with the immense dignity of the tipsy, Charlotte made her way out of the room, still holding the glass. Mother and son watched her go.
“Dear me,” Adorna commented when she was gone. “It would seem Charlotte has little tolerance for brandy.”
“It would seem not.” Wynter leaned toward at his wily parent. “Perhaps in the future we should limit her consumption.”
“Yes…” Adorna picked up her own glass and sipped. “Unless we need to convince her of something more.”
“Someone should make sure she finds her way to her bedchamber.”
Adorna picked up the bell. “I’ll call Miss Symes.”
He stopped her with a gesture. “Let me take care of this matter. I want to clarify to Miss Priss what her duties are in regards to me.”
Adorna smiled at him coaxingly. “Now, Wynter, you’re not really upset with me for my little ruse, are you?”
“Mother, you are full of little ruses. This one scarcely surprises me.” But Wynter was his mother’s son. He would accept Adorna’s scheme because it would conceal so well his own rapidly forming plan— a difficult endeavor, given his mother’s remarkable intuition. But he had something most people did not. He had experience in fooling Adorna. It had been a necessary skill in his boyhood. “I’ll cooperate, but she needs to know her place.”
He saw Adorna’s ire visibly rise, and her blue eyes snapped. “It is just that kind of statement that makes it necessary to engage a governess for you.”
“I don’t know why.” He stood and bowed. “I must catch my new teacher. Good night, Mother.”
CHAPTER 10
Wynter left his indolence at Adorna’s door. He knew where Charlotte’s bedchamber was; this afternoon after their tiff he’d made it his business to know. If he hurried, he could net her in the portrait gallery, which was large, dim and exactly suited to his strategy. Catching a glimpse of her skirt ahead of him in the corridor, he slowed down and took care that his bare feet made no sound. He didn’t need to apprehend her yet. The gallery was around the next corner.
He’d never before met a woman willing to quit her livelihood for a principle. He had never met a woman so dedicated to that which she believed right. He’d never met a woman who gave him such a pain in the bum.
He’d never met a woman he wanted so much.
He could see her moving through alternating bands of light and dark as she glided past each wall sconce in a stately progress. She gave an impression of serenity, yet beneath her facade of composure lurked a lady of passion.
She didn’t know it. She didn’t comprehend the tension that shivered between them like a winter mist, and that in itself intrigued him. A woman of her age couldn’t be completely untouched… could she?
She rounded the corner toward the portrait gallery, and again he picked up his pace.
He never thought of her without wondering how she would look deprived of the gowns of blue and misty gray she so favored. The petticoats would have to go, also, and the corset she insisted on wearing despite his assurance she did not require it.
How long would it take him to melt that spine, to ease her backward on the cushions, to uncover her breasts and to kiss his way down her stomach and between her legs? What tactics would he have to use to ease her trepidation, to make her forget her ever-present manners and her inbred constraint? Would she fight him? Try to freeze him? Chide him?
Yes. Charlotte would try to combat primitive urges with civilized behavior. After all, he himself had tried to do just that while in the desert.
It hadn’t worked. Domestication could never win out over savage instinct.
Rounding the corner, he entered the portrait gallery. Although the far door was directly opposite, he could see only the outline through the shadow and across the distance. But he knew the room; it hadn’t changed since his childhood. Chairs clustered in groups around the few tables. Small, seldom-used guest
“Dear me,” Adorna commented when she was gone. “It would seem Charlotte has little tolerance for brandy.”
“It would seem not.” Wynter leaned toward at his wily parent. “Perhaps in the future we should limit her consumption.”
“Yes…” Adorna picked up her own glass and sipped. “Unless we need to convince her of something more.”
“Someone should make sure she finds her way to her bedchamber.”
Adorna picked up the bell. “I’ll call Miss Symes.”
He stopped her with a gesture. “Let me take care of this matter. I want to clarify to Miss Priss what her duties are in regards to me.”
Adorna smiled at him coaxingly. “Now, Wynter, you’re not really upset with me for my little ruse, are you?”
“Mother, you are full of little ruses. This one scarcely surprises me.” But Wynter was his mother’s son. He would accept Adorna’s scheme because it would conceal so well his own rapidly forming plan— a difficult endeavor, given his mother’s remarkable intuition. But he had something most people did not. He had experience in fooling Adorna. It had been a necessary skill in his boyhood. “I’ll cooperate, but she needs to know her place.”
He saw Adorna’s ire visibly rise, and her blue eyes snapped. “It is just that kind of statement that makes it necessary to engage a governess for you.”
“I don’t know why.” He stood and bowed. “I must catch my new teacher. Good night, Mother.”
CHAPTER 10
Wynter left his indolence at Adorna’s door. He knew where Charlotte’s bedchamber was; this afternoon after their tiff he’d made it his business to know. If he hurried, he could net her in the portrait gallery, which was large, dim and exactly suited to his strategy. Catching a glimpse of her skirt ahead of him in the corridor, he slowed down and took care that his bare feet made no sound. He didn’t need to apprehend her yet. The gallery was around the next corner.
He’d never before met a woman willing to quit her livelihood for a principle. He had never met a woman so dedicated to that which she believed right. He’d never met a woman who gave him such a pain in the bum.
He’d never met a woman he wanted so much.
He could see her moving through alternating bands of light and dark as she glided past each wall sconce in a stately progress. She gave an impression of serenity, yet beneath her facade of composure lurked a lady of passion.
She didn’t know it. She didn’t comprehend the tension that shivered between them like a winter mist, and that in itself intrigued him. A woman of her age couldn’t be completely untouched… could she?
She rounded the corner toward the portrait gallery, and again he picked up his pace.
He never thought of her without wondering how she would look deprived of the gowns of blue and misty gray she so favored. The petticoats would have to go, also, and the corset she insisted on wearing despite his assurance she did not require it.
How long would it take him to melt that spine, to ease her backward on the cushions, to uncover her breasts and to kiss his way down her stomach and between her legs? What tactics would he have to use to ease her trepidation, to make her forget her ever-present manners and her inbred constraint? Would she fight him? Try to freeze him? Chide him?
Yes. Charlotte would try to combat primitive urges with civilized behavior. After all, he himself had tried to do just that while in the desert.
It hadn’t worked. Domestication could never win out over savage instinct.
Rounding the corner, he entered the portrait gallery. Although the far door was directly opposite, he could see only the outline through the shadow and across the distance. But he knew the room; it hadn’t changed since his childhood. Chairs clustered in groups around the few tables. Small, seldom-used guest
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