3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“ I t’s not mine.”

Will’s brows shot up, and Adelaide winced as her cheeks burned.

“Fine,” she exhaled. “It is mine. I mean, the drawing isn’t mine . I’m not nearly a talented enough artist to include that level of detail.”

His attention darted back to the illustration again, squinting as if appraising the artist’s depiction.

“Not that I’ve tried to draw such things, at least not recently.” Good lord, why was she still talking? “And those magazines are informative. I don’t look at the pictures, really, but at the articles.”

He was watching her now, the side of his mouth pulling up as though she were amusing. A silly girl caught with a naughty picture.

Ire simmered in her gut. She was tired of making excuses, exhausted by making herself small. She would never see this man after they arrived in Saltford; what was the harm in being honest?

“Fine.” She squared her shoulders. “I look at the pictures. I like them.”

The humor drained from his face, replaced by a quizzical tilt of the head.

“But I prefer the stories, the ones where people lust after each other and even fall in love. And I’m not ashamed of it. You probably think the worst of me for it, but—“

“I don’t think the worst of you.”

Her heart stopped. “You don’t?”

He flipped a page and his brows raised further. “I don’t.”

Adelaide was, for the first time in memory, utterly flummoxed. She’d become accustomed to being judged, often harshly—for her outspokenness, her bold wardrobe and bolder conversation topics. This man’s reaction to her was an anomaly, and she rather liked it.

“Good,” she managed. “Men aren’t chastised for having these materials, so women shouldn’t be, either.”

Will closed the book and met her gaze, a lock of raven hair falling over his brow. G racious , but his hands were merely the beginning of this man’s appeal. His aquiline nose belonged in one of her books on Roman emperors, his cheekbones and jawline those of a Greek god, but the curl of his lips was welcoming, surrounded by a trimmed beard she was desperate to touch, to see if it was as soft as it looked. His eyes, the green so warm, so safe , made her want to wrap herself up in them and nap in the sunshine. “Why do you think that?”

She scanned the short phrase, hunting for the derision or condescension, but found none. Habit told her she should pull back, dampen the impact of her statement, giggle or simper or something else equally nauseating, but she couldn’t. She was on the way to her wedding, and she wouldn’t restrain herself anymore.

“Because society uses ignorance as a tool for controlling women. If we understood pleasure, we’d capitalize on it. Were it not for the necessity of male seed to reproduce, we could eliminate the need for men altogether!”

Her heart was pounding, her ears ringing by the time she stopped to pull in a breath, and Will was staring at her, his pillowy lips parted as he blinked.

Now she’d done it. She’d broken his brain with her ranting, and he would abandon her and the Bumbletwits, or—

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I like talking, and I get carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His rough voice was oddly soothing, warming her like mulled wine on a cold winter night. “I like listening.”

Adelaide had been wasting her time looking at lewd pictures and reading salacious stories. Was there anything more erotic than a man attending to a woman’s opinion on dismantling the patriarchy? She should capture this moment in an etching, but perhaps add him standing between her thighs, those soft eyes watching her over the curve of her belly as he lifted her skirts and bent between her legs—

Stop it, Adelaide! How her mother’s reprimand reached inside her mind from such a distance was a wonder she had no desire to explore. Before she could gracefully (ha!) exit, her mouth got the better of her. “What do you think?”

His brows knit together. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She gestured around them. “I rarely ask the horses for their political opinions.”

The crease in his forehead grew deeper. “I… it’s not my place to have an opinion, miss.”

She felt the familiar pang of chagrin chased by disappointment. Once again, she’d been wildly inappropriate in her choice of conversation topics and had made things awkward.

“I’d best return to my room,” she said with a weak smile, and Will nodded, looking relieved to be rid of her presence. “Thank you for finding this—“ she plucked the book from his hand, “and for listening to this.” She made a circular gesture around her mouth and chuckled weakly.

He did not laugh.

Adelaide, graceless dolt that she was, curtsied. “Good night, Mr. Shipley.”

He blinked several times, no doubt overwhelmed by the barrage of words and sheer lack of sophistication, before responding. “Good night, Miss Kimball.”

Her pulse thundered as she raced to the inn, up the stairs and into her chamber. The Bumbletwits’ snores through the wall from the adjacent room couldn’t pierce the buzzing in her ears, nor diminish the pulsing ache between her thighs. She stumbled out of her dress, stripped off her corset and bustle, shed layer after layer until she tossed herself onto the bed sheets, too hot to cover herself, then squeezed her eyes shut.

Her mind immediately supplied the scenario she’d imagined earlier and her hands drifted down her legs to pull up her shift. In the absolving dark of the sweltering room, Adelaide pictured Will while he brought her pleasure with his mouth—she did not understand the specifics of such an act, as the articles she read never included sufficient detail for her taste. But she knew how to swirl her fingers in her wetness, to rub in tighter and tighter circles until the pressure built, quick and strong and—

She slapped her hand over her lips to contain her cry as her body tensed, then shuddered. A whimper escaped as she collapsed on the bed, her limbs limp and sated. As she lay in the sheen of her perspiration, her gaze drifted to the stable, its roof barely visible through the window, and she wondered what Will was doing at that moment.