Page 41 of Desperate Proposals
“A dog?” Evelyn blinked. “Whatever for?”
“Companionship, if you’ll recall.” Mr. Hartley laughed, and crossed his legs so he might remove his shoes.
“Do you not have a valet?” She stared, unable to conceal her distaste at his undressing like this.
“Of course I do.” He dropped one shoe, then adjusted his position to reach the other. It, too, fell to the floor with a thud. Evelyn arched an eyebrow.
“What?” he said with a touch of humor. “Think we ought to conduct our business clothed?”
“No,” she said. A prickling flush ran through her. “I only… did not expect it to be… like this.”
“Oh?” He shifted closer and leaned toward her. “And whatdidyou expect?”
Evelyn looked away, not caring to dignify that with an answer. Instead she focused on her hands, gently folded upon her knees. Blushing and wilting like a fragile maiden was another item on the list of things she’d rather die than do.
When Mr. Hartley had suggested their marriage, the idea of bedding him had seemed easy. Clinical, even. She’d assumed he’d approach her from behind, flip up her skirts, do all that thrusting or what have you, and be done with it.
But this… him in shirtsleeves and stockinged feet, chatting easily about his frustration with his mother’s lapdog before pinning her with that self-satisfied grin… and flirting with her.
Well. It feltintimate. Something she’d not anticipated.
The whisper of fabric sliding against skin set her heart to racing again. When she looked back at him, he was clad only in his trousers and wool undervest, which clung tightly to his chest. His shoulders and arms were bare. An ache tightened within her. She had not expected to find something as mundane as a shoulder so pleasing. She’d seen plenty of them depicted in paintings, and in books filled with colored plates of ancient sculptures.
But he was warm, and his skin firm. And he was right in front of her.
Suddenly she realized he was watching her, and her eyes drifted up to his. Any integrity they had before had now fled; they were no longer the trustworthy blue she’d become accustomed to. Now they were wild and fierce. Her well-trained mind begged her to look away, to hide her face from such an uncivilized gaze.
She did not.
Her breath came quicker.
“Shall we get on with it, then?” she managed to say. For some reason it came out as a whisper.
“Get on with what?” He matched her low volume, the deep register of his voice a gentle hand upon her cheek.
“You know, with the tupping,” Evelyn said matter-of-factly.
She shifted her weight back; somehow she’d unconsciously leaned far across the middle of the couch toward his end, as if he were pulling her into his orbit with the gravity of that satiny voice and handsome jawline.
“The tupping?”
“Yes, I did express my willingness in that regard.” She brought one hand primly to her throat. “But only one or two children, I believe. Too many would be vulgar. I wouldn’t wish to be like Mr. Reed’s wife, foreverenceinte.”
She paled at the memory of the harried woman minding her numerous children at the parish council picnic that summer.
“And how shall we go about that?” he asked, one hand covering his mouth, the creases at the corners of his eyes betraying his smile.
“Perhaps I shall get on the bed? I could then bare myself to you?”
It seemed the most practical way of doing things.
Mr. Hartley sighed, and heaved himself up out of his chair. He began pacing in front of her, arms crossed as if in thought. After a minute he spoke.
“Forgive me, butthatseems a rather unnatural way of going about it.” He paused, his eyes darkening. Then, with a grin, he came back to stand before her. “And what of kissing? You did mention kisses would be permitted, provided they were kept to the bedroom, if I recall.”
Evelyn straightened herself in her seat, smoothing out her nightclothes.
“Very well.”
