Page 20 of The Rebellious Countess
“Yes.” Máira grabbed the bar of soap and began scrubbing her arms. “I find the differences between men’s and women’s wants and desires fascinating.”
Five
Dearest Nash,
We have discovered the most distressing news. Máira’s husband is not Ellison Collins, Earl of Dorset. He signed the church registry as Sir Elias Alistair Drake. How this slipped by everyone until now is beyond my comprehension, except to say that Elias Drake is a conniving blackguard of the first order. I’m not even certain that is his true name. He could be anyone at this point. My fear for Máira’s safety is compounded by how easily Caillen was duped into believing her husband married her for love, not her dowry. Have I failed yet another sister?
Please come home with the utmost haste.
All my love,
Iseabail
—A letter from Iseabail Blair Handcock Harding, Duchess of Ross, to her husband Nashford Xavier Harding, 8th Duke of Ross, regarding her younger sister Máira Blair’s marriage to Ellison Collins, Earl of Dorset, or rather Sir Elias Alistair Drake, July 1812
Fascinating.His wife found his desires fascinating. That’s what he’d heard…it wasn’t, of course, what she’d meant. It was an innocuous statement of a naive young woman who’d been sheltered away from men like him. He shouldn’t indulge her, or more to the point, he shouldn’t indulge himself, but temptation was too great not to give in to just a taste of corrupting her.
“My favorite fantasy as a young man was one where I stumbled upon a virgin taking a bath.” Damn, but he could use the cup of ale sitting on the table at the other side of the room. It taunted him with one more pleasure out of his reach.
“Really? What would you do?” Her voice didn’t sound aroused, but rather amused and somewhat curious. While he sat on the other side of the room, unable to touch her, see her, with his cock standing tall—demanding attention. He pulled the scratchy blanket away from his body and allowed himself to tell her exactly what he wanted.
“I would come home from a long ride, dreaming of the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen, with hair the color of golden wheat blowing in the wind.”
“Wheat?” She choked. “That’s a terrible description of a woman’s hair. It’s coarse and brittle.”
“Close your eyes and imagine the bigger picture. Field after field of it, swaying in the breeze, a sea of silken threads of amber, cream, and honey, the rich sun causing a glow of cascading waves flowing down her back.”
When she said nothing, he continued.
“I open the door to my room, and she gasps, shocked by a man interrupting her most intimate moments. Yet she’s inmyroom—surely, she had to know I would come in.”
“What if she didn’t? Would you be a gentleman and leave?”
He laughed softly. “This is my dream, Wife. You asked what young men dream about.”
“But if it really happened. Would you behave as a gentleman should?”
He rolled his eyes. She was attempting to derail his fantasy. “Of course, I would back away and beg her pardon. While I savored the memory and prayed the view would be burned onto the inside of my eyelids until my dying day.”
“Scoundrel,” she muttered.
He couldn’t help but laugh again. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t treasure the memory if a handsome man walked in on your bath?”
“No, I would not! I would be mortified.”
“You’re lying, Wife.”
“I do not lie.”
“Everyone lies. It’s human nature to lie. To make oneself more appealing in the eyes of others. Did you not just lie and say you wanted me to leave, when deep down you wanted us to share this intimacy?”
The water splashed in angry waves, yet she said nothing, and he let the silence linger in the air between them.
“Fine. Is that the end of your dream?”
If she had been able to see the smile spread across his face, she would recognize the satisfactory gleam of the cat not only catching the mouse, but devouring it. He had no doubt, however, that his voice conveyed the message clearly with its husky undertones.
“Hardly. Would you like me to continue?” Please, let me continue.
