His gaze tracked back to her, when he’d been desperately searching the space for a bottle of something stronger than tea to wash away the vaguely unpleasant taste of honesty. “Who is ‘they’?”
She plucked a pale blue petal from its stem and twisted it between her fingers, sending a spicy, floral aroma into the air. “The society pages.”
“Scandal rags, you mean.”
She shrugged a delicate shoulder, her cheeks flushing.
He reached for another scone, beginning to enjoy this encounter now that his pulse was slowing, allowing his brain to step into play. “What could my dalliances possibly have to do with your part of our bargain?”
“You’re a known entity. Safe.” The words came out in a rush.
He paused, mid-bite. “Meaning?”
“I know you. Or I used to. Your family.” She drew the petal along a jagged scar in the wood, her gaze dancing away. “I’m part of a group—”
“The Wicked Widows.”
Her lips tightened, the first sign of vexation she’d shown. “That’s a senseless name created by senseless people. We’re nothing close to wicked.”
He laughed, unable to contain his mirth. “The same senseless folk who write those gossip columns you’re relying upon for your information about me.”
She huffed, crushing the petal in her fist. “As I was saying, I’m part of a group that has…progressive views regarding a widow’s future. Most, unless they’re in dire financial straits, don’t wish to marry again, unless it was an exceptional experience the first time. Perhaps that is wicked in the ton’s eyes. We want independence, not the amount a man has, of course, but rather, what we paid our marital membership dues to obtain.”
A hum of interest, the same illuminating her eyes, powered through him. Now they were getting somewhere. “Your marriage wasn’t exceptional, I take it?”
She shook her head, her throat bobbing with a stiff swallow. “Therefore, I’m curious. That is my honest admission to you. My part of the wager.”
“Curious,” he murmured, his body burning at the prospect of answering any questions she had. “About what”—he pointed to her, then tapped his chest—“happens between a man and a woman?”
“About the pleasurable part.”
Cort paused, astonished to realize how long it had been since someone surprised him. He wasn’t used to feeling much of anything anymore. He shifted, hoping his swelling cock wouldn’t expose his sudden attention. Not yet. This game, he understood, must be handled with diplomacy. “And a safe man such as myself could be the answer?”
She plucked another petal and gave it a twirl, her boldness beginning to impress him. “Your reputation is tainted but typical. The rumor being that you know what to do when called upon to do it. More than know, you’re good at it. When not all men are.” Her violet gaze caught his, her smile six shades of devious shyness. “Women gossip in those parlors we’re relegated to while the men adjourn to cards and billiards and drink. That, and stitch landscapes.”
Cort glanced into his empty teacup, gathering his thoughts as he read the sodden leaves sticking to the bottom—which he could not do while gazing upon the woman spitting dares across from him.
She likely wanted nothing but a kiss. A simple show of the delight that could be found between the sexes. He nudged his spectacles when they slipped down his nose, thinking hard.
When was the last time he’d kissed a woman for the basic but heady pleasure of it?
“Never mind, I’ll find someone else. It’s a ridiculous proposal.”
He looked up sharply. Oh, no, you won’t. Aside from his enjoyment, this could be a way to remove the illusion that had been sitting like a toad on his chest since boyhood. Of the perfect woman. When there was no perfect woman. The genuine article was never as good as a fantasy, and it was time to prove it. “It’s a sensible suggestion to test the waters with a friend, of sorts. A childhood acquaintance. Someone harmless,” he added, when he’d never once thought of himself as harmless, and neither had anyone else. “I suppose, I’m safe in that way.”
She smoothed her hand down her bodice in a charming show of nervousness. “Once you’re healthy, that is.”
His body pulsed, his breath snagging in his throat. “I’m healthy now, Alex.”
For this, a man was always healthy. Scooting his chair back to make room for her, he nodded to the crutch propped against the block. “I would come to you, run to you, but as it is…”
He hadn’t meant to admit he’d run to anyone, but there it was. More damned honesty. She seemed to easily pull it from him.
They stared, the air heating faster than it would if they’d tossed dry kindling on the hearth. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, flowing down his arms and into his fingertips. It felt good. He felt more alive than he had in months, years.
Will she? Won’t she? Then she was shoving to her feet and crossing to him while his blood simmered in his veins.
Bloody hell.
