Free An Indecent Proposition by Emma Wildes

coloring and the slender voluptuousness of her figure.
    He couldn’t wait to get it off her, he decided with uncharacteristic impatience. The swell of her bosom under the modest neckline drew the eye, eliciting less-than-gentlemanly speculations on how it would feel to touch and taste those tempting breasts.
    Caroline looked a little startled. “What is it you want to know, Your Grace?”
    “Call me Nicholas.”
    “If you wish.” But she looked uncertain, hurriedly taking another sip of tea. The cup trembled just a little—but enough that he noticed—against her mouth.
    And an inviting mouth it was too. Pink soft lips, the lower one a little fuller with a perfect sensual curve. Nice.
    “Where are you from?” he prodded a little.
    “York.” She answered readily enough, though her expression held that detached, solemn look that made her seem so distant. “My mother died when I was a child, and my father was a busy man, so I actually spent a great deal of time in London with my aunt. She was the one who arranged my coming-out and my marriage.”
    Two sentences did not exactly sum up anyone’s life. “No brothers or sisters?”
    “No.”
    Prying conversation out of a woman wasn’t usually such a chore. He quirked a brow and tried again. “What are your interests? Theater, opera, fashion?”
    She hesitated, and then said simply, “I love to read. Anything and everything. Novels, the newspaper from front page to last, even scientific works if I can find them. It has always been a passion of mine. My governess was progressive. She encouraged my curiosity and loaned me books I am sure my aunt would have disapproved of my reading. Miss Dunsworth’s father was a famous antiquarian and had collected works from all over the world. He left her impoverished in some ways when he died, but rich in others if you value knowledge. Everything had to be sold, but she kept his library.”
    Females with intellect did not bother him like they did some of the other males of his acquaintance. He also liked the word passion when she said it.
    “Tell me your favorite author.”
    “Voltaire, if you force me to choose one.” Her expression was animated, lighting up her lovely face.
    “Who else?”
    She liked the ancient Greeks, Shakespeare, Pope, the more modern works of some of the popular authors of the day—some of which he hadn’t read yet.
    The sun warmed him, the brandy was mellow and luscious, and he was . . . charmed.
    By bluestocking tendencies? It was a revelation. Women usually served only one casual purpose in his life, but there was a spark in Caroline’s eyes that drew him in. Since he learned her identity back at the inn, he’d been fascinated.
    It wasn’t until he steered the conversation back to her family that the enthusiasm faded from her expression and she studiously paid more attention to looking at her teacup. “As I said before, I lived with my aunt. She died only a month or so after Edward.”
    He waited. There didn’t seem to be more information forthcoming, but after her note, he really was quite curious about her marriage. “I knew your husband, but only vaguely.”
    “Be grateful.”
    He couldn’t help it; his brows went up at her clipped tone. “I see.”
    She regarded him over the rim of her cup, and then set it aside with what looked like deliberate care. Those luminous gray eyes, so lovely in the framing of thick, lacy lashes, were very direct. “Forgive me, but no, you don’t. You have never been married off to a man you don’t really care for. You have never been subservient to the whims of someone else, and please admit you realize the difference between the genders in our society that allows titled gentlemen to make extravagant wagers over their lack of virtue, while women are judged most severely on keeping theirs.”
    For a moment Nicholas had no idea what to say. Lady Wynn did not flirt—he’d already discerned that—and apparently she had the ability to get right to the point