large windows on every side. None of the shades were drawn, and they were hardly the only vehicle on the road.
Nonetheless, she raised the handle of his walking stick, leaned forward, and kissed it on the tip.
“You make me do such unspeakable things,” she murmured, looking at the jaguar’s head.
Slowly, he pulled the walking stick from her grasp. He examined the handle closely, then glanced back at her, his gaze heated yet inscrutable.
Rain drummed against the top of the coach. Thunder cracked. The wheels of the carriage splashed through the small river running down the street. Yet all she heard was the arrhythmic thumping of her heart, a staccato of hot, unfulfilled yearning.
The silence made her squirm. She was not someone who must speak to fill a silence, yet
his
silence seemed to turn a spigot in her, and words spilled from her into the space between them.
“Why don’t you let me touch it again, the head of the jaguar? I quite like its heft in my hand.”
He cast a look down and played, rather absently—or so it seemed—with the ebony knob. Except whatever he did made her breath catch and her face grow even hotter.
“Are you sure it is I who make you do unspeakable things?” he asked softly, his gaze pinning her against the back of the seat. “Or are you just naturally fond of gentlemen’s . . . walking sticks?”
S he shifted on the seat.
Felix would like to do the same: adjust certain parts so he was slightly more comfortable. But he also knew it would be no use: Nothing would take off the edge of his arousal—nothing except the possession of her.
He thought of her constantly: on her back, on her knees, on her feet, sometimes naked, sometimes not, but always withhim inside her, and always with her eyes wide open, looking at him with that expression particular to her: lust, apprehension, covetousness, suspicion, and just a sprinkle of worship.
Even now he thought of it: using the handle of his walking stick to lift her skirts and push her knees apart, so that she would be exposed before him.
“I will find out, won’t I, when I marry the butcher?” she answered at last.
His fingers clenched over the handle of his walking stick. He hadn’t meant to react so obviously, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. What did she mean, the butcher? “Does he have a walking stick you have been admiring?”
She twisted her fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know about his walking stick—I have only seen him in his shop. He is a good man and not unpleasant in appearance. Rumor is that he fancies me, but Mother has let it be known, though perhaps not in so many words, that she would never allow any of her daughters to stoop to marrying butchers, greengrocers, and the like.
“But that’s because her father was a gentleman.
My
father was a fortune hunter, and I am far less fastidious about which sort of man is good enough to be my husband. A butcher’s money is just as good as a lord’s. If he will take Matilda in, then I will marry him.”
He did not want to believe her. But this was what truth felt like: a tight, hard knot somewhere in his chest. “
Will
he take in Miss Matilda?”
She shrugged. “That might depend on how well I convince him of my fondness for his walking stick.”
The handle of the walking stick was suddenly pressed into her chest, between her breasts. He had no idea how it happened. He had no idea he was capable of such recklessness—or volatility.
She looked at him with astonishment—and made no move to touch the walking stick again.
“Sleep with me and I will provide you access to the best private telescope in England, something your butcher would never be able to do.”
Her heart beat violently—each throb transmitting across the length of the walking stick to reverberate against his palm. “I thought I had made it very clear that I am not that sort of woman.”
The thought of another man touching her . . . of her, with that agreeableness she did so well,
Nonetheless, she raised the handle of his walking stick, leaned forward, and kissed it on the tip.
“You make me do such unspeakable things,” she murmured, looking at the jaguar’s head.
Slowly, he pulled the walking stick from her grasp. He examined the handle closely, then glanced back at her, his gaze heated yet inscrutable.
Rain drummed against the top of the coach. Thunder cracked. The wheels of the carriage splashed through the small river running down the street. Yet all she heard was the arrhythmic thumping of her heart, a staccato of hot, unfulfilled yearning.
The silence made her squirm. She was not someone who must speak to fill a silence, yet
his
silence seemed to turn a spigot in her, and words spilled from her into the space between them.
“Why don’t you let me touch it again, the head of the jaguar? I quite like its heft in my hand.”
He cast a look down and played, rather absently—or so it seemed—with the ebony knob. Except whatever he did made her breath catch and her face grow even hotter.
“Are you sure it is I who make you do unspeakable things?” he asked softly, his gaze pinning her against the back of the seat. “Or are you just naturally fond of gentlemen’s . . . walking sticks?”
S he shifted on the seat.
Felix would like to do the same: adjust certain parts so he was slightly more comfortable. But he also knew it would be no use: Nothing would take off the edge of his arousal—nothing except the possession of her.
He thought of her constantly: on her back, on her knees, on her feet, sometimes naked, sometimes not, but always withhim inside her, and always with her eyes wide open, looking at him with that expression particular to her: lust, apprehension, covetousness, suspicion, and just a sprinkle of worship.
Even now he thought of it: using the handle of his walking stick to lift her skirts and push her knees apart, so that she would be exposed before him.
“I will find out, won’t I, when I marry the butcher?” she answered at last.
His fingers clenched over the handle of his walking stick. He hadn’t meant to react so obviously, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. What did she mean, the butcher? “Does he have a walking stick you have been admiring?”
She twisted her fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know about his walking stick—I have only seen him in his shop. He is a good man and not unpleasant in appearance. Rumor is that he fancies me, but Mother has let it be known, though perhaps not in so many words, that she would never allow any of her daughters to stoop to marrying butchers, greengrocers, and the like.
“But that’s because her father was a gentleman.
My
father was a fortune hunter, and I am far less fastidious about which sort of man is good enough to be my husband. A butcher’s money is just as good as a lord’s. If he will take Matilda in, then I will marry him.”
He did not want to believe her. But this was what truth felt like: a tight, hard knot somewhere in his chest. “
Will
he take in Miss Matilda?”
She shrugged. “That might depend on how well I convince him of my fondness for his walking stick.”
The handle of the walking stick was suddenly pressed into her chest, between her breasts. He had no idea how it happened. He had no idea he was capable of such recklessness—or volatility.
She looked at him with astonishment—and made no move to touch the walking stick again.
“Sleep with me and I will provide you access to the best private telescope in England, something your butcher would never be able to do.”
Her heart beat violently—each throb transmitting across the length of the walking stick to reverberate against his palm. “I thought I had made it very clear that I am not that sort of woman.”
The thought of another man touching her . . . of her, with that agreeableness she did so well,
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