life had been stifling, her days too tedious to be borne. Why, she might just go mad if there weren't significant modifications! Unexpectedly, she was searching for some method of assuaging the monotony, and she was hoping against hope that Mr. Cristofore would be the cure for what seemed to be ailing her.
She'd never had an overly active imagination, steeped as she'd been in ritual and routine but, with no difficulty, she'd fantasized about Mr. Cristofore. While she couldn't picture herself as brash enough to display any body parts for his appreciation, she could certainly envision being kissed by him.
The notion was outrageous, but as she'd never been kissed before, it was also downright tantalizing. Late at night, lying in her cold, lonely bed, she would glare at the ceiling, dissecting the subtleties involved. It was so rousing, so extreme, so ... so uncivilized.
Her nocturnal recollections provoked intense sensations of longing, and she'd jump out of bed and pace her bedchamber. Overcome by odd bursts of energy, she'd be hot and disturbed, tingly and stimulated, her heart racing for no apparent reason.
Her nipples would peak into painfully tight buds that consistently prodded against her nightdress. She ached and throbbed in numerous locations that demanded a type of attention she didn't understand, making her crave things she couldn't begin to name.
Mr. Cristofore would grasp why she was so tormented, just as he would discern the remedy, so she was eager for the chance to enjoy his uninterrupted fellowship. Not that she believed anything would actually happen. Or that she would accede should he recklessly initiate familiar behavior.
While he zealously acted as though he was smitten with her, she was convinced that his interest was feigned. After all, she'd observed him in action, so she was cognizant of the. dubious state of his character. She recognized her limitations and wasn't hurt by stark reality: She was not the sort of woman who could attract a man such as Mr. Cristofore, just as he was not the kind of man to whom a woman of her stoic nature would ever succumb. They were oil and water.
Still, she could dream, couldn't she? Of fiery, capricious kisses? Where was the harm in a little wishful thinking, in some fun and frolic? And if a kiss or two transpired, so much the better! If she let herself be showered with his affable male personality, mayhap after their sessions ended and the blasted painting was completed, this infernal yearning would wane.
With a jolt, she realized that she was loitering at the base of the steps, clutching his arm, and gazing at him like an infatuated girl. Droplets of an icy winter rain drifted down, wetting their hair and shoulders. They'd exited the main house so quickly that they'd left their outergarments behind, and their clothes were speedily moistening.
What an inexperienced ninny he must find her to be! Embarrassed, she turned away, striving to appear as un-flustered as possible and, as she took in the walled yard that was shielded from the street by his three-story house, she had to stifle a sigh of delight.
In the center was a cozy cottage, constructed of gray stone with white shutters and trim. Large glass windows, which had to cost him a fortune in taxes, lined the front. A fire burned inside, and smoke curled enticingly out of the chimney. Vines and rose arbors adorned the surface, the leaves absent, the branches withered with me season, but the barren stalks gave ample evidence of the riot of color that would decorate the perimeter come the spring.
It was a storybook place, an abode one might discover tucked away in a shady rural glen on a summer afternoon.
"How positively lovely," she murmured. "An enchanted bower."
"That's how I've always conceived of it."
"Whatever is it doing in the middle of London?"
"The house's former owner built it for his mother-in-law." He shrugged. "The instant I saw it, I fell in love. I simply had to have it."
"I can certainly
She'd never had an overly active imagination, steeped as she'd been in ritual and routine but, with no difficulty, she'd fantasized about Mr. Cristofore. While she couldn't picture herself as brash enough to display any body parts for his appreciation, she could certainly envision being kissed by him.
The notion was outrageous, but as she'd never been kissed before, it was also downright tantalizing. Late at night, lying in her cold, lonely bed, she would glare at the ceiling, dissecting the subtleties involved. It was so rousing, so extreme, so ... so uncivilized.
Her nocturnal recollections provoked intense sensations of longing, and she'd jump out of bed and pace her bedchamber. Overcome by odd bursts of energy, she'd be hot and disturbed, tingly and stimulated, her heart racing for no apparent reason.
Her nipples would peak into painfully tight buds that consistently prodded against her nightdress. She ached and throbbed in numerous locations that demanded a type of attention she didn't understand, making her crave things she couldn't begin to name.
Mr. Cristofore would grasp why she was so tormented, just as he would discern the remedy, so she was eager for the chance to enjoy his uninterrupted fellowship. Not that she believed anything would actually happen. Or that she would accede should he recklessly initiate familiar behavior.
While he zealously acted as though he was smitten with her, she was convinced that his interest was feigned. After all, she'd observed him in action, so she was cognizant of the. dubious state of his character. She recognized her limitations and wasn't hurt by stark reality: She was not the sort of woman who could attract a man such as Mr. Cristofore, just as he was not the kind of man to whom a woman of her stoic nature would ever succumb. They were oil and water.
Still, she could dream, couldn't she? Of fiery, capricious kisses? Where was the harm in a little wishful thinking, in some fun and frolic? And if a kiss or two transpired, so much the better! If she let herself be showered with his affable male personality, mayhap after their sessions ended and the blasted painting was completed, this infernal yearning would wane.
With a jolt, she realized that she was loitering at the base of the steps, clutching his arm, and gazing at him like an infatuated girl. Droplets of an icy winter rain drifted down, wetting their hair and shoulders. They'd exited the main house so quickly that they'd left their outergarments behind, and their clothes were speedily moistening.
What an inexperienced ninny he must find her to be! Embarrassed, she turned away, striving to appear as un-flustered as possible and, as she took in the walled yard that was shielded from the street by his three-story house, she had to stifle a sigh of delight.
In the center was a cozy cottage, constructed of gray stone with white shutters and trim. Large glass windows, which had to cost him a fortune in taxes, lined the front. A fire burned inside, and smoke curled enticingly out of the chimney. Vines and rose arbors adorned the surface, the leaves absent, the branches withered with me season, but the barren stalks gave ample evidence of the riot of color that would decorate the perimeter come the spring.
It was a storybook place, an abode one might discover tucked away in a shady rural glen on a summer afternoon.
"How positively lovely," she murmured. "An enchanted bower."
"That's how I've always conceived of it."
"Whatever is it doing in the middle of London?"
"The house's former owner built it for his mother-in-law." He shrugged. "The instant I saw it, I fell in love. I simply had to have it."
"I can certainly
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