Free Powder of Love (I) by Summer Devon Page B

she wasn’t sure she liked him either, but she was absolutely certain she wanted to touch him.
    Useless, impossible urges that had haunted her since he’d sat in her parlor, her silent guest—before the powder had entered her life.
    “Are you improved?” she asked and realized she sounded as brusque as he had.
    She shifted from foot to foot, determined to be less impatient. “Are you more yourself? Shall I ring for something to eat?”
    He’d risen to his feet when she’d opened the door, and presented the appearance of a man who’d been through a battle, or perhaps he was only as disheveled as a man who’d just got out of bed. His hair, which had not been oiled, was rumpled. His clothes were in disorder, his eyes shadowed, his cheeks flushed. This would be how he looked upon waking in the morning. The thought did not help her sangfroid.
    “Thank you, no. I appreciate your concern.” He managed a smile, showing those white, nearly even teeth. His disarray was not the only sign of his condition: his chest rose and fell in a manner suggesting his breath was fast and uneven. Oh. And he clutched a book in front of himself at groin level. He must have seen the direction of her gaze.
    “A volume of Aristotle’s treatises. I thought if anything could help a man regain his sanity…” He cleared his throat and looked at the chair in a marked manner. He wouldn’t sit unless she invited him to.
    “Yes, of course, please.” She waved a hand. “Take a seat, Mr. Reed. And we’ll talk about philosophy until you feel quite yourself.”
    “No, I think your presence won’t allow that,” he said, gruff again. “Not even discussing the price of shoes could help.”
    She frowned, wondering what he meant, then remembered his first visit. She laughed. “I was obvious, was I? But, sir, if you feel you are well enough to leave…”
    He smiled and waited until she took a seat—not too close to him—before he gingerly leaned back in the chair, as if lowering himself into a hot bath. He held up the book. “I’m not sure I’m fit to leave the privacy of your home.”
    She imagined him finding some young woman on the street and wooing her. If he was still so filled with licentious thoughts, why wasn’t he trying to seduce her? She felt a flutter of disappointment.
    He thrust his fingers through his hair, which did nothing to improve its disorder. “So. Miss Ambermere.” He looked around the room, then back down at the book on his lap. “Do you read philosophy?” He sounded desperate, as if trying to talk about anything but the thick desire that clogged the very air of the room.
    “Years ago, when I was eighteen, I was determined to prove to my father that I had a brain, and I plowed through all the classical volumes I could find in his library.”
    He cocked his head and looked at her for a moment. “Did you manage to impress him?”
    “Not really. It turned out that if he had read the classics in school, he’d forgotten them. And he had no interest in discussing the subjects, especially with a young female.”
    “A pity he wouldn’t take you seriously.” Was that a condescending note in his voice?
    No, the way he stared down at the book and then shifted his gaze to a vase on the table, she understood he was distracted and trying to force his mind onto the topic. Perhaps away from lust. She was well-bred and could make conversation under strange circumstances as well. “I decided I was glad I indulged in the exercise for my own sake. I would never have bothered if it weren’t for my stubborn need to irritate him.”
    He glanced at her, and their eyes met again. For several heartbeats, they only stared. The starved wolf in his eyes leaped to life. “No,” he whispered. “I won’t.”
    She didn’t bother asking him to explain. “The effect is still bad, then?”
    “I thought I was fine, but then I see you.” He shook his head, hard. “Tell me more about your father. About you. As a young girl. Very young