Page 15 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Miss Goodchild let out a snort that turned into a cough, and she reached for her glass.
Miss Peacock’s cheeks reddened, and she rose to her feet.
“Aren’t you staying for dessert, Louise?” Miss Goodchild asked.
“I’m no longer hungry, Marion. I cannot eat in the company of those who lack self-control. I find myself in need of a little air and would suggest that your constitution would benefit from it. Come, ladies—let us leave these…people.”
A number of the young ladies rose, and Miss Peacock stared at Miss Goodchild.
“Are you coming?”
“What, and miss Lady Cholmondeley’s syllabub?”
“There’s more important things thansyllabub,” Miss Peacock said.
A footman approached with a tray of glass bowls filled with a pale-lemon-colored dessert and set one in front of each place setting. Miss Goodchild’s eyes widened, and she picked up her spoon and dipped it in.
Mr. McTavish let out a laugh. “I daresay there are more important things than syllabub—but not at this precise moment.”
Miss Peacock exited the dining room, followed by several others. Miss Goodchild, who’d finished her syllabub, turned her gaze to the bowl at Miss Peacock’s now-empty place.
“Take it, Miss Goodchild,” Mr. McTavish said.
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Ye want it, don’t ye?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Lady Cholmondeley’s syllabub is the best in the county, and I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”
“But?”
She blushed. “Louise says I eat too much.”
“And she eats too little,” he said. “What’s the point in living if ye cannot indulge in a little…pleasure?”
Clara’s body pulsed with anticipation as he curled his tongue around the last word. Then he pushed Miss Peacock’s bowl toward Miss Goodchild, swapping it with her empty bowl.
“There!” he said. “It’s yers now to enjoy.”
“What if Miss Peacock returns?”
“I doubt she’d take as much enjoyment from it as ye, Miss Goodchild—and a good meal should always be relished.”
He picked up Clara’s spoon and placed it in her hand, curling her fingers around until her hand was engulfed in his. Unlike the smooth hands of Society gentlemen, his were rough, with callouses that abraded deliciously against her skin. They were the hands of a savage, a man used to toil—a man who had no time for the niceties of Society.
Yet, unlike the genteel creatures here tonight, he was the only one who’d noticed her distress and come to her aid.
Her champion.
He leaned close, his breath tickling her neck as he lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Now, Miss Martingale, it’s time foryerpleasure.”
His voice, thick with seduction, vibrated through her bones until her senses were thrumming with anticipation.
“M-my pleasure?”
“Oh, yes,” he growled as he guided her hand to her bowl and dipped her spoon in, lifting out a spoonful of the creamy dessert.
