Page 74 of The Study of Seduction
He rubbed her muscles expertly. “So, tell me about this nightmare. You were drowning?”
“Mmm,” she said, her fear of the dream already fading, “I’d rather put it from my mind. Tell me aboutyournightmares. Somehow I always imagined you as a stalwart little boy afraid of nothing. What did you dream about that frightened you?”
“Skeletons.”
She shifted her head to look up at him. “Skeletons? Truly?”
“Well, they started out as people when they came after me. But then the flesh would melt from their bones until they were nothing more than skeletons lumbering toward me with their bones creaking.” He shuddered.
“Good Lord, that’s a rather macabre dream for a little boy.”
“I suspect it started when I saw a puppet show at a fair, which featured a skeleton puppet dancing about the stage and scaring the audience. I dreamed of them for a few years after.”
“You poor thing!”
“Actually, it’s why I became interested in Father’s automatons. They scared me because they vaguely reminded me of my nightmares, so I deliberately started examining them, determined to get past my fear. Before long I became genuinely interested in figuring out how they worked. The more I knew, the more fascinated I got, and before long, the dreams stopped.”
“I do hope you’re not going to suggest that I try swimming in a dark lake in the middle of a forest to learn to get past my nightmare.”
He chuckled. “No. That doesn’t sound wiseorsafe.”
She relaxed against the pillow. “Good. Because I can’t swim.”
“Perhaps I’ll teach you sometime. Just not at a dark lake in the middle of the forest.”
“No,” she murmured, then yawned.
His motions grew slower, more soothing. “Better now?”
“Mmm. Much better.” Her eyes slid closed. “Tell me more about when you were a boy.”
He started into a story about his first time on a horse, normally a tale that she might find entertaining, but soon his words began to melt together into one long droning, and before long she fell asleep.
That night there were no more dreams of any kind. And when she woke the next morning, he was gone.
Sixteen
Days later, Edwin sat at the breakfast table early in the morning, scouring theTimesfor any evidence that Durand might have made good on his threats. So far there had been no whiff of that, thank God.
He drank some of his tea. Hard to believe that he and Clarissa had been married almost a week. After the night of the blood-curdling scream, after seeing the terror that leapt in her eyes when she first saw him enter her room, he thought it prudent to retreat from any overt physical advances until she was willing to reveal what made her so frightened.
At least he was making progress. Though she hadn’t had any more nightmares, she let him sit with her at night, rub her back, and talk to her about their day. It was an exquisite agony to be so close to her without being the least bit intimate, but he’d done his best not to think about that. He’d taken to going for long, hard rides through the countryside to release his pent-up desire. And when that didn’t work, he pleasured himself.
It was ridiculous, really. He’d gone months before without bedding a woman, and now all he could think about was making love to his wife. Undoubtedly because he knew he couldn’t. It had nothing to do with how fetching she looked in her night rail. Or how her merry laugh could instantly brighten his day. Or how her every motion seemed designed to seduce—
“Good morning!” said a cheery voice from the doorway.
Speak of the devil. She was of course wearing some treat of a gown that made him think of strawberries gilded with cream. That he wanted to devour.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re up early.” He frowned. “Not another bad dream, I hope.”
“No. I just . . . couldn’t sleep.”
Picking up the orange he hadn’t eaten, he asked, “Want me to peel this for you?”
She made a face. “I despise oranges and anything to do with them. The smell of them alone makes me sick.”
“Then I’d best dispose of this one.” He aimed at the open window and lobbed the orange right through it.
