Page 14 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
But none of that mattered, because he absolutely could not marry her, and Edward Astley was not the sort of man who would dishonor a virginal young woman by taking her as his mistress. He would never have her, and that was final.
No, he thought, as he imagined the way she would look at him with those sea glass green eyes in the moment the pleasure was upon her, Elissa St. Cyr was not for him. He quickened his desperate strokes and bit down his cry as he came into the handkerchief, his entire body shaking and the chair screeching against the floor as he had the most powerful climax he had experienced in ages.
Definitely not for him, he thought as he threw the handkerchief into the fire.
CHAPTER6
Three hours later, Cassandra declared Elissa’s hair sufficiently dry that she was allowed to leave the confines of her sister’s sweltering room.
By then, the rain had let up, and Edward had long since departed. She sighed. She would probably never see him again.
That wasn’t quite true—she was guaranteed to see him one more time: at the forthcoming contest at Oxford, in which she would face her challengers.
She glanced around her room, which she knew full well he had used to change out of his wet clothes. She had heard him speaking to her father through the wall while she’d been in her bath. The thought of him here, in her most intimate space, was delightful and mortifying in equal measures. Gracious, what must he have thought of her fairy bower? She had cut those flowers by hand when she was thirteen. They might seem silly for a woman grown, but she still loved them. Had he noticed her copy of his book just above her desk? She felt a bit embarrassed, but also disappointed that she hadn’t thought to have him sign it for her.
Had he sat upon her bed? Most probably not, but he must have sat in her chair, for at one point, she’d heard it screech against the floor. She crossed the room and sank into its familiar plush embrace. Was it her imagination, or could she detect just a hint of bergamot?
She stared at the fire and tried to picture him standing there. Not just standing there but peeling off his wet clothes. Because Edward Astley hadn’t justbeenin her room.
He had beennakedin her room.
A faint moan escaped from Elissa’s lips. She paused, listening carefully to make sure everything was quiet. She didn’t usually do this until late at night when she was lying in her bed and felt sure that the entire house was asleep.
But the truth was, she had been craving it ever since the moment he had pulled her flush against his chest in the pond. She had been craving it all afternoon, and she didn’t think she could wait another second.
She padded silently to the door and turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could.
She then tiptoed over to her bed, hiking her skirts up as she lay on her back and spread her legs. She reached into the little drawer of her bedside table and withdrew a tiny stoneware pot. It contained a cream scented with honeysuckle that she used for her hands.
At least, that was one of the things she used it for.
She took a dollop on her index finger, using her other hand to spread the folds between her legs. She had been longing for this so much, she was already throbbing, so rather than starting with her breasts, her fingers went straight to the little rosebud between her legs, making light, slick circles. Oh, that felt so sweet! She was so close already! She thought about her body pressed against Edward’s in the pond. She pictured his eyes, tender and sincere, in the moment he scooped her into his arms to stop her from falling. She thought about howEdward Astleyhad wrapped his arms around her and carried her away on his white charger.
She thought about him just a few short hours ago, standing naked in this very room. She had never seen a naked man before, so her image was indistinct. But so much Greek verse was erotic, you sometimes stumbled across passages that stirred the imagination.
Which happened to be how she had figured out how to do this.
Oh, she was so aroused, her hand between her legs feltso good. She paused and began circling the other way, biting down a cry as new nerves sparked to life. Suddenly an image sprang into her mind of Edward lying on top of her, smiling, his dimples on full display, his blue eyes crinkled not only with laughter, but with affection.
Just like that, she was right there, right on the edge, and the pleasure was overwhelming. It feltso good, it felt… oh… oh…oh…
She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but her legs were shaking so hard as she peaked, she heard the bedframe thump twice against the wall. She struggled to control their shaking as she gentled her hand, drawing out the final few pulses of pleasure before collapsing boneless on the bedspread.
She listened alertly but heard no sounds from the surrounding rooms. It appeared she had gone undiscovered.
She sighed. She had the feeling that Edward Astley would be fueling her midnight fantasies for quite some time to come. Even more than he already had.
But she needed to remember one thing: it was nothing more than a fantasy.
Elissa knew full well he would never be interested in the likes of her. The references he had made that afternoon—to her being a siren, to her horrified expression being “adorable,”—those were just gallantries. He was the consummate gentleman and had been trying to make her feel better. It spoke well of him, but was not indicative of any true regard.
Edward Astley was probably going to marry the daughter of a duke. A girl with blue blood and a huge dowry, who could throw together a dinner party in an afternoon, who never set a toe out of line. The type of girl who would never trip over a pig. Not a girl who read Plutarch in a boat, had giant water beetles nesting in her hair, and courted disaster wherever she went. It wasn’t even worth dreaming about. She would make a remarkably terrible countess. Edward would never choose the likes of her.
Honestly, what he felt for her right now was likely nothing but pity. But just wait until after the contest…
The contest was the idea of her publisher, Mr. Findley. He had been pressing Elissa to reveal her identity to the world, because the news that the mysterious translator was a woman was bound to cause a sensation, and sensations sold books.
But Elissa knew from a lifetime of experience that the world would see a female classicist not as a sensation, but as a curiosity, the literary equivalent of Snowdrop the two-headed cow. To be sure,everyonewent to gawk at Snowdrop at the fair.
