managed very well on only a few hours of sleep, Melisande thought over her second cup of strong tea. Because last night had been distressing, indeed.
It had started with Viscount Rohan, of course. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of his body pressed against hers, between her legs, the same and yet so different from the two other men who had once lain there. Of course last night they’d both been fully clothed, so she’d been able to notice things without being in a high state of anxiety over the indignities that were about to follow. She could feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts, the heavy rhythm of his heart. The hand that had held her wrists over her head, the other hand sliding up her leg, unfastening her garter with the practiced ease of a rake.
She hadn’t wanted him to stop. That was the miserable, unacceptable truth, but she’d always prided herself on facing it, no matter how unpleasant. If they’d been somewhere else, if he’d been someone else, she would have succumbed faster than a leaf falls from a tree in autumn. His kiss, his vile, tonguing kiss, had been revelatory. Because she’d liked it. She could have gone on kissing him all night.
Not that he would have kissed her all night. She knew perfectly well that men kissed simply in order to inflict more indignities upon a woman, and that once they were done the best one could hope for was an affectionate pat on the cheek before the sod would roll over and fall asleep, dismissing her and her feelings from his consciousness….
She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. If she liked his kisses, more than she’d ever liked kisses before, did that mean she would also like what normally followed? She had the horrid suspicion that she might.
Which led her to an obvious conclusion. Celibacy might not be the best answer for every woman.
Oh, to be sure, someone like Benedick Rohan was the worst kind of choice a woman could make. Fortunately he was totally beyond her touch if she had any illusions in that direction. Her background was respectable but undistinguished, he was the scion of an old, if notorious, family. He would be a marquess eventually, and he would choose a very young virgin to be his marchioness, not a widow who was long in the tooth and most likely barren. Viscount Rohan was busy looking among the most beautiful of this year’s crop of marriageable ladies, and he didn’t have to consider fortune among his requirements. He could simply take the prettiest, most amenable one with a snap of the fingers, and she, and her parents, would come willingly. If she hadn’t distracted him with her charges’ problems, he probably would have already announced his engagement.
But she was hardly going to settle for a fortune hunter like Wilfred, if she did decide to marry again. Nor an old man like Thomas, no matter how dearly he’d loved her. No, she would want someone strong and young and yes, handsome. Someone to adore her, to devote himself to bringing her pleasure with the same kind of dedication Rohan brought to kissing. Was it too much to ask for?
Of course, men, even charming men, could turn into brutes. But surely not all of them? She needed to keep an open mind. She might have been hasty in dismissing the entire male gender. Perhaps there might be children in her future after all.
Emma Cadbury appeared in the door, worry creasing her beautiful face. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite Melisande, managing a distracted smile. “That’s a very pretty riding habit,” she observed.
“It’s seven years out-of-date,” Melisande said, kicking at the long skirt. “Which is one reason why it’s a little too…a little too…”
“Attractive? Flattering?” Emma supplied dryly. “I don’t understand why you refuse to wear clothes that show your figure. The habit looks lovely on you—it brings out the blue in your eyes. There’s no reason why you can’t enjoy pretty clothes, Melisande.”
“I don’t want to attract unwanted male attention.”
“What about wanted male attention?”
Melisande flushed, hoping Emma couldn’t read her recent thoughts. “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes,” Emma said firmly. “And I suspect you’re beginning to realize it. You still haven’t told me how last evening went.”
She would have given anything to have poured out what had happened in that little closet off the Elsmeres’ ballroom, but something stopped her. She wasn’t