of shining, pale pink. Pink ought to have clashed horribly with her red hair. It did not. Instead it made him think of other places she was pink and red.
His fist curled around the cool, thick handle of his fork. The table and those around him faded in favor of another vision, of a nest of vibrant red curls and petal pink folds, glimmering and wet. Long, white legs spread in supplication, leading the way to that gorgeous pink and red offering. His cock rose hard and insistent against his trousers. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grunting, God help him. He stabbed at his food, making hash of the fish.
Poppy was saying something, her low erotic voice stroking his sensitized skin. Something about being pleased that parliament passed the Explosive Substances Act, which seemed a fitting subject to hold her interest, given her secret work. Personally, he didn’t give a fig. The scent of books and lemons drifted across their small divide, and his lids fluttered closed.
“What say you, Lane?”
All eyes were on him. Win forced his head up. Mr. Babcock was looking directly at him, his bulbous and veiny nose quivering as if smelling Win’s weakness. They didn’t want him here. Every averted glance, the stiffness in which they held themselves around him, cried out that fact. English gentlemen did not have ruined faces, and if they did, they kept them politely out of sight, hidden away like Quasimodo within the bell tower. His words came out slow and as sluggish, it seemed, as his heated blood.
“I find I have no opinion.” It was a rude and unconscionable response, but he did not care. He was tired of pretending. Tired of everything save forgetting himself in the hot silk of pink and red.
Poppy’s gaze on him burned stronger than the rest. He ignored it and took a bite of what was before him. Only after he began chewing did he register that the waiter had replaced his fish with a plate of beef and mushrooms. He bloody hated mushrooms. His throat closed but he forced the bite down, gagging on the slimy feel of it.
At the periphery of his vision, her arm moved, and her hand came an inch closer to his plate, as though she thought to touch him.
Do not do it, sweet. Or I shall pull you down beneath this table and fuck you senseless.
The violence of his own thoughts shocked him. And perhaps she felt his disquiet as well, for she made no further move toward him. Even so, he felt her gaze remain on him as the conversation started up again, stilted and confused. Good Englishmen did not respond as he did. It upset the balance. Now they all sought to cover his gaffe. That small bit of pity he heard beneath it all squelched the desire that ran amok in his veins. And thank God for that, as his cockstand mercifully subsided. He’d had concerns of being stuck at the table indefinitely.
Win laid down his fork and pushed back from the table, and all those pairs of eyes followed his every movement. “If you will excuse me.” Carefully, he placed his linen next to his plate. “I fear I am not well at the moment.”
He did not wait for a reply but quit the table.
Mrs. Babcock’s voice chased after him as he went. “It’s seasickness. Happens to the best of travelers at times.”
Mrs. Babcock had no idea.
Poppy’s knees wobbled as she walked back to her stateroom. It was a humiliating thing to acknowledge, but true. She feared what she would find when she finally tracked Win down. His behavior at dinner unnerved her. Win always said the correct thing, always. And the way he sat, hunched over, his expression brooding, was almost frightening in its intensity. Jesus, the man had eaten a mushroom.
Her stride lengthened and became more natural, or as natural as the blasted evening gown would allow. At the stateroom door, she found herself faltering. She could almost feel him within. Her cold hand curled around the door handle. Taking a deep breath, she entered.
He was pacing the floor, his powerful body eating up the space with quick, controlled movements. He glanced up at her entrance, but then went back to pacing, his shaggy hair hiding his eyes from her. Win in a temper was a display to which few were privy, for he had always held his in so brilliantly. Poppy found them fascinating, a small