A Lady by Midnight

If you ever—ever—try to shame her for what she could not help, with the aim of keeping your own life gilded and comfortable . . . ?

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re undressing me,” he said thickly.

“It can’t be helped.”

“Wasn’t complaining.”

For a moment, I worried you were having some sort of tryst. I should hate for anything to tempt Evan to a sixth duel.” The young woman laughed. “Five is impressive, but six . . . ? Six would just look predictable.”

Someone notify Lady Harriet. There was a monumental erection to be found in Wilmington, after all.

Kate blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. We have similar tastes.”

“I do enjoy gazing upon a well-carved man.”

“He’s called ‘the Long Man of Wilmington,’ Aunt Marmoset.” Lark scribbled in her journal.

“How odd. I’d been under the impression his name was Corporal Thorne.” Aunt Marmoset came and put her hand in Kate’s pocket. “My dear, hold onto that one. Tightly, and with all four limbs.”

They were on the same side.

The two of them, against the melons of the world.

“Right. Helen of Troy.” A small furrow formed between his dark eyebrows. “How would that be ironic?”

She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? Just look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

You know how the ladies fix it—mass of curls on top, wound with ribbons.

You need more than a moment’s stolen pleasure,” he said. “You need care and affection. Tenderness and love.