Traitor. I’m only in the next room,” she told him.
Horace eyed her sleepily, then laid his head back down on the brown velvet coverlet.
“Esme?” Thea said groggily. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Don’t be foolish. Come and sit.” Thea scooted up so her back leaned against the great wooden headboard.
Crawling up into the bed, Esme suddenly felt as she had as a child, when she’d climbed into bed with her father and he’d tell her tales of myth and legend. She knew she was on the verge of tears, so she swallowed hard to dissolve them. Her throat felt as if it were full of ground glass.
“What’s bothering you, child?” Thea asked. “Nothing,” she said, forcing the sadness from her voice. She smiled and tilted her head to the side. “I’m probably only feeling homesick. It’s strange being in another’s house.”
Thea frowned. “Is that all?”
Esme thought for a while before continuing. It was a battle between wanting to tell Thea everything and not wanting to frighten her with talk of ancient curses and illicit love affairs. “I don’t suppose it is.”
“Esme, you know you can tell me anything,” Thea said, her voice brimming with love.
Esme finally settled on a simple question. “Did you ever take a lover?” she asked, trying to focus on scratching Horace behind the ears rather than embarrassment at her brazen question.
