Marry the Man Today (17 page)

"Escorting a woman to the opera? Or as an object in a charity auction?"

"No, certainly, my lord, bu
t
. . . you see, my Aunt Tiberia was a . . ." With every beat of her heart, he came closer and closer, until he was peering down at her.

"Your aunt was a . . . ?"

Great heavens, what a ninny she'd become. Cowering like an innocent in the face of Blakestone's rather simple question. A test of her mettle, which she knew she could easily pass.

Elizabeth squared her shoulders. "Aunt Tibbs was very broad-minded. Both of my aunts were."

"And this 'one good thing' about men?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "Intercourse, of the sexual type."

He had been peering at her, one eyebrow raised. Now it drooped. "What did you say?"

There! That had gotten him!

"Sexual intercourse," she said, landing hard and deliberately on every syllable, as though he might not understand, when she knew perfectly well that the man never missed a nuance.

Certainly not a sexual one.

And this moment was getting very sexual. Very hot.

"I see."

She could see too; she could see the bronze muscle playing in his jaw, the smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.

"You're a man of the world, my lord. You must realize that just because a woman like my Aunt Tiberia isn't married doesn't mean she can't enjoy the pleasures of the flesh with the man of her choosing."

"I've heard as much."

"Once in a while."

"Once in
aw
hile?"

"Absolutely."

"Ah."

"And safe enough, if precautions are taken against conception.
Interruptus,
for one.
French letters,
for another."

"English papers, in France."

"I didn't know that."

He blinked at her, then took a huge breath and cleared his throat. "So, I can assume that you agree with your aunts' philosophies, Miss Dunaway."

"I'm a modern woman, Blakestone, with modern ideas. In charge of my own destiny. My own body."

Oh, but not in charge of that charming, runaway blush, my dear Miss Dunaway, Ross thought, but didn't dare say for fear of spooking her. He was enjoying this banter far too much to risk her ejecting him from her sultry presence.

He'd never known a woman whose emotions played so plainly, so perfectly, on her flawless features as they did on Miss Dunaway's.

Spots of velvety pink blooming on her cheeks, peeking out of her bodice, making him want to explore his way to the source, with his mouth, his tongue.

"Ah, then," he said, turning away from all that boldly inviting beauty and going back to the wall of bookcases with its provocative selection of titles, "that would explain it, my dear."

"Explain what?"

He said nothing for a moment as he combed carefully along the amazingly eclectic titles.

Ancient Queens of Britain, Exotic Indulgences, Atlas of the World, Home Repairs Made Simple . . .

Ah, and now there was at least part of the answer. Scarborough's wife must have been borrowing books from the Adams library.
Mistress of the House, Mistress of the Bedchamber.

"What is it that needed explaining, Blakestone?" She was standing at his elbow, her voice impatient at his silence.

"Just an interesting comment made to me today by a colleague."

"About me?"

"About secret goings-on here at the Abigail Adams."

Her dazzling smile flickered out for a moment, then returned with her laughter. "Secret goings-on? How exciting!" She was smiling as though playing along with his game. "Did your colleague say what kind of goings-on?"

"Apparently his wife is a member here."

"Who is it?"

"Now that would be telling."

She shrugged, plainly more comfortable now with his inquiry. "Well, then what did he say? What secret?"

"This colleague of mine hinted that his wife of nine years has suddenly found him . . . attractive."

"Perhaps he's gotten a haircut. Had his suits better tailored? A good tailoring can do wonders for a man's general physique."

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, Miss Dunaway. The man's wife's demeanor in their bedchamber has changed dramatically."

"How so?"

"Apparently she's become the . . . uh . . ." Now how to say this correctly? "... the seducer in the marriage bed."

"And?" So nonchalant. Making him wonder if she was as virginal under all that steamy bluster as he'd first assumed.

"And according to him, the only thing that's changed in their nine years together is that a few months back his wife became a member of the Abigail Adams."

She quirked her head, a tinge of confusion on her pouting mouth. "Is your friend complaining about his wife being a member of the ladies' club?"

"Hardly. In fact, he says he encourages his wife to attend as many meetings and classes at the Adams as she pleases."

She leaned forward, raised a teasing finger. "Don't you mean secret goings-on?"

"Bloody hell, woman! What the devil kind of classes are you teaching here?" He had no idea where his sudden irritation had come from. But it doubtless had a great deal to do with the fact that the woman danced around the truth like a moth around a flame.

"Just ordinary classes ..."

"Balderdash! An ordinary thirty-year-old wife of an ordinary husband doesn't just change into a vixen in the bedroom overnight. Not withou
t
. .. hell, I don't know, Miss Dunaway." He really had no ready ideas for an explanation. "What have you done with the woman? And how many other women of London have you turned into sirens?"

"Sirens, my lord?" She gave a scoffing laugh. "Your friend was surely exaggerating his good fortune."

"Don't play your word games with me. You're flirting with fire here."

"How can adding a joyful dimension to a marriage cause any trouble at all?"

"Because, my dear, not every husband would be as pleased as my friend is to find a frisky wife in his bed. Especially his own."

"Frankly, that's not the husband's decision to make; it's the wife's. The pleasure isn't all for him, you know."

Oh, God, he'd plunged head first into that one. "So I've heard. But what you fail to understand is that you can't teach ..." Bloody hell, had he suddenly become a prude? "You can't teach sex."

"We don't, my lord. We teach responsibility." Now she looked like a chiding governess. "I don't see how anyone can object to that!"

"Responsibility, Miss Dunaway? For what?" Scarborough's wife had been an upright, responsible woman long before joining the Adams.

"Good heavens, do I have to explain everything in detail?"

"Please do, madam. You've lost
m
e." In any case, he had long ago ceded control of his visit to the woman who was now shaking her head at him.

"In the simplest terms: if a woman desires more romance from her husband in the bedroom, then she must take responsibility for her own share of the seduction."

"Her share?" Bloody hell! "How do you mean?"

Now she huffed her impatience, as though he was a blockheaded man without a clue as to a woman's needs, then took off toward the sideboard at the far end of the room.

"There are certain techniques a woman can employ to help her husband understand how to please her in bed. Which, in turn, will please him as well." She had plucked a small booklet off a stack on the sideboard and proudly held it up for him. "
Unbridled Embraces; or Proven Techniques for an Intimate Marriage.'"

"Techniques?" In bed.
Proven
?
By whom? Good Lord, she couldn't possibly mea
n
—

"I compiled the book for our classes because learning how to be an adventurous wife in bed, and a flirt in the bedroom, is every bit as important for a woman's happiness as learning to read or write."

"Adventurous?"

"Here." She handed the booklet to him, and he nearly flinched for the fire he feared must be hiding between the pages. He felt her eyes on him as he opened to the center pages, as he squinted at what might be there.

An explicit drawing, detailed instructions .. . but no, thank God.

Just words, dancing around in his uneasy hands, leaping off the page and into his groin.

"After all, Blakestone, today's bride goes to her marriage bed terrified because she's been left completely in the dark as to what's to happen to her. Her trepidation is well-founded, as she is then quickly and summarily deflowered by an equally ignorant bridegroom, in a ritual of pain and degradation."

Not
my
bride,
he nearly said, but the remarkable woman was talking blithely to him just now, about an unspeakably taboo subject, as though she was at the head of a classroom and he was her ignorant student.

"Our mothers tell us nothing about the pleasures available in the marriage bed, because they know nothing about it themselves. Because
their
mothers knew nothing about it, or their mothers, and so it has gone for countless generations. And though a marriage may last fifty years, the supreme act of intimacy between husband and wife remains a bumbling assault on the marriage itself."

Still too shell-shocked to be thinking clearly, Ross found himself nodding at her, with her.

Wanting her.

"And so, in order to help combat such ignorance, we women of the Abigail Adams are merely claiming our right to our marital bliss."

"Your
rights in particular, Miss Dunaway? I thought you were never going to marry."

She raked her fingers through the hair at her temple. "As I said before, a woman doesn't have to marry to find intimacy."

Dear Lord, he didn't dare follow that trail any closer. "Are you telling me, madam, that the Abigail Adams is running a school for unfulfilled wives?" He held up her scandalous, possibly illegal, booklet. "And that this is the primer?"

"Not a primer. Suggestions for a more satisfying married life. For example ..." She took up another of the same booklet, tossed through the pages, then read aloud from one. " 'Be bold with your seduction; be playful in your intentions and you will soon feel the flush of passion rising in your own blood.'"

Good Lord!

She looked up at him with the clear, unflinching green eyes of a zealous evangelist. "Your turn, my lord. Try one for yourself."

"Try one?" He jabbed his finger against a page. "Of these?"

"Read one aloud and see what you think."

I
think I'm going mad.

And bloody hell, he was terrified. Could barely breathe, let alone read. His mouth dried out, his thoughts stuck to his tongue, as he tried to focus on the first passage that caught his eye.

" 'Run your fingers . . . slowly through his hai
r
—'" He cleared his throat, fearing the worst of it was just ahead. "'. . . as you tell him how proud you are of his accomplishments.'"

Well. That wasn't so bad. Suggestive perhaps, but surely not explicit.

"Now what man wouldn't appreciate that, my lord? Fingers running through his hair."

"Well, I suppose that—"

"Shall I demonstrate on you?"

Had he heard right? "Demonstrate? On me?" Like a lunatic, he glanced around the empty library.

She smiled and shook her head at him. "Since you're the only man in sigh
t
..."

"Madam, please . .." But he couldn't possibly say no. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the rigid arousal he had been unable to restrain.

"Are you ready, my lord?"

/
doubt it.
"If you must." He tried to disconnect, to act bored with it all.

It was just an act.

"Just stand right there by the table." Then the astonishing woman placed herself a half-dozen paces from him, straightened her skirts, cocked her shoulder and her hip, and smiled the very smile that Eve must have offered to Adam in that long ago garden. Lush and beckoning, loaded with promises. "I'll show you exactly what I mean about a wife running her fingers slowly through her husband's hair. ..."

He'd like that, like that a lot.

And so he stood there patiently, braced hard against the end of the huge library table.

Watched.

And waited.

Thoroughly unbridled.

Chapter 11

A man of sense only trifles with women, plays with them, humours and flatters them, as he does with a sprightly and forward child; but he neither consults them about, nor trusts them with, serious matters.

Earl of Chesterfield

Letters to His Son,
17
48