Page 4 of How to Lose a Dowry in Three Bucks
Sophia knew the momentshe heard steps on the stairs that the earl was coming for her. She should have yanked up her underthings, pulled down her dress, and gone scurrying down those steps before he discovered she was upstairs.
And then she heard him recite a bastardized version of “Jack the Giant Killer,” and she could not move. It took her back to the delighted terror at childhood fairy tales, and how they combined with her late mother’s admonitions to be careful of men who might take Sophia, as they’d taken mama hoping to gain her dowry.
The trouble with electrifying stories about giant men was that they morphed in the minutes before sleep as Sophia’s terror gave way to curiosity. She was so often reminded of the danger men posed that her head was full of them. And Peverel was the biggest and most dangerous man she’d ever encountered.
When he turned the corner to the small sitting room, Sophia tried to freeze, but her hand kept working her quim. She took in his colossal form in the doorway, then her eyes fell to his enormous cock, now so very close to her. A bead of liquid rolled from the head, and Sophia licked her lips, imagining what it would taste like.
“Oh, fuck,” said Peverel. And then she felt something splatter on her bare cunny and fingers.
Sophia froze in shock.
“Fucking fuck,” he muttered, stationary, his eyes on her spread body.
She yanked her dress to the side and saw that her quim was wetter, now glazed with his pearly essence. She moved her fingers to feel it and he sprang into motion.
“No!” he cried, and she pulled back in fear. “No, just, careful. Don’t press it inside. Or there might be consequences.”
Sophia nodded in shock, her book-acquired knowledge of anatomy and reproduction filling in some gaps while others remained mysterious.
He stood with his manhood in one hand and his sack in the other, just staring at her body where he’d marked her.
“I could use some help,” she finally said, and he jumped into action.
He tossed a handkerchief on her quim as if that would clean up the mess. Sophia laughed to herself; with a man like Matthew Bohun, that was likely as much cleaning as he knew how to do.
She took charge and scooped their combined wetness from her cunny, then moved to collect her underthings from the floor.
“No!” he said, reaching for them and the handkerchief. “As a gentleman, I should see to the laundering of these items. I’d hate for the staff to talk.”
Sophia nodded and adjusted her skirts until they fell into place.
Silence. He finally tucked his manhood back into his trousers.
“We should—” he said.
“Might you have some tea?” she said at the same time.
***
“So, you see, I simply need to reach my twenty-fifth birthday, convert my dowry to an annuity, and I’ll be on my way. In the meantime, I must show the solicitor charged with executing my grandfather’s will that I’ve put forth a good faith effort.”
Sophia sipped her tea and watched the earl’s reaction to her confession. Shame bubbled in her stomach, and the only way to settle it was a good quantity of Assam.
They were in his study, the tea tray on his desk, with him behind that expansive slab of wood. Would he be upset that she sought his hospitality to stage a false attempt at marriage?
His eyes roved over her, as if never having truly seen her before. Then he broke into laughter.
“So your whole…” he said, waving his hand, “…dress and demeanor. It’sintendedto repel men? You set out to do that? So you wouldn’t need to marry?”
Sophia puffed up, indignant at how he described her fashions. “I should think not, sir!”
He settled back in his grand chair. “What purpose do the lace and high collars serve if they aren’t meant to repel men?”
“This is the fashion,” she said, her voice trailing off. “In Albany. We prize modesty in the New World.”
He squinted at her. The earl somehow looked even bigger than usual, slumped in that chair, a small teacup in his hand. Sophia could see that she wasn’t convincing him, and his patience was wearing thin.
“Maybe…” she started.
