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“And Lord and Lady Bolderwood?” she said. “Shall we call on them now?”
“It’s a stupid idea.”
“Indulge me.”
“Fine. Fine.”
She smiled brightly, too brightly. “We’d better get you dressed,” she said. “Let me help you with your cravat.”
* * *
Joshua wasn’tsure how it happened, but he found himself half-sitting on the desk, with Cassandra standing between his legs, coming at him with the length of fine muslin in those competent hands.
“How do you even know how to tie a cravat?” he asked.
“I know all sorts of things.”
Her moss-green daywear covered her as fully as her nightwear did, with fabric to her throat and her wrists. But she had a very cunning dressmaker, for the black stripes on her front drew his eyes to the swell of her bosom, and her pelisse seemed to be fastened by a single cord under her bust, which ended in two fat, tempting tassels that teased him with the thought that it needed only one tug for the whole lot to fall away.
His hands found the edge of the desk and he curled his fingers around it.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
Her arms wide, she pushed the midpoint of the neckcloth against his throat, and then encircled his neck to cross the ends behind him and then drape them back over his front. She had to lean close to do it, with her stripes and her tassels and her scent and her hair, and she really didn’t see why this was a bad idea?
“You might use the cravat to throttle me,” he said.
“Not inconceivable.” She crossed the cloth again at his throat, and her expression lightened. “I confess that half the time I cannot decide whether to kiss you or throttle you.”
“What about the other half the time?”
“The other half I only want to throttle you.”
His mouth started to form some stupid quip about kissing being better than throttling, but he stopped himself in time, and she went back to wrapping the cloth around his neck. Back and forth, swaying in, swaying out, brisk and competent, as if she had no idea. She called him wicked, but she was pure evil.
Then, sweet mercy, she was done with the layering, was tying the final knot, and still seemed unaware of her effect on him.
One would think he had no effect on her at all.
She pressed a warm hand to his cheek. “You shaved your scruff,” she half-whispered.
“Damn stuff itches.”
He could turn his head and plant a kiss on her palm. He could lean in and plant a kiss on her lips. She would let him, of course. She wanted a baby. She wanted to be dutiful. She gave no sign she wanted him. It shouldn’t matter.
Yet perhaps she would genuinely enjoy it, if he kissed her now, without brandy. What if he nipped her earlobe? Would that make her moan, or squeal, or gasp? And what if he kissed her breasts? Or buried his face between her thighs?
“You do realize,” he said slowly, “that we are in my office, in my warehouse, with my employees all around and docks crawling with sailors outside?”
As if to back him up, there came the pounding of little footsteps down the corridor. Small white fingers hooked around the doorframe, and then all of Martin swung around the corner and careened into the room.
“Mr. DeWitt! Mr. DeWitt!” Martin cried, then skidded to a halt at the sight of them, eyes wide. A tuft of red hair sat up at the crown of his head. “Are you twokissing?”
Cassandra leaped away, seized her bonnet, and used the window as a mirror to tie it. Joshua forced his tormented body upright, scooped up his coat, and thrust his arms into the sleeves.
“What is it, Martin? We’re about to head out.”
