he’d shown her for the past week. All he’d done was put an arm around her and ask her a question. A simple, direct question.
And she was not horrified. Not horrified at all—though she should be. Horrified and mindful of all the risks that had lurked as close as London since the day Rose had been born.
“In truth, I have few impressions of those relations you allude to. My experience was the minimum needed to result in… Rose.” Also in years of rustication, in shame and ruin.
Douglas drew a pattern on her arm with his elegant fingers, and the quality of his touch warned Gwen his intent was not strictly to comfort or to offer mere affection. The hummingbirds flew upward, creating havoc in her lungs.
“Should I be sad for your sake,” Douglas mused, “because you have paid such a high price for so little pleasure?”
“For no pleasure whatsoever.” Not even the pleasure of a soft, sweet caress on her arm or a good-night kiss to her cheek. Not the pleasure of arguing over the best use of a fallow field, or the pleasure of a quiet, shared meal at the end of the day.
“No pleasure whatsoever ? Now that is unfortunate.” Douglas’s voice took on an edge. “Were you at least willing?”
“At first,” Gwen said, closing her eyes. He was doing it again, pulling confidences and confessions from her without her intending to part with them—and without her objection.
“But then it hurt,” Douglas surmised, “and your lover would neither stop nor discipline himself to see to your comfort, much less your pleasure.”
Gwen did not move, despite the havoc Douglas’s quiet conclusion wreaked with her composure. In six years, not one person had raised with her the topic of that bewildering encounter, not one person had intimated that Gwen might have been ill-used. “He stopped eventually.”
“And a few weeks later you realized you had lost more than your virginity and your innocence.”
The edge in his voice was at odds with the gentle stroking of his hand along her back, neck, and shoulders. Gwen did not want to contaminate that welling, stealthy pleasure with more words, and certainly not with more old memories.
“I lost my ignorance.” But she’d lost those other things he’d named too, and they had been precious.
“I would like to discuss a transaction with you, Guinevere, but if you find the topic distasteful, we will drop it and forget I ever mentioned it.”
So beguiling were his caresses, Gwen had to concentrate to grasp the meaning of his words: he wanted to talk business.
“I’m listening.” To his hand, to the warmth of him beside her, to his lovely, woodsy scent. To the soft roar of the fire and the ticking of the clock.
And to hummingbirds, soaring about inside her in anticipation of what, she dared not guess.
“You have mentioned that on occasion you will consign goods or products into the keeping of a trusted merchant. You handle wool this way and firewood. If your bailiff cannot find custom willing to pay the price you set, your goods are returned essentially undiminished, and you’re free to offer them elsewhere.”
“I insist on a contract when dealing on consignment,” Gwen managed. She picked up a small green brocade pillow and traced its fleur-de-lis pattern, lest she yield to the desire to apply her hands to Douglas’s person.
“I seek a sort of contract with you,” Douglas said. “A consignment of nonperishable goods, on a temporary basis, for your inspection and possible use.”
His fingers on her neck were exquisitely pleasurable, warm, sweet, and unhurried. Douglas was never in a hurry, and yet Gwen had failed to appreciate that a measured, deliberate approach to life’s pleasures might have intimate appeal.
“Can’t this consignment wait until our task here at Linden is done, Douglas? I’m sure Greymoor or Fairly would be happy to entertain commercial negotiations with you.”
His finger traced the curve of her ear, and Gwen shivered.
“That will
And she was not horrified. Not horrified at all—though she should be. Horrified and mindful of all the risks that had lurked as close as London since the day Rose had been born.
“In truth, I have few impressions of those relations you allude to. My experience was the minimum needed to result in… Rose.” Also in years of rustication, in shame and ruin.
Douglas drew a pattern on her arm with his elegant fingers, and the quality of his touch warned Gwen his intent was not strictly to comfort or to offer mere affection. The hummingbirds flew upward, creating havoc in her lungs.
“Should I be sad for your sake,” Douglas mused, “because you have paid such a high price for so little pleasure?”
“For no pleasure whatsoever.” Not even the pleasure of a soft, sweet caress on her arm or a good-night kiss to her cheek. Not the pleasure of arguing over the best use of a fallow field, or the pleasure of a quiet, shared meal at the end of the day.
“No pleasure whatsoever ? Now that is unfortunate.” Douglas’s voice took on an edge. “Were you at least willing?”
“At first,” Gwen said, closing her eyes. He was doing it again, pulling confidences and confessions from her without her intending to part with them—and without her objection.
“But then it hurt,” Douglas surmised, “and your lover would neither stop nor discipline himself to see to your comfort, much less your pleasure.”
Gwen did not move, despite the havoc Douglas’s quiet conclusion wreaked with her composure. In six years, not one person had raised with her the topic of that bewildering encounter, not one person had intimated that Gwen might have been ill-used. “He stopped eventually.”
“And a few weeks later you realized you had lost more than your virginity and your innocence.”
The edge in his voice was at odds with the gentle stroking of his hand along her back, neck, and shoulders. Gwen did not want to contaminate that welling, stealthy pleasure with more words, and certainly not with more old memories.
“I lost my ignorance.” But she’d lost those other things he’d named too, and they had been precious.
“I would like to discuss a transaction with you, Guinevere, but if you find the topic distasteful, we will drop it and forget I ever mentioned it.”
So beguiling were his caresses, Gwen had to concentrate to grasp the meaning of his words: he wanted to talk business.
“I’m listening.” To his hand, to the warmth of him beside her, to his lovely, woodsy scent. To the soft roar of the fire and the ticking of the clock.
And to hummingbirds, soaring about inside her in anticipation of what, she dared not guess.
“You have mentioned that on occasion you will consign goods or products into the keeping of a trusted merchant. You handle wool this way and firewood. If your bailiff cannot find custom willing to pay the price you set, your goods are returned essentially undiminished, and you’re free to offer them elsewhere.”
“I insist on a contract when dealing on consignment,” Gwen managed. She picked up a small green brocade pillow and traced its fleur-de-lis pattern, lest she yield to the desire to apply her hands to Douglas’s person.
“I seek a sort of contract with you,” Douglas said. “A consignment of nonperishable goods, on a temporary basis, for your inspection and possible use.”
His fingers on her neck were exquisitely pleasurable, warm, sweet, and unhurried. Douglas was never in a hurry, and yet Gwen had failed to appreciate that a measured, deliberate approach to life’s pleasures might have intimate appeal.
“Can’t this consignment wait until our task here at Linden is done, Douglas? I’m sure Greymoor or Fairly would be happy to entertain commercial negotiations with you.”
His finger traced the curve of her ear, and Gwen shivered.
“That will
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