“Right. The household will be ready for you, so please use the front door this time.” She sighed, hoping she had the self-control to manage this relationship the way she ought.
She lasted an hour reviewing requests for capital from women trying to establish their own businesses before she gave up and settled into her favorite chair with Chaucer. She grew more and more excited as she made notes about each tale she read. But while her mind might race at the concept of intellectual stimulation, her body warmed with the knowledge that this was the most dangerous kind of foreplay with a young man she was already physically attracted to.
* * * *
Several nights later, they had covered several of Chaucer’s characters, the Squire’s Tale, the Prioress’s Tale, the Knight’s Tale, and had moved on to the more sordid characters, the Reeve and the Wife of Bath.
Inevitably, Charlotte had strong opinions about the Wife of Bath and was amused to see William had prepared for them. He posed arguments. Was she amoral, or a product of her time and circumstance? Was her deepest desire to submit, despite dominating her first husbands?
He seemed to enjoy taking whichever side she did not in these discussions, and she used that opportunity to learn how he processed information. Her suspicion was that he intended such, as it mimicked the Socratic method of teaching used at Oxford.
She had to clench her thighs to stop from squirming in her seat during the discussion of submission and domination.
William’s reaction did not help matters. He surreptitiously adjusted his trousers when she was rereading a passage, then shifted his feet wider from his seat on his chair to allow more room for his swollen cock and bollocks. His breathing accelerated.
Their setting exacerbated her agitation. Because it was late, and he’d already breached etiquette to go to her room, she’d chosen to have their discussions in the sitting area there. That way, no servants would have to stay up to douse the fire in a downstairs parlor. It was the height of impropriety, but she leaned toward expeditious rather than righteous now she was a widow and therefore less interesting for gossip than a countess.
Her chest rose and fell in time to his, and the muslin of her plain chemise rubbed against her taut nipples. She flicked glances at his lap when she thought he wasn’t looking, remembering the shape and size of his member. His words as he bussed her hand echoed in her head, and she licked her lips at the idea of a more passionate kiss.
His chocolate eyes found hers, his expression tight with something that resembled hunger.
Agitated, she shot to her feet and stretched. While it was earlier than prior evenings had ended, he had always taken that gesture as his cue to depart.
When he grumbled a near-silent groan, she glanced over at him. Glad for the layers of her garments that might hide the hard points of her breasts, she stared at him, willing him to leave. She needed him to go, not moan. Every night it was harder to sit across from him and admire his mind and his form while trying not to yield to temptation.
He stood. He’d shed his jacket and cravat earlier and was in shirtsleeves and his waistcoat. He did nothing to conceal the prominent bulge in his trousers. Keeping his hands loose at his sides, he waited.
Charlotte’s gaze lingered on his cock for a second too long. Gulping, she turned away, unable to dismiss him. She stroked the pendant at her collarbone, a nervous habit, but even that reminder could not bring forth her voice.
As she’d known he would, William took it as permission to see how far she’d allow him to go. His voice husky, he offered, “Allow me to help you disrobe, Mistress. No need to call your lady’s maid when I am here.”
He was behind her, panting hard enough that the fallen wisps of hair from her updo gusted on her neck.
She shivered, her nipples hardening further. Her blood thumped in her chest and lower, between her thighs.
He raised his hands slowly to her shoulders. Gliding them across her exposed collarbone, he slid them up over her hair, careful not to catch it.
She sucked in a breath and bowed her head an inch, unable to find the words to stop him.
His fingers made careful forays for hairpins, easing each out as they encountered it. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, and he leaned in to inhale.
Her heart thundered in her chest. What did she want? Could she find it within her to stop him? Her brain was not sure what she wanted, but her body was certain. Her skin itched for his touch, her fingers curled from the need to stroke him—his chest, his hair, his cock.
He combed his fingers through her hair to check for missed pins before moving to the fastenings at the back of her gown. His swallow was audible as he paused with his hands at her neck. “Mistress, may I?”
Her knees went weak, not because he asked permission, but because he knew enough to do so. Infernal intelligent rakelet.
She bowed her head forward, all the nod her conscience would allow.
She sensed as much as felt his lurch of surprise. His fingers shook as they seized the buttons and fabric and separated them, smoothing down the exposed skin to the next until he met the chemise and stays and she could not feel them against her.
He continued until the dress gaped from her shoulders, then returned to the stays. He seemed to be evaluating them, moving his fingers back and forth.
She pursed her lips. Could this be the first time he’d encountered them? The girls she assumed he’d played with at university or in brothels or the like might not wear them. The thought should give her pause to reflect on his youth. Instead, it thrilled her, more liquid heat shooting through her and pooling in her core.
Gracious, had the other night been the first time he’d seen a woman fully naked?
He’d likely not had a lot of privacy for any sexual play in the past, so clothing might have stayed on. More fire sparked, and she swallowed against the urge to take over.
