Page 6 of The Blighter and the Bluestocking

“I hadn’t thought that. Until you suggested it.”

“I didn’t suggest it. I–”

“Wait.” He held up his hand and an eyebrow arched to the ceiling.

“Have your manners eluded you?”

“Sh! Someone’s coming.”

Oh stars below. She had not anticipatedthathappening. She could not be caught alone with him.

Panic streaked through her body. Her arms trembled. “What should I do?” At the same time, they reached for the bag, thus knocking over a bottle of ink. The ink struck his pants, splashing over his groin.

“Forget the ruddy bag. Hide,” he hissed.

The ink. It was all over his breeches. She needed to clean it up before anyone saw the evidence of her being there. She pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket and started dabbing at him.

“Stop that!” If she had looked up, she would have seen the start of a blush creeping up his neck to match the feeling she had experienced earlier.

He pushed gently, but firmly, on her head and squished her under the desk. Plopping into his seat just in time to be greeted by two voices.

“Arthur, Dawson and I need your expert advice on a pressing matter.”

At any other time, under nearly any other circumstances, Arthur would have welcomed being sought out. But at this precise moment–that being the moment Bridget’s hands were still fussing and rubbing along his own growing concern–he wasn’t exactly in a state of mind to be particularly helpful.

Her hands were clumsy. Not that she was trying to stimulate him. He reminded himself that she was naively trying to clean him up. As gingerly as he could, he reached down to brush her hands away.

Her persistence alone wasn’t enough to deter him from swatting again. But then she whispered, a touch too loudly, “I’ve got this. Just a little bit more and it’ll be done.” He gave up swatting and resigned himself to thoughts about cats, or cheese, or carriages. No carriages were too risky.

“Arthur? Did you hear me?” Isaac, a family friend spoke up.

“Mmm.” He hoped the groan was the encouraging sound he intended it to be and not the reaction to a deeper rub. “Make it quick.”

The rubbing quickened. “Not you,” he said to his lap.

“Not me?” Isaac clarified. “You want Dawson to tell you? I guess that makes sense. It’s his question. I already gave him my advice but perhaps he just needs to hear it from his older brother.”

He could give a maximum of two word replies at a time. Each rub distracting him more and more. “Speak. I’m listening.”

No matter how hard Arthur tried to concentrate on the lip movements and hand gestures of his middle sibling, he could only feel the hand movements from the shell-lipped ocean below him. So he dropped his forehead into his hands to shield his face from view. He wanted to lean back in his chair and push his swelling member further into her hands. And elsewhere. But he couldn’t. She was an innocent. A genteel lady. And besides that, she embodied nothing he was looking for in a wife. He was especially not searching for that delightful grin that had weaved itself across her face as she glided down Rotten Row. And he was definitely not in need of her deep blue eyes beholding far too much knowledge for a woman. And of course, it would not do to have a wife with such a sharp jaw protecting such a sharp tongue, one which he would have to parry with daily. In more than one way.

Certainly, not. She was not the woman for him. He told himself as her fingers slowed. The bulge in his breeches was now threatening to burst some seams.

He sighed. Surely she was finished now.

“Arthur, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes. I’m–” and then those fingers reached for his falls and unbuttoned them. Before he knew what was happening, her fingers were around his solid steel, tenderly stroking him. “Yes!” he shouted. “I’m fine.” His head snapped up.

“So what do you think Dawson should do? Go for it or not?” Isaac asked.

It was a fifty-fifty. Given the nature of Dawson, he should probably recommend that he not go for it. But at the exact moment he was prepared to give his answer, something soft and wet trailed down his erection.

“Go for it.” He gritted.

“I told you.” Isaac slapped Dawson on the back.

“Perhaps you’re both right. So what do you think–”

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