Alone.
“Now what’s to do?” Wycoff asked as he strolled into the library. “Everyone’s left.”
“I thought you were tired,” Lucy said to cover her surprise and embarrassment.
“So did I,” he remarked. “But once I was left alone I found myself amazingly alert. But to what purpose? There’s no one to play cards. No company at all, except for the fire. And all it says is ‘crackle,’ with an occasional sigh. Your sigh is much more interesting, if only because it has the promise of more in it.”
“You hear promises in everything,” Lucy said, without thinking. “I never met a man who presumed so much on so little encouragement.”
“Unlike the worthy Mr. Bellows?” he said with interest. “Now, I’d thought he just presumed much more.”
She winced. He’d seen, then. “Yes,” she said, “and see how well that was received.”
“Yes,” he said, coming to stand by the fire besideher, “but I thought perhaps that was as much because of the way he presumed. There is such a thing as skill and timing. Of expertise. Lovemaking isn’t a grab and run affair, if it is to be an affair of any interest.”
“It’s not to be at all—at least not for me. Not with William or any other man,” Lucy said wistfully, looking straight at him. He was so very attractive, she thought sadly. There’d been the attraction the moment they’d met, and it was only growing stronger. She wanted to simply step into his arms and take whatever he was offering. She’d never had an affair. She’d only known Francis, and that was something altogether different. This man tempted her; he was a living manifestation of the lovers of her fantasies. The kind of male who made her pulses beat like the crickets on long summer nights as she tossed and turned. The kind that made her shiver with more than cold on all those long winter nights.
But those phantom lovers were gone with the light. That was the best part of them. She didn’t want a real lover who’d leave her with the dawn. Francis had, but he couldn’t help that. And she’d been alone so long since. She’d mused about possibilities, of course. She was a grown woman and a widow, and so no other man in the future would ever have to know. But she would. Even if she dared taste forbidden fruits, she didn’t need a lover who’d leave her with another child, and was wise enough to know there wasn’t a really effective way to prevent that. Maybe there was one, or so it was whispered.But maybe was too great a risk. And just trying that sort of thing would make her like one of Mrs. Christie’s women, at least in her own mind.
“No,” she said aloud. “It can’t be, I’m afraid.”
“Just so,” he said softly, “so don’t be. Afraid, I mean. There would be nothing but pleasure in it.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Do you deny you’ve thought of it?”
She raised her eyes, unaware of the sorrow he saw there. “No. But all I can do is think of it, you see. I’m not a girl, Mr. Wycoff. Nor are you a boy. You’re a man of the world. If I were you, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be exactly as you are. But though I might feel that same temptation, I don’t have that freedom. I never will. I have responsibilities. And morals, I suppose.” She shrugged one shoulder. “That isn’t saying I’m any better than you. Women have to have morals, so I really haven’t the choice, have I? And life is all about the choices we make.”
She looked at him directly and spoke that way. “I’ve had fun flirting with you. But know this, it can never be more than that. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone, but the truth is I’m very sorry.”
Now he smiled. “Honesty,” he mused, looking as curiously pleased as sad. “Truth, no matter how hard it is to say? I’ve seldom encountered truth, not in all my travels, though I’ve been looking for it just as long. There was once a truthful girl I knew in London…but that was it. So she was a girl,
“Now what’s to do?” Wycoff asked as he strolled into the library. “Everyone’s left.”
“I thought you were tired,” Lucy said to cover her surprise and embarrassment.
“So did I,” he remarked. “But once I was left alone I found myself amazingly alert. But to what purpose? There’s no one to play cards. No company at all, except for the fire. And all it says is ‘crackle,’ with an occasional sigh. Your sigh is much more interesting, if only because it has the promise of more in it.”
“You hear promises in everything,” Lucy said, without thinking. “I never met a man who presumed so much on so little encouragement.”
“Unlike the worthy Mr. Bellows?” he said with interest. “Now, I’d thought he just presumed much more.”
She winced. He’d seen, then. “Yes,” she said, “and see how well that was received.”
“Yes,” he said, coming to stand by the fire besideher, “but I thought perhaps that was as much because of the way he presumed. There is such a thing as skill and timing. Of expertise. Lovemaking isn’t a grab and run affair, if it is to be an affair of any interest.”
“It’s not to be at all—at least not for me. Not with William or any other man,” Lucy said wistfully, looking straight at him. He was so very attractive, she thought sadly. There’d been the attraction the moment they’d met, and it was only growing stronger. She wanted to simply step into his arms and take whatever he was offering. She’d never had an affair. She’d only known Francis, and that was something altogether different. This man tempted her; he was a living manifestation of the lovers of her fantasies. The kind of male who made her pulses beat like the crickets on long summer nights as she tossed and turned. The kind that made her shiver with more than cold on all those long winter nights.
But those phantom lovers were gone with the light. That was the best part of them. She didn’t want a real lover who’d leave her with the dawn. Francis had, but he couldn’t help that. And she’d been alone so long since. She’d mused about possibilities, of course. She was a grown woman and a widow, and so no other man in the future would ever have to know. But she would. Even if she dared taste forbidden fruits, she didn’t need a lover who’d leave her with another child, and was wise enough to know there wasn’t a really effective way to prevent that. Maybe there was one, or so it was whispered.But maybe was too great a risk. And just trying that sort of thing would make her like one of Mrs. Christie’s women, at least in her own mind.
“No,” she said aloud. “It can’t be, I’m afraid.”
“Just so,” he said softly, “so don’t be. Afraid, I mean. There would be nothing but pleasure in it.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Do you deny you’ve thought of it?”
She raised her eyes, unaware of the sorrow he saw there. “No. But all I can do is think of it, you see. I’m not a girl, Mr. Wycoff. Nor are you a boy. You’re a man of the world. If I were you, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be exactly as you are. But though I might feel that same temptation, I don’t have that freedom. I never will. I have responsibilities. And morals, I suppose.” She shrugged one shoulder. “That isn’t saying I’m any better than you. Women have to have morals, so I really haven’t the choice, have I? And life is all about the choices we make.”
She looked at him directly and spoke that way. “I’ve had fun flirting with you. But know this, it can never be more than that. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone, but the truth is I’m very sorry.”
Now he smiled. “Honesty,” he mused, looking as curiously pleased as sad. “Truth, no matter how hard it is to say? I’ve seldom encountered truth, not in all my travels, though I’ve been looking for it just as long. There was once a truthful girl I knew in London…but that was it. So she was a girl,
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