9. In Which Luke Suggests a Therapeutic Exercise

Grace only realized she’d worked late into the night when she looked up from the table and her neck stiffly protested. Gingerly, she craned to peer through the ajar door of the solarium, across the library. She could just see Aunt Amelia’s peacefully sleeping form, curled on the plush settee.

She stood, stretched. She needed a change in perspective, she decided.

This time, she lay on top of the table. Staring at the ceiling. Mentally naming each god she recognized. Apollo, Athena, Hermes. Should she try their names to key a Vigenère? Was the ceiling a clue?

She’d been lying there for a few minutes when she heard a throat clearing. She turned her head to the doorway, as Luke Ashburton entered. His face seemed serious, even ... apologetic.

He walked to her and set something down near her head. Another orange.

“Are you here to lure me into complacency, then strike, Mr. Ashburton? Disparage my behavior at balls? You never did critique my dancing.”

He shook his head. “You’re an excellent dancer.”

“How kind of you to say,” she said, her tone exactly sarcastic enough.

“Is the table comfortable, or shall I fetch you a pillow?”

She threw him a glare. “I’m not lazing about.”

“Did not think you were.”

“This a technique. Mathematicians do their best work while horizontal.”

“Do they,” he said, tone mildly wry.

Grace rolled her eyes. “Oh, contain yourself.”

“I’m not fool enough to question your methods,” Ashburton said. Now, he sounded sincere. “I could not manage in a year the maths you can do before breakfast. I understand why Bexley corresponded with you all those years. He must have been exceedingly charmed by all that ability in such a tiny package.”

“Pity it grew so large as to be vulgar,” she replied.

He tilted his head, regarding her. His brow knit.

“Miss Chetwood, I came to apologize for that remark. All my remarks that evening. They were low. As was what I said earlier today in the entrance hall.”

Grace sat up, surprised. She moved off the table, to sit in her chair. “Are you ill with fever, sir? Apologizing is not generally in your arsenal.”

“I have been far from my best self with you,” he said quietly. “Repeatedly.”

“You’ve been an ideal gentleman. Take the time you called me a waking nightmare. A ... was it ‘provocateur aping a princess?’ Or ‘ desperate to mate?’”

He refused to match her tone. “Inexcusable of me,” he said. “And I regret it.” She did not know what to say to that. When she did not respond, he continued. “The things you overheard were cruel. Engineered to be so. I was peevish. Moderately foxed. And showing off for a roomful of brutes. Worst of all, I was not even accurate. There’s nothing vulgar about you.”

She weighed her options. Administer a cutting joke. A dismissive shrug. Press home some verbal knife, then twist it.

But suddenly, all those possibilities exhausted her. “Yes, ironically, you were the vulgar one. Let’s leave it there. We have work to do, each of us.”

“As you like.” He held her gaze, frank, searching. She felt he was trying to be sure she had heard him, that some part of her believed he was contrite.

He did sound sincere. It was all she had to go on, given that her skills did not extend to reading a man’s thoughts. His head tilted—watching her, trying to understand her, to gauge her reaction.

And then, the moment went on a beat too long. And now there was something else between them. Something subtle that made her body tingle.

Disconcerted, Grace looked away. Allowing the feeling to dissipate.

But when she looked back, she discovered it was still there. If anything, stronger now.

She was not sure if he felt it too, but he did exhale softly and move his gaze from hers. Then said, quieter, “It was very badly done. I wish I had been a better man.”

It made her queasy, to hear him owning up to it. It wasn’t as though she’d stood there silently, the night of the slap. Hard to hang on to the portrait of herself as the better person, recalling the cruel relish with which she’d responded to his cuts, lacerating him deeper. “I ... also said things I wish I had not, that night,” Grace admitted. “I apologize for those.”

He looked surprised. “Unnecessary.”

“And ... striking you was not my finest moment.”

“Oh, I very much earned that. Don’t dream of apologizing for it.”

She felt a giggle bubble up, but there was a tightness in her chest that kept it trapped. She could not look at him anymore.

But when she looked down, she was confronted with pages and pages of numerical flailing on the table before her. Suddenly, it seemed there was nowhere to rest her eyes that was not engineered to overwhelm her. Her head was beginning to ache. She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose and huffed out a frustrated breath. “Let’s leave it there, shall we? I forgive you, Mr. Ashburton. Truly. Trouble yourself no further.” She moved her fingers to her temple, attempting to massage away the brewing pain.

“Chetwood.” His voice had gone gruff again. “You ought to get some sleep.”

She kept her eyes shut. “Two more hours, perhaps. I have it in me. Don’t fret.”

She heard his footsteps come around the table. Heard him pull out the chair beside hers, and sit in it.

“How far es the head?” His voice much softer now, beside her.

“Splendidly,” she gritted. “As fares the neck. As fares my level of frustration with this whole accursed trickster box. I am utterly sanguine. Thank you for inquiring.”

His voice was so close to her ear that it startled her when he spoke again. “You know, Chetwood. That tension, at least, is something I could help with.”

Her eyes flew open. Surely, he didn’t mean—

But he was looking at her with a forthright expression . “If you are determined to soldier on, at least allow me to be of some small service.”

“Are you suggesting—”

“I would make it clearer with a hand upon your thigh, but I would not dream of touching you without permission, preferably in writing. You slap above your weight.”

She was suddenly, searingly aware that his legs under the table were very close to hers. His hand was resting on his knee. Mere inches from her skirts.

She realized her breathing had gone shallow. Her eyes drifted again to the ajar door of the solarium. Aunt Amelia fast asleep, beyond.

He was leaning close now, voice barely above a whisper. “Of course, you’d need to be quiet. And I’m given to understand that is not your usual way.”

She giggled in spite of herself.

“Sssh,” he scolded.

She shot him a dark look. “Don’t tell me how to behave, Ashburton.”

“I would never,” he murmured. “But I do feel honor-bound to point out that you are now even tenser than you were a moment ago.”

“Then you’re failing to help, aren’t you?” she shot back on a whisper.

“Say the word and I’ll correct that immediately.”

“And I’m to believe this is yet another area of your special expertise?”

“I’ve a good deal less practice than you might assume, actually.”

That took her off guard. She regarded him doubtfully. But he merely shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve been busy with my vocation. My experience with the fairer sex is, on balance, rather perfunctory.” He had a twinkle in his eye as he elaborated. “I’ve mostly spent time with women whose primary concern was that I hurry. Annoying them with my interest in the subtleties of their anatomy cost extra. As for their pleasure, well, I could never be certain it was legitimate. A poor university, the brothel.”

She felt herself blush at the confession. “Interesting,” was all she managed to say. She found the honestly strangely refreshing.

“Don’t worry yourself, Chetwood. I assure you, I’m up to the task. I don’t need to have brought a thousand women to bliss to know how to do it to you.”

Never mind refreshing. God, the arrogance of the man. She fixed him with her most dubious look.

But he only smiled. “Oh, I’m sure I’d encounter a few ciphers to untangle. I would need to pay extremely close attention. And let your body teach me what I need to know.”

She was blushing furiously now. “Ah. The scientific method. Applied to my—”

“Quim,” he finished, helpfully. “Precisely.” He really was enjoying this. “I have theories. They require testing. As I am prepared to adjust conditions as radically as necessary, it’s an experiment I have every confidence in.”

Somehow, in this context, that self-assured tone did not irk her as thoroughly as it usually did. In fact, it was beginning to speed her pulse.

“Think of it this way, Grace.” She gave him a sharp look at the use of her name. He only smirked, unapologetic. “Place yourself in my hands f or the span of ... call it ten minutes? A purely therapeutic exercise, that you might continue the work more comfortably. And once my assistance is complete ... I’d humbly suggest we agree that it never happened at all.”

She could see that he knew it was an outrageous transgression to propose it, and beyond the pale for a lady, a betrothed lady, to allow even the speaking of it. But in this singular situation, his look seemed to say, her immediate needs took precedence.

“And, of course, I’ll go right back to calling you Chetwood.” He moved his mouth as close to her ear as he could without touching it with his lips. “I vow it.” A low chuckle. “ Grace .” He said her name like a secret. Lingering over the soft “s,” letting it dissolve on his tongue.

Grace reminded herself that she did not care for Luke Ashburton. If he were drowning and she had a rope to throw him, she liked to think she would donate the rope to the poor.

To her dismay ... none of that mattered in the least. She wanted him to touch her. Now.

She wanted it as badly as she’d ever wanted anything.

Under the table, she grasped a handful of her skirts in each hand. The sounds of rustling fabric seemed very loud in the quiet library.

He went still.

Telling herself that if she were smart, she’d stop at once, she reeled the fabric up her legs.

He shifted his chair back from the table, to face hers. Carefully lifting the wooden legs so they would not scrape noisily along the floor.

Now he sat facing her armrest. Her body within reach of his hand. His lips near enough to her ear that he could speak very quietly.

“Tell me how you like to be touched,” he breathed.

Were they actually going to do this?

If she did agree to this madness—she could not possibly, but if she did —the first order of business would be to compel him to put that hand on her as quickly as possible.

“Too theoretical, telling you,” she said. “It’s best you seek the information in the field.”

The grin that broke over his face was pure wicked delight.

Before her courage—or madness—fled, she took his hand and placed it on her thigh, on the bare skin above her stocking.

He inhaled sharply. Like she’d burned him.

“Are you quite well, Ashburton?” she asked, amused.

“You’re ... soft,” he said. A new tightness in his voice.

She liked it. The effect she was having. “Even softer higher up,” she whispered. “Do let me know if you disagree.”

He wasted no time. Skating those fingertips up her leg, caressing the plump flesh of her inner thigh, giving it a little squeeze. His breath was coming faster now.

She felt his other arm come around the back of her chair as he leaned in. “It defies logic and biology. This skin. It can only be witchcraft,” he murmured. “I knew you weren’t to be trusted.”

She fought a giggle. “Ashburton,” she whispered, in a lightly scolding tone.

“Grace?”

“Get on with it or I’ll transform you to a pig. And now you know I can.”

He chuckled, tipped his head in deference. And now, dragged his fingers to the very top of her thigh, to the crease where it met her body. So close to the center of her, he must be able to feel the heat emanating from her sex.

She fought the urge to grab his hand and press it there.

“ Ashburton ,” she whispered, more sharply. Do it.

“Luke,” he suggested, his voice low in her ear, and she felt it all through her body. “For ten minutes. Call me Luke.”

“Luke.” Strange to call him that, and the most natural thing in the world. “I agreed to allow you to service me, Luke, not taunt me to the depths of madness.”

He seemed in no rush to correct his path. “By your breathing, it arouses you. This.” He drew his index finger slowly along that infinitely sensitive line.

“It makes me impatient.”

“Does it make you wet? I’ve been told you come apart that much more deeply when you’re very, very wet.”

“Touch me there,” she whispered, “and see for yourself.”

He made a small sound. Desire, she thought.

But he took his infuriating, delicious time. Now his fingers moved over her mound. Taking in the texture of the hair there. His breath caressed her neck like a touch, and an exhalation shuddered through her.

She turned her head to meet his eyes. He was watching her. The clarity, the presence of his gaze took her breath away.

He smiled.

The smile did something to her. Sent tiny bubbles through her blood. But before she could contemplate that, he finally, finally moved his fingers down to her sex, and every part of her attention shifted to his hand.

She heard her own intake of breath. Deep, a bit shaky.

He glided over her. Discovering her terrain. “ Very wet,” he hummed, approvingly. “You needed this.”

She gave a breathy laugh. Gripped the armrests, leaned back into the chair. “That’s right,” he said. “Sit back. Let me take care of it.”

He slid over her, finding her clitoris, placing the pad of his middle finger over it. “I’ve noted,” he murmured, “that this can be a deceptively complex little region.” He drew his fingertip across it, watching her face. “The smallest change in angle of approach ... ” Delicately shifting his touch, he brushed just the side of the bud, and watched her body jerk as though she’d been touched by fire. “Ah, see, that spot. Very sensitive. Too?”

He moved along the other side, observing her breath hitch—catching the very moment her body moved of its own accord to chase his finger. “ There,” he said, pleased, and drew his finger along that tiny spot in a long, lush stroke. “Right there .”

He stroked her again, and again, with that exquisitely attuned fingertip. That hand that could brush a single mote of ash from a butterfly wing without disturbing its beauty. He gave her a slow, luxuriant rhythm. As if he had infinite time for only this.

At some point, she’d started sitting up straighter, leaning toward him, and she was gripping the arms of the chair so hard her hands hurt—something she only realized when he placed his other hand atop her white knuckles, coaxing them to relax. “Grace. I’ll bring it to you. Let me. Close your eyes.”

She could feel him watching her as she leaned back and let her eyes fall closed. Let her body melt into the sensations he was drawing out.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the subtle rustle of her skirt over his hand, and her uneven breathing. “Good,” he murmured, half to himself. “But ... not quite enough, I think. I think ... you need a firmer touch.” Testing, he gave it to her.

He was right. Everything inside her seemed to speed up. Burn brighter. The knot pulling tighter. She let her chair take the weight of her head, kept her eyes shut, and her whole universe became the movement of his hand under her pushed-up skirts.

“And ... this?” He moved lower to trace a finger around her opening. He dipped an inch inside, and her body was beyond shame. Her hips moved reflexively to his hand, seeking more.

She heard him make a little sound of discovery, and he slid the finger fully inside her.

It flooded her with sensation. Nearly overwhelmed her. It was perfect .

He moved that finger in, out, in , and she threw her forearm across her eyes, giving over completely to the sensation. Unable to stop the movement of her hips, rocking with his hand. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

“Oh, Grace,” he breathed. “That ... is lovely to watch.”

She was deeply flushed already, or his tone would have caused it.

He dragged his fingers back up to her clitoris, circling now, steady, firm. He sped up, slightly, experimentally, till he found the pace that made her press her cunt to his hand and hold there, suspended by the tightening inside her.

“I see. Just like this,” he murmured, voice taut.

All she could manage was a nod, wincing against the sharp sweetness of it. “Luke ... ”

“I know. I won’t stop.” He plunged his finger inside her again, deeply, and pressed his other hand over her mouth just in time to stifle the noise that tore out of her. “Sssh,” he reminded her, and this time she did not feel the urge to argue.

He kept his left hand over her mouth as under the table his right worked her clitoris in tight circles. She kept her eyes squeezed shut so tightly she saw lightning.

“Sssh,” he warned again, and slid his hand from her mouth, around the back of her head, and gently pulled her down to his shoulder. Encouraging her to bury her face in his shirt, moan into it, as everything inside her moved, rapidly now, toward a dizzying peak. She opened her mouth against him, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric, the hardness of the muscle beneath.

She felt his face press into her hair. “Beautiful. Let go,” he whispered.

And then her vision went white and she pushed her mouth hard into him, biting down on his shoulder to muffle a cry as her body ignited, convulsing in powerful, deep release.

He kept his fingers moving over her as she came, then let his touch slow, lighten, and finally, gently, lift from her throbbing center.

She felt like a thoroughly rung-out cloth. Her muscles loose, melted into the chair. Her breathing deep. Small after-tremors moving though her limbs.

And then, she opened her eyes.

Luke—she’d always think of him as Luke now, she suspected—had moved his chair slightly away from hers. He sat back, watching her return to ordinary time.

She knew she should feel ashamed. Likely she would, come morning. But somehow—perhaps it was the late hour, or her lack of sleep, or the fact that this was the least tense, the most delicious she’d felt since long before arriving to Bexley’s estate—she could not find it in herself to feel anything but satisfied. Even ... delighted.

She smoothed her skirts down, sat up, and met his gaze.

She’d expected awkwardness. Embarrassment. For him to close off immediately behind that ever-ready arrogant countenance. But what moved between them felt light. Warm. Their guarded, wounded edges somehow smoother now, less obtrusive.

A moment spun out between them. Neither saying anything.

Luke pulled out a white handkerchief. He used it to carefully wipe her moisture from his fingers. Then tucked it into his pocket.

He rose, and picked up her quill. Then came behind her chair and gently pushed it closer to the table. Put the quill in her hand, and then leaned down to her. “I hope the work goes a bit easier, now, Chetwood. Don’t hesitate to call upon me if you require further assistance.”

And with that, he walked away.