modesty.”
“Now that’s an improving tale for the ages.” Sukey took off her wet cap. “I’d ought to bring it to Mrs. Dymond’s attention.” (That lady made her money, what there was of it, writing literature with a high moral tone for children.) She hesitated, then pulled a pin from her hair, evidently intending to take it down to dry. It was a good notion, and John supported it wholeheartedly.
Damnation, this was laughable. Either he should fuck her, or he should stop thinking about fucking her, because he was in no position to satisfy himself any time in the near future. He leaned over and took up his book. He found his place without difficulty, but it was an effort to take the words’ meaning in along with their shape when he could hear hairpins clinking together in Sukey’s palm.
“I don’t like being cold.” She dried her own hair in her pelisse.
“Neither do I,” he agreed mildly. Who did?
“It’s one of the things I like least about being a maid. They get to stay in their warm beds until I’ve lit the fire.”
John himself had never minded that. Discomfort was unpleasant by definition, but he hated excessive heat far more than cold. He peeled the page away from the next one and turned it carefully. A scrap of paper came off in his hand. He sighed.
“I won’t be cold when I don’t have to be,” she said, and climbed into his lap.
He spread his legs to accommodate her, thinking she would turn her back to him, but she stayed curled up, resting her cheek on his shoulder and drawing her legs up to her chest, the back of her heels against his outer thigh.
She tugged at her skirts until they flowed straight from her gown’s high waist over her shins. Her knees pulled at the gown, tugging the bodice away from her breasts so he saw the drawstring of her stays and a dark, bottomless gap that showed him nothing but that might, in better light, have revealed the busk of her stays, the swell of her breasts, and her thighs.
Her back was icy where it touched his arm. Unbuttoning his coat, he wrapped it around her as far as it would go. Her unbound hair, imbued with her scent, spread damp tentacles over her shoulder and clung to his arm as he lifted it to continue reading. She smelled of ashes and damp wool, tallow soap and turpentine, clean rain and lemons and sweat and skin. Seductive beyond reason. If he bent his head, he could bury his nose in her hair.
He tried to keep his eyes on his book.
Sukey made believe that Mr. Toogood was a very lumpy pillow. It wasn’t easy, as he kept shifting about, his arms moving as he turned a page, his chest rising and falling under her cheek. It took long, clammy minutes, but at last a comforting heat built between them. It had been so many years since she was a girl sharing a bed with her mother, she’d forgotten how much better another person was than any warming pan or hot bricks or leaning against the chimney.
Even so, she wished they had a blanket.
Light flashed from outside, and though she knew the roar of thunder was coming, it made her jump a bit and burrow closer to him. He shifted again, uneasily. Blood rushed to her face as she became aware of something hard poking at her hip.
He must know she’d felt it. Would he speak? Would he kiss her? She held her breath.
He turned a page in his book.
Oh, it wasn’t fair! He wanted her, and she wanted him, and why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t he lay her down on this hard, scratchy bale of hay and stick that cockstand right into her?
But he’d already refused her once. That and the damp chilled her enough that she could remember Mrs. Humphrey’s kindness in giving her the rattle. Her mistress, who didn’t trust her with a twopenny bit, had had faith in her virtue. Her mother had striven to bring her up to be smart and careful. It would be letting them down if she gave away her maidenhead like any featherwit.
How smug Sukey had been when Mrs. Dymond’s sister had found herself with child last
“Now that’s an improving tale for the ages.” Sukey took off her wet cap. “I’d ought to bring it to Mrs. Dymond’s attention.” (That lady made her money, what there was of it, writing literature with a high moral tone for children.) She hesitated, then pulled a pin from her hair, evidently intending to take it down to dry. It was a good notion, and John supported it wholeheartedly.
Damnation, this was laughable. Either he should fuck her, or he should stop thinking about fucking her, because he was in no position to satisfy himself any time in the near future. He leaned over and took up his book. He found his place without difficulty, but it was an effort to take the words’ meaning in along with their shape when he could hear hairpins clinking together in Sukey’s palm.
“I don’t like being cold.” She dried her own hair in her pelisse.
“Neither do I,” he agreed mildly. Who did?
“It’s one of the things I like least about being a maid. They get to stay in their warm beds until I’ve lit the fire.”
John himself had never minded that. Discomfort was unpleasant by definition, but he hated excessive heat far more than cold. He peeled the page away from the next one and turned it carefully. A scrap of paper came off in his hand. He sighed.
“I won’t be cold when I don’t have to be,” she said, and climbed into his lap.
He spread his legs to accommodate her, thinking she would turn her back to him, but she stayed curled up, resting her cheek on his shoulder and drawing her legs up to her chest, the back of her heels against his outer thigh.
She tugged at her skirts until they flowed straight from her gown’s high waist over her shins. Her knees pulled at the gown, tugging the bodice away from her breasts so he saw the drawstring of her stays and a dark, bottomless gap that showed him nothing but that might, in better light, have revealed the busk of her stays, the swell of her breasts, and her thighs.
Her back was icy where it touched his arm. Unbuttoning his coat, he wrapped it around her as far as it would go. Her unbound hair, imbued with her scent, spread damp tentacles over her shoulder and clung to his arm as he lifted it to continue reading. She smelled of ashes and damp wool, tallow soap and turpentine, clean rain and lemons and sweat and skin. Seductive beyond reason. If he bent his head, he could bury his nose in her hair.
He tried to keep his eyes on his book.
Sukey made believe that Mr. Toogood was a very lumpy pillow. It wasn’t easy, as he kept shifting about, his arms moving as he turned a page, his chest rising and falling under her cheek. It took long, clammy minutes, but at last a comforting heat built between them. It had been so many years since she was a girl sharing a bed with her mother, she’d forgotten how much better another person was than any warming pan or hot bricks or leaning against the chimney.
Even so, she wished they had a blanket.
Light flashed from outside, and though she knew the roar of thunder was coming, it made her jump a bit and burrow closer to him. He shifted again, uneasily. Blood rushed to her face as she became aware of something hard poking at her hip.
He must know she’d felt it. Would he speak? Would he kiss her? She held her breath.
He turned a page in his book.
Oh, it wasn’t fair! He wanted her, and she wanted him, and why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t he lay her down on this hard, scratchy bale of hay and stick that cockstand right into her?
But he’d already refused her once. That and the damp chilled her enough that she could remember Mrs. Humphrey’s kindness in giving her the rattle. Her mistress, who didn’t trust her with a twopenny bit, had had faith in her virtue. Her mother had striven to bring her up to be smart and careful. It would be letting them down if she gave away her maidenhead like any featherwit.
How smug Sukey had been when Mrs. Dymond’s sister had found herself with child last
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