longer than was absolutely necessary.
It was just her hand that he touched, nothing more. His own hands were steady. Callused. He had fine dark hair along his knuckles and forearm, so different from her pale body with its golden fuzz. His nails were clean and standing so close, she could smell whiskey and leather and the special soap she had milled for Kelby Hall.
“Good as new.” He didn’t drop her hand, but held it between his own, rubbing his thumb idly over her palm.
“Generally, they’re ink-stained. But th-thank you.” Maris made no effort to step back and disengage. Their arrangement was beginning, and there really was no point in fighting it. She was curious where he would take his perceived duty to bring her pleasure. Surely Henry had not told him to provide it, had he? The thought of them discussing her like that was very vexing.
“I understand you are a great help to your husband. He told me about how you are assisting him with his book. That’s a bit unusual for a countess.”
She met his eyes, trying not to show her nervousness. They were very nearly black, much like Henry’s. In an odd way, that was comforting. “I wasn’t bred to be a countess. My father was Henry’s secretary, and I ‘helped’ them as soon as I could read. Both of them indulged me, and when I was old enough, took me on their digs. It was an unusual upbringing.”
Durant bent down and whispered, “I understand they let you wear breeches. I’d like to see that sometime.”
“I’ve given them up.”
“That’s a great pity.”
“What does it matter what I wear? You’re here for one thing, and one thing only,” she said, spoiling his flirtation.
“Am I? Then let’s get to work.” He drew her hand to his lips and kissed a fingertip. His mouth was warm, almost hot.
He had kissed her before. She remembered that kiss. It had practically crippled her until she came to her senses when she realized he was trying to disrobe her. His hand had slid under her chemise, gently stroking her as if she were a pet. Who knew the skin on one’s upper back could flare up in desire? One’s back could not be a source of pleasure, could it? She was familiar enough with the usual locations, although she’d not tried to bring herself to climax for five years.
Guilt. She was full of it and about to overspill. She had betrayed her husband, who’d been nothing but kind to her all her life, who had raised her with the same care he showed his daughter Jane. And who had saved her from a penurious spinsterhood by marrying her and making her a full partner in his academic endeavors.
Maris owed him everything. If that included a liaison with Captain Durant, she’d better get used to it.
The boxes could wait a few minutes more. Maris raised her face. “K-kiss me.”
Chapter 7
If the Countess of Kelby had asked him to conjugate Latin verbs, he could not have been more surprised. Reyn felt as if he was being tested, and he’d never done well when he had to think about something very long. If she’d just kept quiet, he would have kissed her anyway. It was where the delicate dance had been going.
But she stood stiffly with her big brown eyes closed and her lips pursed like she was some kind of fish.
He cleared his throat. “Where?”
Her eyes snapped open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Where would you like me to kiss you, Countess? On your hand? On your lips, or perhaps somewhere more intimate?”
“What do you mean? Just the usual kind of kiss, Captain. Nothing f-fancy.”
“But we’ve agreed you’re unusual. And when we’re alone together, I think you should call me Reyn.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“There’s no one to hear you. Say it. It’s just one syllable.”
The Countess of Kelby looked like she wanted to turn tail and flee the cozy workroom. But she took a deep breath. “Reyn.”
“Thank you. May I be permitted to call you Maris when we’re up here?”
She flushed, but nodded.
He’d never seen a grown woman color up so often. The earl was right. His wife really was shy. “Even your name is unusual.”
“My father was nearly as Etruscan-mad as Henry. That’s how he came to be hired. My parents married late, and there wasn’t hope of a boy, so they named me Maris, the Etruscan version of Mars.”
“You don’t seem at all warlike.” Except when she was storming the Reining Monarchs