he asked, his voice strangled and thin.
“The book . . . could be hidden . . . behind the desk,” she said, her voice muffled by the desk. She moved her hands over the back of the desk. “You could . . . help me, you know.”
No, he couldn’t. Unique lost manuscripts were all very good, but what he had in his sights was a unique and very present woman in the exact position that he’d fantasized about—over a desk, her feet swinging off the floor as he rolled up her skirts and feasted his eyes on the contours of her body before running his hands . . .
He was having very, very bad thoughts.
He pressed down on the book in his lap.
He closed his eyes. Think about the most nonerotic thing imaginable.
Dukes.
Dukes who were elder brothers of bookish ladies.
Dukes who held the fate of one’s family in their hands.
She turned her head toward him, spectacles askew and bosom squashed against the hard wood surface. “Nothing back here. Perhaps there’s a hidden drawer beneath the desk?” Her toes hit the floor and she dropped to her knees in front of the desk. “I can’t find anything.”
“Usually valuable possessions are hidden in safes.”
“That’s it! Help me lift the portrait—there could be a hidden safe behind it.”
She was so focused on finding this book that she wouldn’t notice anything untoward about his anatomy. As long as she didn’t glance down.
He rose on unsteady legs and lifted the portrait off the wall, setting it carefully aside. He dragged his hands over the wall. “Nothing.”
She gave a frustrated sigh. “The bookshelves?”
“They don’t swivel. I tried them.”
“The glass! It could be behind the looking glass.”
He searched behind the large, gilt-framed mirror. “Nothing.”
“I was certain we’d find it in her bedchamber.” She plopped down on the bed with a frown on her face. “It’s somewhere else in the house, then.”
“We can’t search the entire house right now. It’s late, Beatrice.”
“It’s not that late. My mother won’t be home for hours yet.”
She sat on the edge of his bed, her hair escaping its pins and her cheeks flushed with pink. “Do you have any wine?” she asked.
“I think you’ve had enough wine. And I only have whisky.”
“I’ve never tried whisky before. Did you know that the word comes from the Gaelic word uisgebeatha, meaning ‘water of life’?”
“It’s sustained me over the years, but I’m not pouring you any. And it’s time for you to leave.”
“What were you reading when I arrived? The Wicked Earl’s Wishes?”
“Never mind what I was reading. We haven’t found the ancient manuscript so it’s time for bed.” Separate beds. In separate houses.
At opposite ends of a social gulf.
They reached for the book he’d set on the bed at the same time. Beatrice won. She held it up to the lamp. “The Ups and Downs of a Woman of Pleasure. Is it any good?” she asked with a saucy smile.
“Ungh . . .” And now she was sitting on his bed and reading a naughty book.
Good lord. Ford didn’t know if he could take much more of this, and he didn’t have another book to place over his groin. Hopefully she didn’t notice his predicament . . .
She noticed. Her eyes widened behind her spectacles.
He placed his hands over his groin. “I was having a private moment before you arrived.”
“Apparently.” She flipped the page. “My goodness. Is that . . . is that done?”
Don’t ask her what. Don’t do it, Ford. “Is what done?”
“He’s underneath her skirts. He’s kissing her . . . in unexpected places. Gamahuching. It must be from French, but the Latin roots don’t suggest any vulgar associations. What an interesting word. Some words have unknown etymological origins, which always pose a challenge.”
And Ford was dead. Heart stopping, palms gone clammy dead.
The woman was talking about gamahuching. As long as she didn’t ask for a practical application to help her better understand the word, everything would be fine.
Just breathe, Ford. In. Out.
“Perhaps I could include a few unexpected words in my dictionary. It might be a way to increase the readership.” She skimmed through more pages. “How fascinating.”
A lock of wavy hair fell over her cheek as she read. She brought a finger to her lips and moistened it before turning another page.
Ford followed the line of her finger into her mouth. Tip of her finger touched by tip of her tongue.
He wanted her so badly.
Someone had to have some sense of propriety around here. He lunged for the book and