“You must be hungry,” she said, coming to her feet. “Shall I send for supper? I can assure you it won’t be broth.”
“Scarlett.” That got her attention. “Have you nothing to say about what occurred at Vauxhall?”
She paused. “Only that it does no good to complicate matters. Perhaps we should remember that this partnership stems from a need to repay a debt.”
“Perhaps.” After the way she’d thrust her tongue into his mouth, he could not continue as if nothing had happened. That kiss was like a spark to lust’s hay barn.
“You do not sound convinced.”
“As a scoundrel, I’m more inclined to suggest we strip off our clothes and sate the desire raging in our veins. I imagine we would find an affair mutually advantageous.” Exciting and pleasurably exhausting, too.
She did not seem shocked at his suggestion. “What would you have me do, Mr Wycliff, hike up my skirts and straddle you in your sickbed?”
He gave a half shrug. “It’s a start.”
She returned to the washstand and rinsed the cloth in the bowl. “As you prefer honesty, I shall tell you that my experiences of conjugal relations have left me cold to the prospect.”
“I beg to differ. A connection exists between us. I felt it three years ago, and I felt it again last night.”
It was always the same in her company, even when guilt and disdain for her circumstances roused the devil within. Perhaps once they had satisfied their craving—and it was a mutual attraction whether she chose to admit it or not—they might both find peace.
She walked back to the bed and offered him the damp linen square. “You should wipe your brow. I fear such talk will only raise your temperature.”
“My brow is not the part of my anatomy ready to combust.”
She cast a wary eye on the bedsheets. “Is there a school rakes attend to master salacious banter?”
“Certainly. I graduated with a distinction after the local tavern wench vouched for my skills in the practical task.”
A delightful laugh burst from her lips. “How is it you have an answer for everything? Tell me, Wycliff, are you ever left speechless?”
“On rare occasions.” And only with her.
Her kiss had robbed him of the use of his mental faculties. He’d struggled for words when gazing upon the scars crisscrossing her back. Dry mouth proved a problem when she lowered her hood in Mrs Crandell’s house, and he realised his angel lived.
“Oh, Mr Cavanagh said to remind you that you need to collect your winnings.”
“Winnings?”
“From White’s.”
“I make a point of only taking money I have earned.” It needn’t be through honourable means. Most people considered gambling fair sport. “I’ll not claim to have knowledge of your body when it’s a lie.”
She could make whatever claim she wanted. He would not degrade her by openly revealing details of an imagined affair.
“Not even for fifty thousand pounds?”
“Not even then.”
Fifty thousand?
Stone the crows!
The members of White’s had more money than brains. No wonder Joshua Steele turned from stepson to scoundrel. Then another thought occurred to him. A desperate man, one who hoped to win the funds and settle his debts, might be aggrieved to have lost out to a worthless bastard. So aggrieved the fellow might ease his frustration by firing a pocket pistol.
Perhaps the shooting at Vauxhall had nothing to do with the widow. Perhaps it had everything to do with her. Either way, they were making little progress and something needed to change.
After a moment spent staring at him curiously, she said, “I shall leave you to rest.” She returned to the side table in the corner of the room and retrieved her book.