Three Weeks With Lady X(26)

"It's odd to hear a lady speak about a profession," he said, turning over yet another book.

"You must not talk to many," she said tartly. "You are surrounded by women who work very hard at various enterprises."

"But they aren't ladies," he said, with perfect truth. He turned his  head and looked at her from under his lashes. "And even more than not  being ladies, they aren't daughters of marquesses."

"There's nothing about my father's title that renders me incapable of work."

"Clearly that's the case. But don't pretend that you're not unusual,  India." He'd reached the bottom of the stack of books. "This is the  third book about Italy. I'm starting to think that Jupp bought that  Cellini in his travels."

"In fact, I think those books came from a bookshop," she said. "I found  only twenty or thirty books here, so I had to add to your library."

Thorn looked up with a bark of laughter. "You bought some poor bugger's  books to make it look as if I had ancestors who knew how to read?"

"No one is trying to disguise the provenance of the house and your ownership of it," she objected.

He snorted.

"We are simply demonstrating that you are a man of discernment," India told him.

Before she could stop him Thorn leaned over and picked up Feather's  book. He turned the pages, an entirely wicked grin on his lips. "I see  that I am very discerning indeed. You are showing unexpected depths,  India."

"Thanks to Lord Jupp, you have many such volumes in your new  collection," she muttered, gesturing toward the stack on the floor. She  could feel color rising in her cheeks again.

"Damn," Thorn said, turning the pages. "This is an adventuresome little volume."                       
       
           



       

"I threw a couple of them in the bin," India said defiantly.

"Good."

She hesitated, then: "Aren't you curious about what they were?"

"There's sickness in the world, India. I saw some of it as a boy, more  as a man . . . I don't want it in my house, or anywhere near Rose."

India loved the way he was protecting Rose, so she smiled at him, a wide smile. Unguarded. Unusual for her.

He frowned. "India."

"Yes?"

"No wonder all those men are scrabbling at your feet to marry you. You  could seduce a saint with that smile." He looked back at the book and  turned another page. "Did you enjoy Mr. Feather's undertakings?"

"I merely glanced at the volume."

His mouth quirked. "I stood in that doorway for a good five minutes  before you saw me. I was squinting, but it looked to me as if this was  the picture you found most fascinating."

At that, heat flooded her body. Propriety demanded that she run from the room, but she remained where she was.

Thorn turned the page upside down, just as she had. "What on earth is so  fascinating? Except the size of Feather's tool, which definitely falls  in the category of an optimistic daydream."

India filed that comment away to think about later. Who would wish for  something that large to come anywhere near her most delicate parts?

"Do tell, India," Thorn said, laughing aloud now. He turned the picture the other way.

"I was trying to see whether she was enjoying herself," India confessed.

"See how her hands are flying out into the air like that? In my  experience-which is not slight-she's having a fine time. Screaming, I  would guess."

Another wave of heat concentrated between her legs. " ‘Screaming'?" She didn't know whether to be horrified or envious.

"With pleasure," he added, turning the pages. "Feather is giving her  everything she wants. Hell, look at this one." He glanced up, his eyes  alight with mischief. "She's screaming here as well."

India looked at the engraving for a good minute before she realized what  Feather was doing with his head between the lady's legs. And yes, the  lady did seem to be experiencing an acute level of happiness. And her  mouth was open, as Thorn noted.

She snapped to herself again. "We shouldn't be having this conversation. It's wretchedly inappropriate."

Thorn shook his head at her. "Nothing wrong about it, India. You and I are friends."

That stopped her on the very edge of flight. "Friends? You look at books  of this nature with your friends?" Frankly, it was a scandalous notion.

"No, only with you. Come take a look at what he's doing here. I've never tried it."

"No!"

"I'll come to you, in that case." India rapidly backed away, until she found herself stopped by the bookcase.

"I don't want to see it!"

Thorn stopped just in front of her, trapping her with his large body, so  close his shoulder rubbed against hers, and she could smell his spicy,  fragrant male smell, even hear the sound of his breathing.

"I suspect you've had to live like a nun in order to avoid being tossed  from society, haven't you? How old are you?" He looked her up and down.  "Twenty-two?"

India sighed. "Twenty-six."

"You've had to wrap yourself in virtuous white for twenty-six years. No wonder you're retiring. That's hellish."

His smile, she registered, was dangerous to her peace of mind. And her  virtue. She cleared her throat. "I must return to work, Thorn. And this  conversation did not happen."

"You mean that nuns aren't allowed to ogle Feather's better parts?" Thorn grinned at her. "I like this picture; don't you?"

India glanced down and discovered that a young lady was bouncing on top  of Feather, their bodies connected only by his extraordinary . . .  whatever. And they appeared to be lying on a tree limb. "No!" she  exclaimed.

He closed the book and dropped it on a shelf, leaning even closer and  bracing his right arm over her head. "Those pictures are exaggerations.  You do know that, don't you, India?"

She scowled at him. "The matter is irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant, because you're about to marry. During my years at  Eton, I saw hordes of men starkers. I can tell you this, India: whoever  you marry will not compare to Feather."

India felt, irrationally, that she should defend her future husband.  "You don't know that," she objected. "I'm sure that he will be . . .  everything that a man should be."                       
       
           



       

Thorn's grin was making that hot and muddled feeling spread all over her body. "It's really irrelevant," she repeated crossly.

"Maybe before you decide on the man, I should take him for a dip in the  horse pond and take a discreet glance. It would be awful if you went to  your wedding night with images of Feather in mind, only to discover your  beloved is the size of a thimble."

"He won't be!"

"How would you know? I would feel terrible if a book I owned corrupted  you and consequently you never enjoyed your marital life."

India gave him a little push. "Back away, if you please. I'm going to my chamber."

"I know; you're about to tell me again that this conversation never took  place. Do you know that you're the first female friend I've ever had?"

"I don't think we're friends," India observed.

"In that case, what are we?"

She ducked under his arm and walked away without answering, because there was no good reply to that.

He shouted when she had almost reached the door. "India!"

She turned.

"You forgot your nighttime reading!" The book hurtled through the air, and she instinctively put up her hand and caught it.

That smile again.





Chapter Fifteen



Early the next evening

The drawing room, Starberry Court

India, darling, I insist that you go to bed early this evening," Adelaide said. "You look half-dead."

India felt a pulse of pure shame. The truth was that she had stayed up  far too late, absorbed in the exploits of Francis Feather. "I cannot. I  have only one day left before the duke and duchess join us."

"I am exhausted myself," her godmother said. "I shall take supper in my  room, and I recommend you do the same. When do Mr. Dautry and Rose  arrive?"

"Tomorrow morning," India said.

"That young man will have to mind his language in the next week. I'm  astonished that dear Eleanor wasn't able to do more with him. After all,  he lived in their house from an early age."

In India's estimation, it wouldn't matter at what age Thorn had entered the duke's house: it would have been too late.

"Of course, he is his father's son," Adelaide continued. "Those eyes are his father's, and that hair, all the rest of it."

"But for the personality," India pointed out. "I have always found the Duke of Villiers to be as courteous as he is witty."