Free Judith Ivory by Angel In a Red Dress

page was written “will not set hips.” Then, as he turned the pages, “sterile.”
    “It’s my writing,” his voice teased. “Shall I demonstrate?”
    “No.” She glanced at him. He seemed to be asking for something now; so sincerely, so guilelessly. She laughed. “You are a proper scientist, then. The new Mendel.”
    “No. A dilettante. With a hundred hobbies. But, yes, I would rather be taken a little more seriously than a simple cad. Thank you.”
    There was a nice moment. More silence. In which she began to look at the book again. She turned a page, ran her finger down it.
    “I’m barren,” she said. It came out without design or reason. “The nonsense of my divorcing my husband is Evangeline’s doing. My husband is divorcing me.”
    As soon as she had uttered it, she wished she could call it back. What a thing to tell someone. Why had she said such a thing to him?
    But he seemed to understand too well. “He’s a fool,” he murmured. He touched her. His hand ran along her arm. It sent shivers through her; goose flesh. Then he took that arm, turned her by it, and pulled her to him. She found herself bracing her fingers on his abdomen. Her arms pushed. She held the distance.
    He glanced down. “Am I supposed to force you?” he said. “Would that make it all right in your mind? I’m going to kiss you, you know.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t.”
    He whispered in her ear, “No, you don’t.”
    His lips were warm and sure. They knew what they wanted. They moved against her lips, feeling their shape, their softness. His tongue briefly tasted these edges—then, with perfect boldness, his kiss pressed her mouth open. His tongue went deep into her mouth, taking every square inch. Christina squirmed a moment. Everything seemed to be turning over on itself. A kind of horrible yet fascinating movement at her core; like oil rolling up over water. Something rose in her chest, sunkin her belly. Her breath felt tight, compressed. Her breasts tingled against his chest. She was suddenly aware of the texture of his silk cravat, of the smooth, soft wool of his coat, of her own cambric dress. As if, on their own, her arms, her breasts, her belly could take notice of such things. Her whole body, in fact, seemed to come alive in a way that made her feel a stranger in it. Her heart pounded. Her head swam. Her legs wanted to buckle—
    After a time, his arms loosened. Just a hand ran down her arm. She exercised the option this gave her. She stepped back to lean against the workbench. Then, another touch; he had to steady her for a moment or she would have fallen against it. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breath properly. She put the back of her hand to her cheek—her hands were ice, her cheeks on fire—and looked at him.
    He was frowning. His chest was noticeably rising, falling. He closed his eyes and made a noisy exhalation of air. “I keep underestimating you,” he murmured. It took him several seconds more to continue, “You’re so beautiful, no—” he actually took it back with a shake of his head—“much worse than beautiful. You feel—” he couldn’t quite find words—“extraordinary in my arms.”
    She looked down. “Oh, don’t do this.”
    “I want to make love to you.”
    She stared back up at him. “I wouldn’t allow it.”
    His eyes were watching her so intently. She felt that he might look right through her, that something she wished not known might be on the edge of his perception.
    “I think you might,” he murmured.
    She felt the blood rise in her face. She turned her head away as far as she could. “What incredible cheek—”
    He exhaled a dubious breath at this, amused. “Youtremble when I touch you,” he said. “Your face flushes easily. And you watch me. I hardly enter a room that you don’t. Or from a window.” He let this sink in. “I’m seldom wrong about such things.”
    “Yes, I can see you’d be expert on ladies’ flushed faces. With this sort of