“You don’t do things by half, do you?” he mused, and she could hear the admiration in his tone. Had she ever heard that before? She’d heard gentlemen admire her dowry when they didn’t know she could hear. She’d also heard them admire the fact that she wasn’t as hideous as her dowry could allow her to be. But she had never heard that kind of frank, unadulterated admiration.
“A gambling den, then. What about more cricket matches? Or are those too tame for her ladyship?” he teased.
The image of him shirtless, his muscles shifting in the sun, made her all squirmy again. “More cricket matches too, please,” she said in a breathy voice.
He laughed again, only this time it wasn’t as though it was in humor, but as in some shared secret.
The secret that she wished she could do nothing else but kiss him? That she very much enjoyed seeing his unclothed form?
That he knew just how to overwhelm her?
There was no time to even consider all of that as the coachman swung open the door. It seemed the carriage had stopped without her noticing, too immersed in her thoughts of gambling houses and naked skin to pay attention.
Lord Alexander—although perhaps she should refer to him as just “Alexander,” given that she had sat on his lap, for goodness’ sake—leapt out of the carriage and held his hand out for her to dismount.
She took it, smoothing the skirts of her gown as she did so, feeling her cheeks heat as she pondered whether or not anybody would be able to tell.
And by “anybody,” she meant Olivia, the most curious sister it was possible to have.
Hopefully she could divert Olivia’s attention when she mentioned she had danced the waltz with Lord Carson. Why couldn’t Olivia be the Howlett sister to marry the eldest brother?
But no, it had to be the eldest sister who was chosen for the honor. Not least because Olivia couldn’t even come out into society until Eleanor was safely married off.
Not a fair situation at all. No wonder Della had left. Although there would have been less drastic ways to combat that.
“Shall I take you for a drive tomorrow?” Lord Alexander asked as he walked her up the stairs.
“Tomorrow will not be possible,” she replied, thinking of the promise her mother had made to Lord Carson. Who couldn’t do anything other than pale in comparison with the improved version standing next to her now.
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed and faintly piqued, and she wanted to laugh aloud all over again that this incredibly handsome, charming, and fascinating gentleman seemed to be jealous of time she spent elsewhere. Had not escorted the alluring Lady Vale home for some reason of his own, a reason she couldn’t help but know had something to do with her.
“The next day,” she said, patting his arm. His muscles tensed where she touched him, and once again, she had the urge to laugh.
Honestly, if she had known being this scandalous was also this enjoyable, she might have done it years ago. But she didn’t think she would find scandal quite so entertaining if he was not accompanying her on the journey.
“I will see you the day after tomorrow, then,” he said, bowing low over her hand as the door to the house opened.
“Bene,” she replied in a mischievous tone.
Alex slammed the door of the carriage, stretching his legs out to rest on the opposite seat.
If only he could slam the door to his emotions so easily.
Dear God. What had he done? More importantly, what had she done?
He could still feel where her body had touched his. Her fingers in his hair, her hand on his arm.
Her round bottom resting snugly on his cock.
The thought of which immediately made his cock stiffen, and he groaned, putting his palm on his forehead and raking his fingers back through his hair.
Why her? The one woman in the world he should not be interested in at all. There were dozens of equally lovely young ladies in London. Hundreds in England. Thousands and thousands in the world.
Why did it have to be her?
He hadn’t thought about any of that while he was kissing her, of course. He hadn’t been able to think of anything but the soft warmth of her mouth, her tongue sliding against his, her breasts pressed against his chest.
He regretted not sliding his fingers up to touch her breasts, cup the warm fullness in his hand.
No, he did not regret it. Touching her breasts would be wrong, and he would absolutely be in the wrong toward his brother if he did so.
Only he knew he was lying to himself. He did regret it, and what’s more, he wasn’t certain he would be able to resist if they were to find themselves in a similar position again.
Thinking of her voice when she’d said, “Yes,” made his throat get thick. Would she say yes with as much want if he were to ask her if he could undress her?
Would she say yes when he asked if he could bury his cock inside her welcoming warmth?
God damn it. He would have to make himself say no—no to the temptation of her, the allure of her wit, the infectious way she laughed, how right and utterly appealing it felt to have her body close to his.
He had gone from being merely lackadaisical to a person who was actively engaged in thwarting his brother’s plans.
“Lord Carson is arriving this afternoon?” the duchess said as Eleanor nodded to the footman holding up the teapot.
“As though you hadn’t arranged it.” Eleanor smiled at the footman and put milk and sugar in her tea.
“You do know that the season is over in a few weeks,” her mother continued, gesturing to the footman to replenish her own cup. Ignoring her daughter’s pointed comment. Like she always did.
“Yes, and you have to be engaged, at least, before the end of it or we will be even more delayed,” Olivia said from the other side of the table.
As though Eleanor weren’t acutely aware that her sisters’ futures were resting squarely on her white-clad shoulders.
“And you don’t want to lose him,” her mother said, staring pointedly at Eleanor.
Don’t I? she thought.
I do.
And if she’d thought it, perhaps she ought to say it, as Lord Alexander would.
“I know I said I needed more time, but I am beginning to wonder if there is that much time in the world.” She spoke in a tone that tried to indicate she had just thought of the idea. Not that she had become fully persuaded of it over the past month or so. “I am not certain that Lord Carson and I will suit one another.”
Mostly because she knew she was falling in love with his brother. But that she wouldn’t share.
She couldn’t believe she was speaking so boldly to her mother. To anyone, honestly.
Neither, at least according to their expressions, could her mother and Olivia.
“What do you mean?”
For once, her mother was actually asking her a question that didn’t presuppose the answer.
“I mean,” Eleanor said slowly, feeling how her chest was tightening at even the thought of saying something so undebutante-like, “that I do not wish to go driving with Lord Carson this afternoon. I mean that I would like to be unhampered by an engagement for just a bit more. That how you all are bearing down on me makes it feel as though I am a thing to be manipulated, not a person who could live her own life.”
Her mother’s mouth dropped open, while Olivia looked as though she didn’t know whether to cheer or to slap her sister.
“Live your own life?” her mother said, her voice rising into a screech. Eleanor winced at the sound. “Your sister made it impossible for any of the rest of you to live your own lives, unless you plan on living your lives in penury and disgrace.”
“It isn’t that horrible,” Olivia pointed out in a reasonable tone. “The worst that could happen is that we settle for gentlemen we actually like rather than gentlemen you and Father decide on for us.”
Now Eleanor wished she could cheer for her sister.
“Lord Carson could be the man I am destined to marry,
Mama,” Eleanor said in a soft tone. “Or he might not turn out to be that man at all. I need to—to”—be overwhelmed. To find my joy. To kiss a tall, blunt gentleman a few more times—“make my own decision.”
“Well,” her mother said, getting to her feet, “I will have to go speak to your father about this. And you will not be allowed to go driving with Lord Carson this afternoon because goodness knows what you might say!” she said, as though that wasn’t precisely what Eleanor wanted all along.
She left with as much fury as a scattered duchess could, while the footman glanced between Eleanor and Olivia and made his own way out of the room, leaving them alone.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor,” Olivia said, stretching her hand across the table to pat the back of her sister’s hand. “We haven’t considered your feelings. We’ve all been selfish. Della worst of all,” she said, an angry scowl on her face.
“Don’t blame Della,” Eleanor replied. “How can any of us know why she ran off with Mr. Baxter? I wish she had said something. Did she feel trapped into doing what our parents wanted? Was she so miserable?” The thought made her ache, that her sister, her closest friend, hadn’t been able to confide in her until it was too late.
“She should have told us,” Olivia replied, her tone implacable.
“She should have. But she didn’t.” Just as I am not telling you everything, Eleanor thought guiltily to herself. But what was there to tell? “She probably just wanted more.” Like me, Eleanor wished she could say.
“What more could she want?” Olivia asked.
Eleanor couldn’t answer that, but her thoughts could. When she imagined what more looked like, all she could see was a very tall man at her side, making her laugh, making her feel things she hadn’t known she could feel before.
Making her feel special.
“You should do what you have to, Eleanor,” Olivia said, nodding as she spoke. “If I were in your situation, being forced into something I didn’t want to do—well, I don’t know what I’d do. Just that I wouldn’t do whatever it was that someone wanted me to,” she continued in perfect seventeen-year-old logic.
“Thank you,” Eleanor replied softly.
Lady Eleanor’s Good List for Being Bad:
Kiss him again.
Chapter 16
Eleanor was first to arrive this time, Cotswold accompanying her, as was proper, and she insisted on staying at the bookshop at least until Lord Alexander arrived, to make sure her charge was safe.
Even though there was nothing safe about it.
Just being in this building made her feel a warm, illicit thrill that had nothing to do with books and translation.
Eleanor made her way to the back of the bookshop, keeping her gaze on the floor—not as though she could make it out clearly, but still—so that she wouldn’t accidentally spot someone who knew her. Who would report back on her whereabouts to her mother. Or worse yet, her father.
You are visiting a bookshop instead of rescuing your family’s reputation? Ensuring that your sisters can be properly and respectably wed?
The horror.
The night before, the duke looked displeased as her mother reported that she’d not allowed Eleanor to go driving with Lord Carson because of what she termed her “high spirits.” He had glowered, but hadn’t said anything more than “It’s past time you resolve this business,” as he’d skewered another piece of meat with his fork.
Eleanor felt herself wanting to retort, to tell him how “this business” was the business of her life.
But he wouldn’t care. Neither of her parents seemed to even notice that Eleanor was away from the house for hours at a time. As long as she had Cotswold with her, and some sort of reasonable answer, he just didn’t bother with finding out what was happening with her. He never had cared, or bothered, and she had no reason to think he would now, not when the rest of his daughters’ futures were at stake. She wished she could ask him why he was concerned about who she married now, but she couldn’t.
Because when had any of his daughters ever questioned him?
Except for Della, who had questioned everything, but hadn’t spoken up when she’d gone and fallen in love, or whatever it was she was doing, with their dancing master. The dancing master who had taught the eldest Howlett sister how to waltz, how to curtsey, and how to properly behave in a ballroom.
Until the day he, along with her sister, had disappeared, quite improperly.
And here she was, courting scandal of her own, spending time with a gentleman who was not only the man who should not be courting her, but was the brother of the man who was. It was nearly a farce, only it was her life. She shook her head as she withdrew her spectacles from her purse and put them on.
The book was on the table, and she sat down in front of it, preparing to begin. Even though the sooner she began, the sooner she’d be finished, and then she’d have no excuse—flimsy or otherwise—to continue to come here, to meet with him in secret.
“Good afternoon,” the man in her thoughts said as he ducked his head to walk into the room. He held a package in his arms and he met her gaze, smiling almost abashedly.
Goodness, what was in the package if he was embarrassed? She felt her cheeks flame at the thought.
His smile turned to a grin as he regarded her, and he placed the package on the table in front of her. “Open it,” he said, gesturing to it.
“What is it?”
He sat down opposite her, shaking his head mockingly. “How will you know that until you open it?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
She reached for the string holding the paper on the package, undoing it slowly, glancing up at him every so often. His gaze was fixed on where her fingers worked, and she pulled the string off, dropping it onto the table as she turned the package over to find the edges of its wrapping.
It felt like a book.
He hadn’t seemed embarrassed at all about showing her that book, the one with the words and the pictures and all the things that made her squirm. So what kind of book was he offering her now that was making him behave so oddly?
If she were the woman she was just a few weeks earlier, she’d be turning fiery red and refusing to open the thing at all. As it was, she could feel her cheeks heat, but she also kept going, drawing the paper back to reveal—
“Lemprière’s Bibliotecha Classica?” she said, reading the title. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “How did you know?”
He shrugged, and that lock of hair fell down over his brow at the movement. “I wasn’t certain, but you said you liked mythology, and so I asked Mr. Woodson what the most likely book would be for a person who had those interests.”
He had gotten her a book. Not only that, but it was a book that meant something to her, a fact he couldn’t possibly have known.
And yet he knew her.
“This is the same book I had when I was young.”
His smile was one of relief, and she felt oddly honored that he cared so much that his gift be a good one. He cared for her. And what she wanted, not what he thought she should want.
“Mr. Woodson said it was the most popular of those type of books. I thought you might already have it, but he said this is a pristine copy, so I thought if you already had it, you wouldn’t mind.”
He spoke faster and faster as he explained, and her heart felt as though it was swelling inside her chest. With the exception of Della, nobody had ever considered what she might like when giving her a gift. Her other sisters tried, and she did have to admit to liking ribbons and candy and such, but those gifts weren’t specific to her.
This one was.
“Thank you,” she said, picking the book up and holding it to her chest. “This is so thoughtful.” She couldn’t help the sting of tears in her eyes as she spoke, and she saw when he noticed them; his expression got startled, and he appeared to wish to leap out of his chair, likely to run away.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he rose, shoving that lock of hair
back with an impatient hand. He strode over to her side of the table and touched her on the shoulder, gesturing to her to stand as well.
She did, still clutching the book.
He drew her into his arms, as though he wanted only to touch her as a friend would. A friend who had just given her the most thoughtful gift of her life.
She turned into his chest, the book an awkward impediment between them. She felt the tears fall down her face, and she tucked herself under his arm, fitting perfectly, even though he towered over her.
“Shh,” he said, sliding his hands up and down her back in a soothing gesture.
Until it wasn’t.
She felt it when the moment changed, and she withdrew just enough to place the book on the table, then returned to him, wrapping her arms around him to clasp her hands at the small of his back.
She lifted her face to his, only she couldn’t reach him, and he lowered himself down at an odd angle, his hands at her waist holding her up. She stood on her tiptoes, and then their lips touched. Just barely, not nearly enough.
And then he hoisted her up and put her on the table, then placed his palms flat on its surface on either side of her. Effectively caging her in, not that she wanted to go anywhere.
“I have to kiss you,” he said in a low, rough tone. Her insides felt all trembly at how desperate he sounded, and she gave a vigorous nod, tilting her face up in unspoken agreement.
His mouth crashed down on hers, his tongue demanding entrance to her mouth, access she granted eagerly.
And then his tongue was in her mouth, searching, licking, sucking, and she felt her knees weaken and was grateful she was sitting down.
His hands went from the table to her waist, holding her up, his thumbs stroking her waist, moving up her body to—
“Ohh,” she gasped into his mouth as his fingers brushed the underside of her breast, that trembly feeling now turned to a torment of wanting something—she didn’t know what.
Except she did know what. She’d seen those pictures, the one in the book; she knew just what she wanted. The satyr and the nymph, Ovid and Corinna, Alcibiades and Glycera. Him, her, them, together, wrapped around each other in whatever carnal way felt right.
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