Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 27

Lord Winterly was laughing unrestrainedly, unconcerned with the maltreatment of his book. “Human anatomy? Vulgar? You would insult God’s own creation?”

“God,”she said, pointing an accusatory finger at the illustration, “had no part in the creation of that…pornography! They’re…male…”

“Privy members?” He said, brow arched. “Perfectly natural.”

She wiped her hand clean on the front of her skirt with a cross slap. “Why do you delight in my discomfort?”

“Because you find discomfort in a harmless book; it isn’t a snake, Miss Rose. Perfectly natural for you to be curious about the male—”

“You are disgusting.”

“And you are naïve. I think it a fine thing when a woman indulges her curiosity and seeks to enlighten herself; did I not already say so earlier? And if you should wish to pass your time schooling yourself in the ways of Venus, who am I to judge you? In fact I was about to commend you until I realized you were browsing unwittingly.”

“Yes, well, my pastimes and literary interests tend towards no such lewdness, I assure you.” She punctuated her statement by darting a hard look at the offending book. “But I do not wonder at your hobbies.”

“More’s the pity.”

“What is?” Her eyes popped wide. “That I have no taste for lewdness?”

“No, your tastes are unsurprisingly predictable.” He rounded the chair and leaned down, careful of not moving closer to her than was necessary to retrieve his book from the carpet. He somehow understood that her sinews were so taut she might snap at any moment and bolt if he came too close. He straightened and placed the book back on the bookshelf whence it had come. With his back still towards her he said, “But it is a pity you do not wonder at my pastimes, for yours never cease to interest me.”

In fact, she did wonder about him. Constantly. But that was not something she would ever admit to. “I know you like to shock your guests for one thing—a very unwholesome pastime.”

He faced her, head cocked with interest. “That is only my second favorite pleasure.” When she made no reply other than to fold her arms, he said, “Care to guess at the first?”

Emma glanced sideways at The School of Venus, scowling. “No doubt it is something lewd, so no, I don’t care to guess.”

“Really, Miss Rose, you give a man’s tarse far too much thought. I was going to say chess.”

“Chess?”

“Above all things, I enjoy a lively game of chess. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they play.”

Blushing, she peeked at the book again. “And you can tell a lot about someone by examining their library…”

“Indeed,” he said with a hearty laugh. “You are quite right.”

She lifted her chin and turned to leave. But he called out her name very softly and she paused, eager, despite herself, to hear what else he had to say.

“Miss Rose…” What followed was a heavy pause in which even the candle flames stilled a moment. Then he said, “I look forward to our game of chess.”

A premonition of sorts fluttered up her spine, finally impelling her with all haste from his library where the air had become altogether too warm and intimate. It had been a warning, those parting words. A gauntlet thrown down between them, and she feared that she had already taken it up in acceptance without ever knowing when or how or what she was in for. She had already passed the point of no return.

Not even upon reaching the drawing room did she feel herself safe from him. She wondered if she ever would. Something had shifted between them tonight and she found that she was anxious and thrilled and filled with a species of voluptuous dread, a species of fear, but not fear in its animal form. It was not fear that had kept her in the library when she ought to have fled the moment he shut the door; it wasn’t fear that trailed her now, but some divine and darksome thing. Fear not of him but of herself!

She’d tried always to think of him as Lord Winterly, not Winterly or Markus, injecting his title between them to remind herself to keep aloof. But slowly, everything was becoming blurred. How had Winterly got so deep under her skin? Winterly. Even his name held power over her.

Emma knew that she was flushed, for she noticed the curious glances she attracted upon joining the rest of the party. Milli’s had been the sharpest look. God only knew what they were all thinking and suspecting of her! Winterly’s absence had also doubtless been remarked. Dear God! She wished the carpet would just swallow her up and spit her out in another time and place, she little cared where. Van Diemen’s Land was preferable.

Soon after she’d seated herself, Winterly entered the drawing room with a glass of wine so deep a shade of red as to be almost black. “Ah, Miss. Rose,” he said, “there you are. You looked a little under the weather earlier, so I took the liberty of having a palliative prepared for you.” His lineaments were now arranged in the most civil and impersonal assiduity. It was as though that interlude in his library never happened. “Under Dr. Wheatstone’s advisement, of course.” He lifted a brow at the good doctor who, after a pause, nodded like a gracious thespian.

“Yes, I remarked it too,” said her uncle, adding his nod for good measure. “You seemed most unlike yourself tonight, my dear.” Perhaps now he might forgive her her earlier impertinence if he thought her unwell.

Emma found herself taking the wine like a docile child, ready to play along, for Winterly’s demeanor implied to the world—should the world wonder at their absence—that naught but the most exemplary conduct had transpired between them. Quite possibly it suggested that they had only seen each other in passing.

“Thank you, my lord.” Emma peered down into the dark