Page 87 of The Study of Seduction
By the time he got outside, the carriage was already pulling away, with her waving at him out the window.
After watching the equipage disappear onto the road, he walked slowly back into the house. Damn. What else had Clarissa told his sister? Had she spoken of their intimate relations . . . or lack thereof? Had she revealed what he’d blurted out about Mother?
God. There was no telling. Those two were as thick as thieves.
As he stood in the foyer, he glanced at the clock. A couple of hours until dinner. He had half a mind to tell a servant he was unwell, and retreat to his bedchamber to drink himself into oblivion for the rest of the day.
But he was no coward. Surely he could endure an evening of polite chitchat with his wife. He would simply put from his mind the memory of how soft she’d been earlier, how sweetly scented, how silky the skin along her thighs . . .
Damn it to hell. Now he wished Keane and Yvette had chosen to stay.
He returned to his study to deal with some correspondence. Perhaps that would take his mind off her until she came down to join him for a drink before dinner, as they’d begun the habit of doing.
Or wouldsheplay the coward and not come to dinner at all? He wasn’t sure which he wanted.
Some time later, he was immersed in writing a letter to the board of the Preston Charity School when a voice sounded from the doorway.
“They’ve gone, I take it?”
Clarissa was here. “Yes, they’ve gone.” He forced a polite smile to his face as he rose. “They were—”
He forgot whatever he was saying, just stood there slack-jawed. Because standing in the doorway was his wife in a pair of his old evening breeches from when he was a lad of twelve.
Over them, she wore his old white shirt without a cravat, unbuttoned almost to the vee in the placket; his old embroidered waistcoat, unbuttoned; and his old tailcoat. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life.
God save his soul.
“Don’t stand there with your mouth open, Edwin.” She smiled hesitantly as she entered. “You’ll attract flies.”
He couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop imagining what lay behind the fall of those breeches. “What are you doing?” he barked.
“Paying my debt. Youdidwin our challenge this afternoon. Or have you forgotten?”
“I . . . I . . . Yes.” He swallowed hard. “I did.”
Oh, God, what had he been thinking? He must have been out of his mind. Now he had an evening of torture ahead of him.
After their disastrous picnic, he hadn’t expected her to “pay her debt,” especially with things so uncertain between them.
He scowled. Unless she had done it on purpose, to arouse him. Which didn’t make sense. He’d been very clear about why men liked women in breeches, and she’d been very clear about not wanting him to bed her.
As if she followed the train of his thoughts, her expression turned self-conscious. “I . . . um . . . would have buttoned the waistcoat, but it simply wouldn’t close over my . . . er . . .”
“Fine attributes?” he said dryly.
She blushed. “Exactly. I could barely get the breeches on, either. You grew into such a tall, broad-chested fellow that this was all I could find that I wouldn’t be swimming in, unfortunately.”
“Yes, very unfortunately, indeed,” he mumbled. Every inch of her attire was tight enough to show . . . several of her “fine attributes.” “No cravat, I see.”
“I gave up on figuring out how to tie one.” A coy smile touched her lips. “Besides, I figured you would like the ensemble better without one.”
“Can’t imagine why you would think that,” he said hoarsely as he fixed his gaze on her shirt. She didn’t appear to have a corset on underneath. Or perhaps he merely imagined that he could see her nipples. “Where on earth did you find the clothes?”
“In an old trunk.”
She strolled over to the wine decanter near the window, giving him a full view of her luscious backside. Those breeches were so tight, he could bounce a shilling off them. Had she even been able to get them on over her drawers? Or was she actuallynakedunderneath?
Glancing back at him, she asked, “Shall we have our usual glass of Madeira?”
