Page 19 of What Happens in Hedone

His hand on hers was heavy and hot. So was the look in his eyes. “I should think all a man would require is the sight of you in that robe.”

Her nipples tightened again. Had they ever stopped? Her throat was dry with the desperate need for him to kiss her. She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the movement of her tongue, then the convulsion of her throat as she swallowed. His gaze dipped to the flush spreading over her chest.

“Shall we discuss what you came for?” she whispered.

His eyes darkened to charcoal. His fingers clenched around hers. Was that the beat of his heart she felt, or her own headlong pulse? She must be mad, to speak so boldly.

“What do you believe I came for, Lady Erato?” he said in a low voice that made the gooseflesh rise again, like silk rubbing over her skin.

“What we all hope to find here,” she said simply. “Pleasure.”

Chapter Five

In the moment, she did not know how to ask him. How to say, simply and forthrightly, what she wanted to feel.

Which was more of this. This raw desire that swept her in waves. The desire that made men visit pleasure houses, that made women lie with lovers outside the bonds of marriage and be cursed for it. The reason that emperors had entire seraglios of concubines and women across time had won the favor of kings.

She wanted desire, and she wanted its completion. The promised end.

With him.

She tangled her fingers in his and tugged gently. He followed without demurral, without question. What a heady thing that was, leading this man, all the muscle and heft of him at her command.

She led him to the music room, where the crimson wallpaper and dark wood trim created a sensuous retreat. Oil lamps flickered from low occasional tables, and candles sat in tall, branched holders, spilling the scent of honeysuckle and ambergris. A player with a smooth, feminine face but the dark evening coat and trousers of a gentleman sat at the pianoforte, charming listeners with a Kuhlau sonatina. The lid of the instrument, propped open, revealed a detailed painting of what Effie knew to be the Cathedral of San Marco in Venice as viewed from the sea.

A pang wove through her chest. Venice would be another dream she would lose at marriage, for what husband would set aside his obligations to Parliament or his favorite hunting haunts to take a wife on travels in Italy? At best she could make visits to Heddy and play tableaux of being a Venetian courtesan. Until her husband found out and stopped her, of course.

“What is the matter?” Jay asked softly.

“Hmm?” With his voice close to her ear, every thought fled. At least she had tonight. One dream left to her.

“You seemed sad all of a sudden.”

He lifted a strand of hair away from her neck. She’d pinned her hair up in braids, like a coronet, but her curls never liked to stay. He pressed a fingertip to the sensitive place below her ear, she guessed touching the small birthmark there, and Effie shivered.

Chairs and chaises sat scattered about the room, interspersed with small tables holding statuary, most of it some version of an unclad human figure. She led him toward the bay of one window, draped with heavy damask. She pulled a second curtain to create a private alcove, screening them from the rest of the room, though they could still hear the music and the low conversations of the others. Private, but not secluded.

She drew in a deep breath. “I am going to be married,” she said.

He sat beside her, his thigh lying along hers. The thin muslin of her costume was no shield against the firm heat of him. He turned his head in her direction, though dark surrounded them.

“Soon?”

“At the end of summer, if my parents have their way.”

“But that is not what you wish,” he guessed.

She shrugged, rustling the silk of the Paisley shawl Iris had instructed she wear, the pattern apparently being Persian in origin. “What I wish is to marry to please myself, or marry not at all and devote my life to study and writing. But my family decided the match, and I have an obligation to please them in return for all they have given me.”

“What of his family?”

“Mine also. He is my cousin.”

“And what does he think?”

Her mouth pulled up in a half smile, a gesture he likewise could not see. “He says he might do worse, and left to his own devices, he so far has not done better.”

“Lady Erato.” Jay lifted his hand to her face, as if finding her in the dark, and cradled her chin in his hand. Such large hands he had, the palms slightly roughened, the muscles strong with work.