A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2)

by Tessa Dare

Truly? That whole determined, dangerous saunter across the room was for me? In that case, would you mind going back and doing it all over again? Slowly this time, and with feeling.

“No, pet. Don’t spare a moment’s concern for me.”

Her womb somehow became involved, sending nurturing impulses coursing through her veins.

Booooo

He made a point of touching her often. Subtly laying a hand to her elbow, handing her into the coach. She knew the touches weren’t for her pleasure or his, but for the benefit of those around them. Those small physical cues made a point. Every time he touched her, he said without words, This woman is under my protection. And every time he sent that message, she felt a little thrill.

She looked like a memory, interrupted. A torrid dream. Or a glimpse of the future, perhaps.

Is it truly so unfathomable, that an imperfect girl might be perfectly loved?”

“Did I frighten you?’ “A little.” He muttered a curse and rolled her close to his chest. “Sorry, pet. All’s well now.” His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “All’s well.” Remarkable. After that episode he’d just experienced, he was the one soothing her.

Men never hesitated to declare their presence. They were permitted to live aloud, in reverberating thuds and clunks, while ladies were always schooled to abide in hushed whispers.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. “With what?” “With your body. With your pleasure.”

So wretchedly unfair. Thirty seconds’ toilette, and he looked better than she could have managed with hot tongs, curling papers, and the assistance of two French lady’s maids.

“Good morning,” she said, resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl and beg for his approval. He blinked and focused his gaze. A smile crooked his lips. “Well, Min. Don’t you look pretty.” Giddy joy fizzed through her. It was a simple compliment, but a perfect one. She would have doubted him, if he’d called her “lovely” or “beautiful” or “stunning.” But “pretty”? That, she could almost believe. “Really?” she asked. She wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor—some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place.

Colin wished he could buy her one of everything, but settled for spending sixpence on a length of blue ribbon to match her gown. “In case you’re wanting to tie back your hair,” he said. “Did you want me to tie back my hair?” “Not at all. I quite like it down.” She shook her head. “You’re nonsensical.”

Colin bit into his own pie. It was good and savory, still warm from the oven. He enjoyed it. But not nearly as much as he enjoyed viewing her enjoyment.

And a few moments later, Colin was handing round clusters of red grapes. They were seedy and a bit shriveled. Half on their way to becoming raisins, in some cases. But a boy who’d never tasted a grape before wouldn’t know to complain. The children popped them into their mouths and made a contest of outdoing one another’s sounds of delight.

“You know, I probably shouldn’t say this. But you could ask me for anything right now—anything at all—and it would be yours.”

The words burned on her tongue, but Minerva couldn’t give them voice. What a hopeless coward she was. She could pound on his door at midnight and demand to be respected as an individual. She could travel across the country in hopes of being appreciated for her scholarly achievements. But she still lacked the courage to ask for the one thing she wanted most. To be loved, just for herself.

“Read it for yourself.” Good God. Now she meant to test his alphabet.

He mused, “Maybe ‘beautiful’ isn’t the proper word. It’s too common, and the way you look is . . . rare. You deserve a rare compliment. One sincerely meant, and crafted just for you. So there will be no doubt.”

Terror had her insides knotted. But she refused to give her fears a voice. She’d promised Colin she wouldn’t speak ill of herself again.

“Of course I want to marry you. But I thought you wanted to wait, go slowly. Have a proper courtship. It seemed so important to you.” “This”—he gestured at the door and the symposium going on within—”is important to you. Which means it’s everything to me.”