A Lady Awakened by Cecilia Grant

herself? “No, I mean difficult . You are making it … difficult … to proceed.” He couldn’t look at her. To own the fact aloud was so, so much worse than he could have imagined.
    Again he felt a snap in her; a violent start as she saw her mistake. For the span of a breath it seemed possible she might recognize her wrongs and do something, anything to help him recover and finish the job. Then she spoke. “I can’t see that I’m to blame.” Her voice rang cold and uninterested as ever. “It’s not as though I do anything to prevent your sport.”
    That was the end. He slipped out of her, he knew that much; slipped right out as useless as a dead eel. The rest was something of a blur. His hands, pushing blindly at the legs still crossed behind him. He must have got free because he staggered, under all the weight of masculine disgrace, to the nearby wall. Her fatal last remark rang in his ears and No , he thought, It’s not as though you do anything at all ! I may as well be swiving a propped-up corpse !
    Those were the words he thought. Or … maybe … the words he said.
    He breathed hard, ragged, in the silence, and worked to bring the wallpaper’s fleur-de-lis into focus. Christ. Shit. Had he said that out loud?
    He ventured a look at her. Damnation. He’d said it out loud.
    “Hell,” he muttered, now leaning his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry.” He glanced back.
    “No, it’s …” She sat very still, drained of color, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
    “No!” He wheeled away from the wall. “For God’s sake, can’t you see? What pleasure do you suppose there could be for a man, in bedding a woman who has to try hard to bear it?”
    No reply came. Of course none came. She withheld herself at every opportunity; why should she give it up now? Even to look at him appeared to be more than she would grant: she merely sat, watching the toes of her slippers, with all appearance of waiting for him to finish out his indulgence of temper and get back to work.
    That was more than he could do. With a shake of his head, he leaned down and picked up his trousers where they lay on the floor.
    She saw. “What are you—”
    “It’s gone.” He cut off her panicky words with pleasure. Let her panic. Let her be the uncomfortable one in this bargain, just once.
    “Is there no way you can—”
    “No. No way. It’s gone; it’s done.” He watched her sidelong as he stepped into his trousers; saw her thinking hard, quickly as she could.
    “I believe there are some erotic novels in the library,” she said at last, her gaze fast on her slippers. “Perhaps you could—”
    “No. I could not.” One hand held up his undone trousers; the other scrabbled for his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat. “If I can’t stay hard with my cock in a woman, I surely can’t expect to look to erotic novels for the remedy.”
    She flinched at the language. Good. With his clothes gathered up he went away to the mirror. In the glass he could see her, as he pulled the shirt over his head and thrust his hands through the sleeves. A strange bawdy spectacle she made, skirts still bunched above her stockings, legs still splayed. If she had other ideas for how he might arouse himself again, she did not offer them. She only sat with her head bowed, and finally, slowly, drew her knees together and plucked at the skirt to cover herself.
    She looked … so small, sitting there alone. He closed his eyes. Do not pity her, you idiot. Do not . But his temper had always been a quick one: by the time his waistcoat buttons were all done up, he felt sorry to have made her look like that.
    Still she did not speak. He wound his cravat without the usual flourish. What must it have cost her to mention the erotic novels? How many were there? And how did she know? Had she come across them by accident one day? Or were they perhaps flaunted before her?
    Damn his stupid sympathetic heart. What accommodations had