Page 52 of Enticing Odds
Cressida smiled. Gently she reached for his spectacles. He started, but after a moment drew back slightly, allowing her toremove them. She set them on the shelf of books alongside them. And then she placed a hand upon his cheek, stroking it, feeling the slight scratch of his whiskers, the warmth of his skin.
“Don’t be daft, Doctor,” she murmured as she studied his mouth. He’d a little scar running perpendicular to the edge of his lower lip.From what?she wondered. “We both know that you’re far from it.”
This time, Cressida kissed him, taking that lower lip between hers.
Something in him broke. He seized her, taking her up in his arms, turning her about, and pressing her into the bookshelf, hard.
Cressida barely had a moment to gasp. She heard something hit the floor with a thud. And then he was upon her, rubbing his body against hers, kissing her jawline, then around her neck just above her collar.Oh, she realized, her senses slowly returning. He’d dropped the book he’d been holding. Spinoza, he’d said it was.
Suddenly she felt him, hard and insistent against her thigh. She wriggled instinctively, wanting him against her, wanting more than she really ought to just now. The shelf pressed into her back and her head, but she didn’t care. He sucked at her throat. She bit back a moan.
One massive hand drifted from her shoulder to her waist. In her loose gown, without the armor of a corset, she felt a surge of excitement as he squeezed her there, and caressed her, his hand rising with every kiss upon her neck. Her body ached in anticipation. And then, so casually, almost as if by accident, that same hand grazed her breast, her hard nipple. She bit her lip, digging her fingers into his back, desperate to regain her control. But then he palmed it, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her, all the way to her core.
And then Cressida did moan.
Like some wanton harlot, entertaining a man in her own house, in broad daylight. She froze, suddenly panicked.
After a moment Dr. Collier halted. When still she did not speak, he jerked away as if he’d been burnt. Cressida stumbled, then regained her footing with one hand upon a shelf. Silently she thanked Bartholomew for insisting upon only the best and sturdiest furnishings for the library.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Collier,” she managed, surprised at the unsteadiness of her own voice. “I don’t usually comport myself like this.” She felt about her hair, making sure it was tidy enough to not give her away. “At least, not outside the privacy of the bedroom.”
Still his face was wild, determined in a way that nearly made Cressida reconsider the immutable laws she’d enacted for these sorts of things. His eyes, though, looked horrified.
“My lady. I—I don’t know what to say, how to even begin to apologize for myself—”
“Oh dear, no. No, darling, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
She reached over and plucked his spectacles from the shelf where she’d placed them. Her body still throbbed. How could she stand to send him off like this?
But how could she allow it to continue, when she’d always been uncompromising when it came to this? This was not just her home, or even her blasted dead husband’s. It was her sons’ as well. And she would sooner die than see Arthur or Henry tangled up in her romantic escapades.
“There’s no occasion, no setting, no place in this world where my… my forwardness would be appropriate, and I… I don’t know what to say.” Dr. Collier’s ears were red now.
“Hush,” Cressida said, sharpish. “Hang propriety.”
She stepped toward him and unfolded his spectacles. He made to reach for them, but she ignored his hand, and stood up on her tiptoes to place them upon his face herself.
“If you truly think I thought that inappropriate,” she murmured, allowing her fingers to trail down his face, to his neck, then spread atop his shoulders as she smoothed his jacket, “then perhaps you really are daft.”
A muscle flexed in his neck. She reached down with one hand and forced his tight fist open. She laced her fingers through his.
“I should very much like to continue our discussion,” she said coquettishly.
He watched her, his face inscrutable as she brought their joined hands up to her face.
“That is,” she said, pretending to study their hands—hers so slim and elegant, adorned with a spectacular ruby ring, while his were large and veined—“if you’re so inclined.”
She lowered her lips, placing the gentlest of kisses atop the back of his hand. And then she released him. His expression was determined, his eyes wide, still staring at her mouth.
“You’re familiar with the Euston Hotel, I gather?”
He nodded slowly, his gaze still hard.
“Well then,” Cressida said, giving him a radiant smile. “Perhaps I shall see you there?”
He licked his lips, and with apparent difficulty managed to say one word: “When?”
“Whenever you send for me,” she whispered, still smiling.
