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My mouth parted as I blinked. I flipped a few more pages, my brows rising as I caught sight of words like nipples and salty come.
What in the world was she reading? Better yet, why was she reading it?
“What interesting reading material,” I remarked, glancing over at her.
Poppy looked like she wished to throw a blunt or sharp object at my face.
My grin returned. “Penellaphe.” I feigned shock. “This is…just scandalous reading material for the Maiden.”
“Shut up.” She crossed her arms.
“Very naughty,” I teased.
That chin went up as if on cue. “There’s nothing wrong with me reading about love.”
“I didn’t say there was.” I glanced down at a page that included the oh-so-romantic verse—Gods, I’m soaking wet just sitting here penning this. I looked at her. “But I don’t think what she is writing about has anything to do with love.”
“Oh, so you’re an expert on this now?”
“More so than you, I imagine.”
She pressed her mouth shut. Only a second passed. “That’s right. Your visits to the Red Pearl have been the talk of many servants and Ladies in Wait, so I suppose you do have a ton of experience.”
“Someone sounds jealous.”
“Jealous?” She laughed, rolling her eyes. “As I said before, you have an overinflated sense of importance in my life.”
I snorted, returning to skimming the book. Damn, this Miss Willa was a very…descriptive writer.
“Just because you have more experience with…what goes on at the Red Pearl,” she said, “doesn’t mean I don’t know what love is.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked half-jokingly, but as soon as the question left my tongue, it no longer felt much like a joke. My eyes narrowed. “Has one of the Duke’s stewards caught your eye? One of the Lords? Or perhaps a brave guard?”
Poppy shook her head as she stared at the liquor cabinet. “I haven’t been in love.”
“Then how would you know?”
“I know my parents loved one another deeply.” She toyed with the jeweled top of a decanter. “What about you? Have you been in love, Hawke?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly, my chest twisting. I then stared at the book, seeing none of the words as I thought about Shea.
Poppy looked over her shoulder at me. She dragged her teeth across her lower lip. “Someone from your home?”
“She was,” I said. “It was a long time ago, though.”
“A long time ago? When you were what? A child?” she asked.
I chuckled at the confusion in her tone, welcoming how her question made it easier than normal to tuck away everything related to Shea. I refocused on the page, giving a paragraph a quick read. “How much of this have you read?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Probably not, but I need to know if you got to this part.” I cleared my throat.
“I only read the first chapter,” she added quickly. “And you look like you’re in the middle of the book, so—”
“Good. Then this will be fresh and new to you. Let me see, where was I?” I ran a finger over the page, stopping at the halfway mark. “Oh, yes. Here. ‘Fulton had promised that when he was done with me that I wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a day, and he was right.’ Huh. Impressive.” I paused, sneaking a glance at her.
Her eyes were wide behind the mask, but perhaps I’d been wrong in thinking what Kieran had offered the night before would scandalize her.
“‘The things the man did with his tongue and his fingers had only been surpassed by his shockingly large, decadently pulsing, and wickedly throbbing—’” I chuckled. “This woman has a knack for adverbs, doesn’t she?”
“You can stop now.”
“‘Manhood.’”
“What?” Poppy gasped.
“That’s the end of that sentence,” I told her, glancing up. I beat back my smile. “Oh, you may not know what she means by manhood. I do believe she’s talking about his cock. Prick. Dick. His—”
“Oh, my gods,” she whispered.
I kept going. “His—apparently—extremely large, throbbing and pulsing—”
“I get it!” she yelled, unfolding her arms. “I completely understand.”
“Just wanted to make sure.” It took everything in me not to laugh as she inhaled deeply, holding her breath. “Wouldn’t want you to be too embarrassed to ask and think she was referencing his love for her or something.”
The air punched from her lungs. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“And I’m about to stab you,” she tacked on. “In a very violent manner.”
Since her hand was near her thigh, that was a real concern. “Now that, I believe.”
“Give me back the journal.”
“But of course.” I handed it over, grinning as she held it against her chest like a precious jewel. “All you had to do was ask.”
“What?” Her mouth dropped open. “I have been asking.”
“Sorry. I have selective hearing.”
“You are…” Her eyes narrowed. “You are the worst.”
“You got your words wrong.” Pushing away from the settee, I strode past her, patting her head. She swung at me—and fast, too—almost catching me in my back. “You meant, I’m the best.”
