Page 37 of Dukes Do It Better
“It’s understandable that you’ll do anything to get back to them.”
A pause. “I’ll do anything to break free from my mother’s manipulations. That’s more accurate.” He sighed, and the warm breath mingled with hers within the intimate cocoon his bedchamber had become. Those wonderfully rough fingers ran a path from her shoulder, down her arm, then wrapped her closer until they were pressed front to front.
Tempting as it was to relax entirely into his embrace, it was impossible to miss what his words meant. “You’ll be sailing away in no time at all,” she reassured him, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. It couldn’t be disappointment. She’d fallen into his bed with her eyes wide open to the situation. Before he could respond, she opened her mouth in a giant yawn that began as fake, but quickly turned real. “You wore me out in all the best ways. I need to get home so I can sleep.”
His hand on her back paused, then resumed its sweep over her skin. “If you must. I hate to let you go, though.”
Emma bit her lip, wanting to ask when she’d see him again. She’d rather not come across as needy, even though everything within her wanted to see if he was as eager as she was to do this again.
“When will I see you again?” he asked.
She laughed. “I wanted to ask, but feared scaring you off with my eagerness.”
Mal kissed her and she tasted herself on his lips. “I want you eager for me. Because I can promise, you’ll be on my mind every minute until I can have you all to myself again.”
Emma relaxed into his arms once more and buried her face in his chest. “All right. I’ll try to get away tomorrow, but I’m not sure how the day shall go. I’ll send a note around.”
“Then I’ll remain flexible and wait for your message.” Mal eased away from her to sit on the edge of the bed. He disposed of the French letter, and she knew it was time to go.
Back to the real world. But now she knew the real world held magical things like narwhals, and everything seemed a little brighter.
Chapter Eleven
I’ll never forget the moment I saw Ophelia’s headstone side by side with Adam’s. All was as it should be. Finally. It felt right to honor him. He was a remarkable young man from what I hear.
—Journal entry, September 8, 1824
Adelaide cocked her head. “Rather uninspiring if you ask me.”
Emma turned to see what her friend was talking about, then slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter. Alas, the indelicate sound echoed off the walls of the British Museum and caught the attention of the rest of their group.
The clicking of Lady Agatha’s cane on the floor signaled the approach of Lottie’s godmother, which meant that Lottie and Phee wouldn’t be far behind.
“What are we laughing at?” Lady Agatha asked.
Emma silently pointed at the statue.
Lady Agatha raised a brow. “Poor, poor man. There are dogs more heavily endowed.”
The laugh Emma had tried to smother escaped. No doubt, the sculpture was a fine example of Greco-Roman art. Rippling muscles were perfectly defined, polished smooth, and alabaster white. But the subject of their conversation dangling between his legs was…well. Lacking.
Lottie murmured, “It is rather sad looking, isn’t it?”
Gesturing toward the statue in question, Adelaide asked, “Is this fellow normal? I mean, he seems rather proud of it. And the sculptor thought it was perfectly adequate.”
Phee snorted, not bothering to cover the sound like Emma had. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen a few in my day.” Everyone shot a look at Phee, who rolled her eyes. “From my experience, they come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.”
“Like hats,” Lady Agatha quipped dryly.
Lottie laughed. “Auntie, really.” She composed herself into a semiserious face but her eyes still sparkled with mirth. “Miss Martin, we are happy to answer any questions you have. Although I don’t have many real-life comparisons”—she glanced over at the statue in question—“my experience has been more inspiring than what the artist has captured in marble.”
Adelaide sighed. “That’s a relief. Because this…” Her voice faded as she held up a finger, comparing the length to the marble appendage. “Also, if we are to discuss penises, I give you leave to dispense with formalities and call me by my given name.”
Emma said, “I’ve experienced one like this unfortunate chap, and, as Lottie put it so delicately, far more inspiring anatomy.”
Having a conversation about penis size while standing in a gallery of the British Museum hadn’t been on the agenda today. The British Museum had. In fact, Emma had gathered her favorite women in one place today because she’d needed the distraction. After leaving Mal’s bed in the wee hours of the morning, her emotions had yet to settle. The man upended her equilibrium, albeit in wonderful ways. But this sensation of having gotten in over her head wouldn’t go away.
Last night had been passionate, lovely, and more than she’d expected. Mal’s talking about his ship shouldn’t have made her uneasy. Leaving his bed shouldn’t have felt like a loss—not if she was keeping an emotional distance from him. And now here she was discussing his penis. Because what better way to get your mind off your lover, right? Emma stifled a sigh at her own foolishness.
