Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,42

off those wicked lips of his. “Still, I am certain it tastes divine.” She dipped her spoon into the yellow-ish green broth, put it to her lips, and winced.

“I can’t even see you, but I can tell it’s disgusting.”

“Not disgusting,” she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin to remove any trace of the liquid from her lips. “It’s not what I am used to.”

“That’s why Payne went to Blunley. He wanted decent food.”

“I suppose I cannot blame him.” She reached for a piece of bread and took a tentative bite. “The bread is not too bad. A bit lumpy.”

Taking her suggestion, he reached for it as well.

“Will Mr. Payne be back tonight?”

“Not if he finds a woman willing to let him share her bed.”

Pru blinked, and the bread she had been swallowing seemed to lodge in her throat. She began to cough and was forced to drink Mr. Pope’s tea to dislodge the bread.

“Are you well?” he asked when she had stopped hacking.

“Yes, quite well.”

“I’ve forgotten some of my manners,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that in your company.”

“It’s quite alright. I have traveled the world. I know something of...these sorts of matters. Why...I mean, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

He gave her a wary look. “Go ahead.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?”

“I had a prior commitment.” He made a gesture to indicate the two of them and the room.

“You could have postponed it. You must be hungry,” she said, eyeing the food suspiciously. “And perhaps you are hungry for more than food,” she said in the most judicious way she could think of.

He smiled. “You mean, why don’t I go bed a woman?”

“You seem to be interested in such things,” she said, thinking of the way he’d touched her hand and tasted her with his tongue.

“I think the answer is obvious,” he said. “No woman would have me.”

Pru stared at him—his rumpled clothing, his tousled black hair, a face that had once been handsome but now looked thin and weary. “I’m a woman,” she said.

Mr. Pope seemed to go completely still. His visible eye, which had been looking away, now fastened on her and she felt as though he was seeing right through her. She did not know how much, if anything, he could see from that eye, but however much it was, it felt like too much in that moment.

“I should go,” she said abruptly.

“Wait.”

“I forget how early night falls this time of year. If I stay, I will have to walk home in darkness. I’ll come again tomorrow.”

She moved toward the door.

“Miss Howard. Wait.”

“We’ve made a good start. Remember your squares, and we can continue tomorrow.” She opened the door and was through it as quickly as possible. “Good night,” she said.

And then for some reason she could not fathom, she ran through the vestibule, out the door, and all the way back to the vicarage.

Nine

Nash lay in bed that night, Miss Howard’s words echoing in his mind over and over. I’m a woman.

Did she want him? Was that what she was saying?

She had not resisted his flirting, but he had not taken that as a sign of real interest. He’d begun stroking her hand to rattle her more than anything else. He did not need to imagine boxes and numbers. He’d always been able to learn and remember quickly. He hadn’t been bored, precisely, but he had thought it might be amusing to make her squirm.

But instead of jerking her hands out of his or telling him to stop, she had seemed to grow breathless at his touch. So much so that he began to think she grew breathless not from discomfort but from arousal.

He shouldn’t have kissed her hand or licked her palm, but by that point he was not only curious at her reaction, he wanted to taste her. It seemed every time he encountered her, her scent was slightly different. Today it was faintly of rose water and bergamot tea. But underneath those familiar scents was the underlying mysterious and heady scent that he had come to associate with her alone.

He probably shouldn’t have been close enough to her to even know the scent of her, but now that he did, he would not soon forget it.

He was hungry for physical touch. He did miss the smiles and laughter and whispers of women. He was not the kind of man who took random women to bed or sought out a different woman every night of the week. But