my dressing room." Taking her hand again, he led her across the carpet custom-woven for the dimensions of the room and opened a normal-sized door into a normal-sized room.
His stamp was revealed on every detail of the room, from the riding boots on a stand at the end of the bed to his watch fobs tossed on a tray atop his bureau to the portrait of him as a child tucked away in a corner of the room. The bed was small, made for a single person, and covered in a blue Indian cotton. There was a desk here as well, more cluttered than the one in the imposing bedroom outside. And books. Everywhere. On shelves, on chairs, stacked in piles on the floor.
"Forgive the mess," he apologized. "I don't let the staff move my things. If they clean up too much, I never can find anything."
"You read."
He smiled. "Is that all right?"
"Forgive me. I was surprised, that's all. May I look?"
"Certainly." He offered her entree with a small bow and then took himself to a liquor table, where he set down the bottle of champagne, poured himself a brandy, spilled an inch or two of champagne into a glass for her, and sat down to observe her tour of his room.
"Fielding," she said with a smile, holding out a small volume to him. "I love him."
"He observes the realities with a charming sense of the absurd."
"Yes, does he not? And Richardson. You like him too?"
"When I wish to pass the time. He has less humor and his heroines often meet disastrous ends." He shrugged.
She picked up another book. "I love Gibbon too."
"You are enamored of reading, then," he said with a smile, taking pleasure in watching her excitement.
"Oh, yes, very much. It was my access to a world I'd never know otherwise."
"You lived with your grandfather, Molly said."
"Yes, we had a cozy life but not an exciting one. Business and books, books and business. I'm sure you'd find it very boring."
"I contend with my share of business as well, although my secretary, Shelby—I forgot to introduce you downstairs." His smile reappeared. "You turned my head completely and my manners went calling."
"I love when I turn your head."
"like you love books."
She turned around to face him, her eyes wide. "Not in the least, my lord Bathurst. In a completely tumultuous, tremulous way that defies description."
"I know."
"You do?"
"It's most odd."
"But lovely," she softly intoned, "like a cozy fire on a cold night…"
"Not exactly." There was nothing cozy about the lust drumming through his brain. "Molly's told you what to expect tonight, hasn't she?"
"For an entire week, my lord. Oh, dear, have I kept you waiting with all my talk of books?"
"You needn't call me my lord. And you haven't kept me waiting," he politely lied, discounting his week-long wait at Alworth with cavalier disregard.
"I suppose you'd rather do something else than listen to me prattle on about books, but I confess, I'm not exactly sure how to—begin. It's all well and good," she nervously noted, "to be schooled in seduction, but when one actually is onstage, as it were…"
"Come, sit and have your champagne. We'll decide how to begin later."
"Yes, sir."
"Please, my name is Dermott."
"Yes, sir"—she fluttered her hands—"I mean Dermott."
He'd not had a lover say Yes, sir to him before, and while Miss Leslie might be experiencing a degree of trepidation, he wasn't exactly on familiar ground either. "Drink some champagne," he noted, handing her the glass, "and tell me about your map library."
His deliberate effort to put her at her ease was successful, and within moments she was conversing in a completely natural way. He asked questions, she answered, and before long, he was refilling her glass and she was leaning back comfortably in her chair and smiling at him in a deliciously sweet way. It unnerved him transiently, sweetness having never been a trait that attracted him, but she was exceedingly sensual as well—Molly's choice of gown the merest wisp of fabric.
"So you see, if Magellan had had better maps, he
His stamp was revealed on every detail of the room, from the riding boots on a stand at the end of the bed to his watch fobs tossed on a tray atop his bureau to the portrait of him as a child tucked away in a corner of the room. The bed was small, made for a single person, and covered in a blue Indian cotton. There was a desk here as well, more cluttered than the one in the imposing bedroom outside. And books. Everywhere. On shelves, on chairs, stacked in piles on the floor.
"Forgive the mess," he apologized. "I don't let the staff move my things. If they clean up too much, I never can find anything."
"You read."
He smiled. "Is that all right?"
"Forgive me. I was surprised, that's all. May I look?"
"Certainly." He offered her entree with a small bow and then took himself to a liquor table, where he set down the bottle of champagne, poured himself a brandy, spilled an inch or two of champagne into a glass for her, and sat down to observe her tour of his room.
"Fielding," she said with a smile, holding out a small volume to him. "I love him."
"He observes the realities with a charming sense of the absurd."
"Yes, does he not? And Richardson. You like him too?"
"When I wish to pass the time. He has less humor and his heroines often meet disastrous ends." He shrugged.
She picked up another book. "I love Gibbon too."
"You are enamored of reading, then," he said with a smile, taking pleasure in watching her excitement.
"Oh, yes, very much. It was my access to a world I'd never know otherwise."
"You lived with your grandfather, Molly said."
"Yes, we had a cozy life but not an exciting one. Business and books, books and business. I'm sure you'd find it very boring."
"I contend with my share of business as well, although my secretary, Shelby—I forgot to introduce you downstairs." His smile reappeared. "You turned my head completely and my manners went calling."
"I love when I turn your head."
"like you love books."
She turned around to face him, her eyes wide. "Not in the least, my lord Bathurst. In a completely tumultuous, tremulous way that defies description."
"I know."
"You do?"
"It's most odd."
"But lovely," she softly intoned, "like a cozy fire on a cold night…"
"Not exactly." There was nothing cozy about the lust drumming through his brain. "Molly's told you what to expect tonight, hasn't she?"
"For an entire week, my lord. Oh, dear, have I kept you waiting with all my talk of books?"
"You needn't call me my lord. And you haven't kept me waiting," he politely lied, discounting his week-long wait at Alworth with cavalier disregard.
"I suppose you'd rather do something else than listen to me prattle on about books, but I confess, I'm not exactly sure how to—begin. It's all well and good," she nervously noted, "to be schooled in seduction, but when one actually is onstage, as it were…"
"Come, sit and have your champagne. We'll decide how to begin later."
"Yes, sir."
"Please, my name is Dermott."
"Yes, sir"—she fluttered her hands—"I mean Dermott."
He'd not had a lover say Yes, sir to him before, and while Miss Leslie might be experiencing a degree of trepidation, he wasn't exactly on familiar ground either. "Drink some champagne," he noted, handing her the glass, "and tell me about your map library."
His deliberate effort to put her at her ease was successful, and within moments she was conversing in a completely natural way. He asked questions, she answered, and before long, he was refilling her glass and she was leaning back comfortably in her chair and smiling at him in a deliciously sweet way. It unnerved him transiently, sweetness having never been a trait that attracted him, but she was exceedingly sensual as well—Molly's choice of gown the merest wisp of fabric.
"So you see, if Magellan had had better maps, he
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