change, and grab my backpack.
“Even five more minutes,” he said, his voice almost a growl against my ear and his body pressed so firmly against mine that with just the slightest movement he’d be inside me. Which I wanted with sudden desperation.
It was a good thing we didn’t have five more minutes. I was losing my sanity. Becoming completely obsessed with sex. Sex with Sebastian.
“But I’ll just have to wait for tonight.”
“Tonight?” The very word sounded dangerous.
“After I take you out for your celebratory dinner. After you find your missing link.” With his optimistic words echoing how I felt, his suggestion seemed like a wonderful idea. Was there really anything wrong with extending a one-night stand into a three-night stand?
Yes. The answer was instant and weighty, but I pushed that doubt away. Leapt forward. Or maybe I was leaping to the side, far off track.
“All right,” I said, despite my more dire thoughts, wrapping my legs around him riskily, considering he wasn’t wearing the all-important barrier of a condom. “But I want you to know I have very high standards. I expect absolute pleasure.”
Chapter Five
B RUCE M ALLA RD LIVED out in Luton, or rather in Leagrave, which apparently had once been its own village before becoming a suburb. It was about an hour from King’s Cross by train. Of course, even passing through the King’s Cross Station made me think of Sebastian and his apartment nearby, which would be empty at this hour since it was the workweek. After a good fifteen minutes daydreaming about sex, I forced myself to open my laptop and at least pretend to scan the notes I had about Anne’s life.
I arrived at the Leagrave station just after ten in the morning and found a cab to drive me out to his house.
While I knew he didn’t live in some Gracechurch ancestral home, as Anne had grown up in central Bedfordshire some distance away, I still didn’t expect the little one-story midtwentieth-century bungalow that stood unprepossessingly in the middle of an unattractive residential neighborhood.
Bruce Mallard, however, was exactly what I had imagined the eighty-eight-year-old to be. Pale skin with rosy cheeks, thinning cotton-candy-like white hair. Hardy and in apparently good health but content with aging.
He shook my hand and welcomed me in, asking me instantly if I wanted any tea. He added that his wife had gone to visit their grandchildren down the road but would be home soon.
Even though I was antsy to see his stash, I sat down in the front parlor while he put tea on. Photographs and memorabilia decorated the room.
I stood up to look closer at one of the photographs that I thought must have been of Mallard when he was in his twenties.
“That was just after the war,” he said, and I turned to see him crossing toward me. He pointed to another photograph. “That’s my Sally.”
I peered at the black-and-white image of a woman in a dress that had molded against her hip and leg in the wind, her dark hair smoothly coiffed despite that wind. So different from my ponytail and jeans.
“It’s a lovely photograph.”
“Yes.” He paused a moment. “Sit. Tell me about this project.” He referred to my dissertation as if it were some elementary-school assignment, as if maybe I’d be making a diorama or something.
“Your ancestor, Anne Gracechurch, was a fairly popular author during her time. But like many popular female authors of the day, and unlike the Brontës or Shelley, she faded into obscurity.” I filled him in on what I had learned so far, about her friends and her life, clarifying the story for myself once more as I did. I could talk about this subject for hours, but of course, what I could learn from him was more relevant.
He stopped me briefly so he could get the tea: simple English Breakfast in little premade bags.
“So I’m hoping that you might have some items that belonged to her. I’ve been contacting all the other branches of her
“Even five more minutes,” he said, his voice almost a growl against my ear and his body pressed so firmly against mine that with just the slightest movement he’d be inside me. Which I wanted with sudden desperation.
It was a good thing we didn’t have five more minutes. I was losing my sanity. Becoming completely obsessed with sex. Sex with Sebastian.
“But I’ll just have to wait for tonight.”
“Tonight?” The very word sounded dangerous.
“After I take you out for your celebratory dinner. After you find your missing link.” With his optimistic words echoing how I felt, his suggestion seemed like a wonderful idea. Was there really anything wrong with extending a one-night stand into a three-night stand?
Yes. The answer was instant and weighty, but I pushed that doubt away. Leapt forward. Or maybe I was leaping to the side, far off track.
“All right,” I said, despite my more dire thoughts, wrapping my legs around him riskily, considering he wasn’t wearing the all-important barrier of a condom. “But I want you to know I have very high standards. I expect absolute pleasure.”
Chapter Five
B RUCE M ALLA RD LIVED out in Luton, or rather in Leagrave, which apparently had once been its own village before becoming a suburb. It was about an hour from King’s Cross by train. Of course, even passing through the King’s Cross Station made me think of Sebastian and his apartment nearby, which would be empty at this hour since it was the workweek. After a good fifteen minutes daydreaming about sex, I forced myself to open my laptop and at least pretend to scan the notes I had about Anne’s life.
I arrived at the Leagrave station just after ten in the morning and found a cab to drive me out to his house.
While I knew he didn’t live in some Gracechurch ancestral home, as Anne had grown up in central Bedfordshire some distance away, I still didn’t expect the little one-story midtwentieth-century bungalow that stood unprepossessingly in the middle of an unattractive residential neighborhood.
Bruce Mallard, however, was exactly what I had imagined the eighty-eight-year-old to be. Pale skin with rosy cheeks, thinning cotton-candy-like white hair. Hardy and in apparently good health but content with aging.
He shook my hand and welcomed me in, asking me instantly if I wanted any tea. He added that his wife had gone to visit their grandchildren down the road but would be home soon.
Even though I was antsy to see his stash, I sat down in the front parlor while he put tea on. Photographs and memorabilia decorated the room.
I stood up to look closer at one of the photographs that I thought must have been of Mallard when he was in his twenties.
“That was just after the war,” he said, and I turned to see him crossing toward me. He pointed to another photograph. “That’s my Sally.”
I peered at the black-and-white image of a woman in a dress that had molded against her hip and leg in the wind, her dark hair smoothly coiffed despite that wind. So different from my ponytail and jeans.
“It’s a lovely photograph.”
“Yes.” He paused a moment. “Sit. Tell me about this project.” He referred to my dissertation as if it were some elementary-school assignment, as if maybe I’d be making a diorama or something.
“Your ancestor, Anne Gracechurch, was a fairly popular author during her time. But like many popular female authors of the day, and unlike the Brontës or Shelley, she faded into obscurity.” I filled him in on what I had learned so far, about her friends and her life, clarifying the story for myself once more as I did. I could talk about this subject for hours, but of course, what I could learn from him was more relevant.
He stopped me briefly so he could get the tea: simple English Breakfast in little premade bags.
“So I’m hoping that you might have some items that belonged to her. I’ve been contacting all the other branches of her
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