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He cleared his throat. “Whatever your plans in the coming two days, be sure to repose. You know what awaits in my bedchamber.”
Her hand slid over his knee, fingers flexing into his leg.
Was she seeing the same images of them together that his words provoked? Her strong, plump thighs quivering while his fingers worked her until she hovered on the precipice? Him moving inside of her, his brow damp?
Clara didn’t laugh at his parting statement, so she must have known it was no jest. “I shall visit you in two days’ time, then.”
James lifted her hand, turning it over to press a kiss to her palm.
Back in his own coach, his boot tapped against the floorboard, and he sat with a ridiculous half-grin.
He accepted Clara’s interest in him like a gift but without illusion. She’d made clear in her parlor exactly how unfit for true company he was to someone of her station. Even if she could relinquish herself to pleasure with him at night, he knew that by day, an aristocratic chill would surely reign.
He was habituated to that haughty treatment by the high-born. Her infernal brother was one of the few whose height allowed him to look down his nose at James without tipping his head back; the rest of them contorted their necks to facilitate their disdain.
It was for the best that her terms required strict secrecy, which in effect required meeting only in the dark. James could go along with what she called her adventure; he’d ply her body, encourage her pleasure, worship her.
For in that time and space, for as long as they had before their nocturnal bubble burst, he would imagine that she saw him as an equal, that her affection for him was for more than just his body.
