A Lady Awakened by Cecilia Grant Page A

she ever made for him? If he’d been her husband, he probably should have resorted to erotic novels too, sooner or later.
    He wished he hadn’t called her a corpse, though. That outburst had in no way alleviated his mortification, nor was it likely to inspire any feelings in her that could help him with what was proving to be a labor worthy of Hercules. And it ought to have been, he thought, now sitting in an armchair to pull on his boots. The first labor, to make all the later ones seem easy. Even the Hydra would be as child’s play, against the memory of breeding Mrs. Russell.
    His clothes were all on now, save for the hat. He sat for a moment longer. Perhaps he would think of something to say. Perhaps she would speak.
    The silent seconds ticked by. Finally there was nothing to do but stand and reach for his hat. He cleared his throat. “Shall I come again tomorrow?” The words sounded so loud in the room’s leaden stillness.
    “If you please,” she said to her toes.
    He left, then, and heavy thoughts of tomorrow went with him. Tomorrow and the tomorrows beyond, nearly a month of them to get through before his commission was complete.

Chapter Five

    S URELY THIS congregation would run her out of church and chase her down the road with torches, if they knew what was the substance of her prayers. But she’d reckoned with that likelihood from the start.
    Please forgive me as far as You are able . Martha opened her eyes to see the pale knuckles of her hard-clasped hands, and shut them again. Please take into account that I am not, if one defines the word precisely, guilty of Lust. Please understand why I had to do this, and what was at stake. In addition, please compel Mr. Mirkwood to glance this way and notice that I am without my fichu .
    Not that she expected the sight to galvanize him with such desire as would sustain him into their appointment this afternoon. But he would see it, one hoped, as a signal of her willingness to … not try , because he didn’t want her to try  … but to step away from her fixed position and meet him somewhere along that distance separating her wants from his.
    Was that the same as trying? Why must this business have so many arcane rules? Don’t try. But don’t do nothing; else you are no better than a corpse . Even in her own inward voice, the word slapped her. Not so painfully as yesterday, when it had come like a hard open hand to her face. Given time its power might fade further. One hoped.
    She opened her eyes again, angling her bowed head to peer across the aisle. He wasn’t looking at her. He sat straight and attentive today, his dress subdued, his countenance solemn, his prayer book opened to the right place. No one would ever guess he was a man who put women on top of odd furniture and expected them to enjoy it.
    She couldn’t enjoy it. Exotic acts with an unprincipled stranger. He oughtn’t to expect that of her. But he did have a right to expect civility, and there, admittedly, she’d been remiss. She’d do better next time. If there was a next time. She’d be polite, and solicitous, stifling all uncharitable sentiment for the duration of his call.
    If only he would look at her! She might even smile, quick and private, and he would know to expect a better welcome this afternoon than he’d had in the past.
    But he didn’t look. When the service ended he slid from his pew and made for the door without once turning his eyes her way.
    Would he even come to call today? He must—he’d asked if he ought—and yet what if, upon reflection, he’d decided he just couldn’t continue with her?
    She sat still in her pew, last to leave the church again. Mr. Atkins might notice her missing fichu, and wonder at her. As well he ought. She was a crude, grasping woman, reduced to attending Sunday services uncovered in hopes of catching a man’s eye. She’d disgraced herself, stooping to such a ploy, and gained nothing for her disgrace. Desperate as it was, it hadn’t