Wicked Becomes You (2010) by Duran Meredith

Author:Duran, Meredith [Meredith, Duran,]
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2011-01-14T19:18:31.750000+00:00

Chapter Ten

It took her a good hour, and the rest of her glass of cognac, to build her courage. Then, unbuttoning her white cotton nightgown to the point where the slope of her breasts began, she took a deep breath and slipped into the corridor.

He had the compartment directly next to hers, and the door was not locked. It swung open beneath her hand soundlessly, revealing a direct and immediate view of his bed. He was lying flat on his back, one arm thrown over his head. A clothed arm, by the look of it.

For some reason she had imagined he would be naked.

When it became clear that the clamor of her thundering heart would not wake him directly, she crept forward toward the bed. How did one begin to seduce a man? Did one wake him and announce her intentions? I have come to ravish you. I will not accept rejection.

That approach seemed to require a good deal of brute strength. She also suspected that if she told him he could not deny her, he would do so simply to prove her wrong. If she knew anything of him, it was that he was a man who jealously guarded his prerogatives.

The single chair was drawn up by the bed, and lying atop it was a magazine—The Board of Trade Journal, great ghosts, how awful—and, more intriguingly, something that glinted. She bent down, squinting, and discovered that the glint came from a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

Spectacles! She glanced up at him, lips parting in amazement. She also required them to read comfortably. But like him, she never wore them in public.

So we are both a little bit vain, she thought. The idea made her smile. It was becoming something of an obsession, uncovering the small things which they might have in common. His loyalty to his family. His love for her brother. His disregard for the opinions of idiots and shriveled snobs.

He made a soft noise, and she froze. In the moonlight, in slumber, his face looked boyish, almost innocent. He would need to shave on the morrow; she wished she dared to touch the shadow on his chin, to stroke it simply for the pleasure of the texture beneath her fingertips. But as she reached out, her fingers curled into her palm. Some superstitious conviction came over her: if she woke him the wrong way, everything would go wrong. Fairy tales often emphasized this point. There was only one right way to stir a sleeping person if one wanted them to fall in love.

But I do not want him to fall in love with me, she reminded herself. I am not here because I am dreaming of a future with him.

What would a future with him even look like? He had no interest in the country, no taste for England, no care for settling down.

If he fell in love, he would still want to chase the wind. His beloved would simply have to race alongside him.

It did not seem a very restful life.

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