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Opening the library door, she was met by a wall of warm air from a fire and—“Emmett!”
She stood in the doorway, stock still. He was lounging in a wingback leather chair in front of the fire. His coat discarded, his long legs stretched out, a book in one hand, the other hovering over a crystal tumbler, his eyes went wide as he took her in.
“Gina.”
“What are you doing in here?” she hissed as she closed the door behind her and approached.
“Reading.” His gaze flicked over her body. “I couldn’t sleep. What are you doing in the library at the dead of night with an unmarried man?”
“I couldn’t sleep either. And you’re my fiancé.”
“Until you reject me for stepping on your toes while we danced.”
“That’s a terrible reason to reject a fiancé.” She couldn’t stop looking at his body. She couldn’t understand how she ever hadn’t wanted him.
“What about if I’m a bad kisser?”
“No one will believe that.” The mere idea of Emmett being bad at kissing was laughable.
His mouth tugged up at the corner, but it wasn’t a proper smile. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took a leisurely sip, regarding her thoughtfully.
“We’re in the library. It’s Christmas eve. It’s nearly midnight. I’ve drunk too much brandy to be as cautious as I should be with a young lady of good family and gentle breeding. We’re alone. What would you like me to give you for Christmas, Gina? Or for your birthday.”
There was a long beat of silence and the fire hissed and crackled.
“Knowledge.” Carnal knowledge, but she didn’t dare say that. “Adventure.” That was all she ever wanted.
He raised a brow. “There are all these books. Is that not enough knowledge for you?”
“No.”
“Tell me then, what sort of knowledge, what adventure would you like?”
“I’ve found myself very curious about…” Since she’d known him, she’d become curious. Not before. She petered out.
“Yes?” He didn’t make things easier for her, though she could have sworn his eyes went a shade darker.
“About what happens between a man and woman.”
“Many things happen. They might laugh together, eat, drink and be happy together. They might travel together. They might imagine great and beautiful and terrible things and encourage each other. They might play and quarrel and compete.”
“Well, yes…” she interrupted him.
“They might work together or read or mourn or be happy,” he continued without acknowledging her. “They might care for each other and look out for each other.” He paused to sip his brandy.
“Or make stitch, have the corn ground, wind a little ball of yarn.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to say something more explicit. She wasn’t even sure what words she’d use. Marital relations, she supposed. But that sounded very dull indeed, when the feeling that unfurled in her stomach when she looked at him, or kissed him, was the antithesis of dull. It was bright and bold as the red roses embroidery she was faking for him.
He heaved a sigh and sat back. “But I suppose you mean that they might make love.”
The word clanged between them.
“Not necessarily love,” she tried to clarify, and she could have sworn she saw his eyebrows flick together before his expression smoothed back to impassive.
She wasn’t talking about love between them.
Was she? She was just curious about the marital act, and he was her friend, and they enjoyed doing things together, and she liked kissing him.
And he was big, masculine, and muscled. He had experience, whereas she was innocent.
