month. How sure she’d been that she would never be so foolish. Even after Friday in the kitchen, she’d thought, Well, I’ll be on my guard now . Forewarned was forearmed.
He had lovely forearms.
Didn’t pride go before a fall indeed? Sukey knew she should be ashamed of her weakness. But strength felt like a burden just now. She didn’t want to die a virgin. She didn’t want to go home and lie alone on her cold pallet in the kitchen and hear the moon whispering outside about what fun everyone else was having.
“What are you reading?” she asked, to have something else to think of.
“ Count Julian: A Tragedy. It’s a play about medieval Spain and the Moors. Mr. Dymond gave it to me after he’d read it.”
She’d guessed as much from the expensive binding. “Do you like it?”
“I do.” He shifted, the muscles in his legs tensing and relaxing. “It reminds me of Lear: a man who loves his daughter, yet puts his pride above her and so destroys a nation. But the author hasn’t Shakespeare’s gift for a story. I would have found the plot murky if Mr. Dymond hadn’t explained the history of it beforehand.”
She sighed. “There’s been talk of building a theater here. A real theater that real companies would come and perform in. But I don’t suppose it can happen before the next election, and who knows when that will be.” Nearly everything in Lively St. Lemeston was built by elections, Orange-and-Purple Whigs and Pink-and-White Tories buying goodwill and vying to see who could subscribe more generously to the building fund.
He lowered his book, one arm coming to rest at her lower back as he put his hands on his knees. “Don’t give up hope.” His voice hummed through her where her side pressed into his chest. I brought myself to completion, thinking of taking you , he’d said. “I know the project is dear to Lady Tassell’s heart.”
It was dear to Sukey’s too. By rights she ought to spend the next ten minutes sweating him for every last bit of information he possessed. But she couldn’t frame one question. She couldn’t do this. “I’m much warmer. I think I’d better…”
A still, charged moment—and he leaned away, his arms spreading wide to allow her freedom of movement.
She got to her feet, retreating to a nearby bale of hay. The parts of her that had shared his heat were soft and vulnerable. They felt colder than the rest of her, longing to press themselves up against him once more. She darted a glance at him and met his piercing amber eyes as he buttoned his coat, hiding the fall of his breeches. She guessed he was debating whether or not to apologize.
She’d ought to apologize to him . He was only in this barn, soaked through and denied release, because he’d helped her.
Knowing that Mr. Toogood was hard with wanting her and could set it aside and go on being kind—knowing that he was ignoring his own desires the way she’d ignore an aching back or sore knees—every bit of her strained for a way to thank him, to show him he hadn’t offended her. And after a few frustrated moments she remembered that kissing a man wasn’t the only way to tell him you thought he was splendid. I lack the impulse to confide in others , he’d said. Sometimes I regret it.
“Did you see many plays in London?” she asked.
He nodded. “I enjoy the theater. Lord Lenfield was kind enough not to object to my absenting myself of an evening, provided I was home before him.”
That meant more than once a week, then, or he might have gone on his half-holiday. “What was your favorite?”
He hesitated.
“Please. I’ve never been to a real theater.”
“Do you ever think of going to London? There’s always call for a maidservant there.”
Sukey knew girls who had left Lively St. Lemeston for London. She’d heard no news of them after. Maybe they were living lives much like her own, except that on their half-holiday they could go to the Opera. But maybe they were standing on some
He had lovely forearms.
Didn’t pride go before a fall indeed? Sukey knew she should be ashamed of her weakness. But strength felt like a burden just now. She didn’t want to die a virgin. She didn’t want to go home and lie alone on her cold pallet in the kitchen and hear the moon whispering outside about what fun everyone else was having.
“What are you reading?” she asked, to have something else to think of.
“ Count Julian: A Tragedy. It’s a play about medieval Spain and the Moors. Mr. Dymond gave it to me after he’d read it.”
She’d guessed as much from the expensive binding. “Do you like it?”
“I do.” He shifted, the muscles in his legs tensing and relaxing. “It reminds me of Lear: a man who loves his daughter, yet puts his pride above her and so destroys a nation. But the author hasn’t Shakespeare’s gift for a story. I would have found the plot murky if Mr. Dymond hadn’t explained the history of it beforehand.”
She sighed. “There’s been talk of building a theater here. A real theater that real companies would come and perform in. But I don’t suppose it can happen before the next election, and who knows when that will be.” Nearly everything in Lively St. Lemeston was built by elections, Orange-and-Purple Whigs and Pink-and-White Tories buying goodwill and vying to see who could subscribe more generously to the building fund.
He lowered his book, one arm coming to rest at her lower back as he put his hands on his knees. “Don’t give up hope.” His voice hummed through her where her side pressed into his chest. I brought myself to completion, thinking of taking you , he’d said. “I know the project is dear to Lady Tassell’s heart.”
It was dear to Sukey’s too. By rights she ought to spend the next ten minutes sweating him for every last bit of information he possessed. But she couldn’t frame one question. She couldn’t do this. “I’m much warmer. I think I’d better…”
A still, charged moment—and he leaned away, his arms spreading wide to allow her freedom of movement.
She got to her feet, retreating to a nearby bale of hay. The parts of her that had shared his heat were soft and vulnerable. They felt colder than the rest of her, longing to press themselves up against him once more. She darted a glance at him and met his piercing amber eyes as he buttoned his coat, hiding the fall of his breeches. She guessed he was debating whether or not to apologize.
She’d ought to apologize to him . He was only in this barn, soaked through and denied release, because he’d helped her.
Knowing that Mr. Toogood was hard with wanting her and could set it aside and go on being kind—knowing that he was ignoring his own desires the way she’d ignore an aching back or sore knees—every bit of her strained for a way to thank him, to show him he hadn’t offended her. And after a few frustrated moments she remembered that kissing a man wasn’t the only way to tell him you thought he was splendid. I lack the impulse to confide in others , he’d said. Sometimes I regret it.
“Did you see many plays in London?” she asked.
He nodded. “I enjoy the theater. Lord Lenfield was kind enough not to object to my absenting myself of an evening, provided I was home before him.”
That meant more than once a week, then, or he might have gone on his half-holiday. “What was your favorite?”
He hesitated.
“Please. I’ve never been to a real theater.”
“Do you ever think of going to London? There’s always call for a maidservant there.”
Sukey knew girls who had left Lively St. Lemeston for London. She’d heard no news of them after. Maybe they were living lives much like her own, except that on their half-holiday they could go to the Opera. But maybe they were standing on some
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