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She had a hundred questions she wanted to ask him. Nay, a thousand. And the stupidest questions of all were the ones that clamored loudest to get out. Have you truly made love on horseback? she wanted to ask. How does that even work? Was it how you were injured?
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women with radical ideas.” “No,” she returned. “I’m one of those women with nothing. There are a great many of us.”
Sometimes he wondered if women were all lawyers, with an extensive code of Romantic Law that they kept stubbornly hidden from men.
Any self-respecting rake had two kinds of women in his life: those he took to bed at night and those who made him a pancake in the morning. If he suddenly wanted both from the same woman, it was a warning flag.
No man had ever—ever—treated her the way he did. She was small and plain and insignificant. But on the page, her words could be so much more. They could be influential, admired. Even powerful. But only if they weren’t hers.
