The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [11]
She had smacked him with a goodly dose of sarcasm that he undoubtedly deserved.
She leaned a bit forward now. “I do think that you, Lord Beecham, will be perfect for my purposes.”
He was the man. He was the hunter. He was the supremely experienced lover. Did this woman have no shame? No reticence? No modesty? It appalled him.
He knew that if she were married, her husband would be equally appalled. What would he say if he knew his wife wanted to seduce another man? He cooled down his voice to throw her off stride. “Look at me. Of course I’m not fat. Only a man who is a complete fool would have a paunchy belly. Ladies don’t like paunchy bellies.”
“That’s true enough.”
“What are your damned purposes?”
Babcock pulled up the carriage in front of Gunther’s on St. James. It was a narrow building, painted white, quite lovely in the bright sunlight—sunlight that was a relief, since they had endured solid rain for the past three days. Helen gave him her hand as he helped her down from the carriage. “This is utterly delightful, my lord. I thank you for so graciously accompanying me here. I do love the ices.”
She was wearing a rich emerald-green walking dress, very simple and elegant. She had a small bonnet on her head adorned only with three leaves from some bush or tree he didn’t recognize, all intertwined just over her left ear. She looked sophisticated, very much a lady, until you looked at her eyes. He saw intelligence, humor, and a good deal of knowledge. About her fellow man? He liked intelligent women, in small doses. They tended to want to examine things after lovemaking, pick things apart until he wanted to sink into a stupor. He also enjoyed humor in a woman, if it was a proper sort of humor—that is, a humor not directed at him.
Twilight, he thought. Twilight still looked possible.
He cleared his throat and escorted her into the charming interior. A young man wearing a huge white apron wrapped around his middle was immediately at their side, offering them a small round table. Lord Beecham helped her sit down. He smiled down at her, his eyes filled with the knowledge of her, a woman. “Don’t eat too much. A gentleman doesn’t like a paunchy lady either.”
“I never change size,” Helen said as she looked at the table next to them, not at the people, but at the ices in front of them. “Vanilla,” she said. “I adore vanilla.”
It was his favorite as well. He ordered chocolate.
He said no more until their bowls were set in front of them. He said no more until she had downed a good half dozen bites, closed her eyes, and moaned in bliss. He still didn’t say anything until he had finished his own chocolate ice. He wouldn’t mind at all feeding her an ice after making love to her. It would, at the very least, keep her quiet. The only thing was, he wouldn’t know if the ice gave her more pleasure than he did.
He said suddenly while she was looking about the room, “What purpose do you have for me?”
“You are much sought after, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
There it was again, this damned attempt to swamp his boat. He would not let her control him. “Use your eyes,” he said, his feathers all ruffled. He didn’t want her to know that she had riled him, and so he smiled at her, showing lots of straight white teeth. “Use your ears. You yourself spoke of my fluency. I am not a stupid man.”
“No, you are not at all stupid, are you?” Helen said after a moment. She was looking longingly at a huge bowl of some fruit-flavored ice set in front of a gentleman with a huge belly.
“Don’t even think it,” he said. “You have spooned quite enough down your white throat.”
“It’s the oddest thing,” she said. “Do you know that I become very relaxed when I eat a Gunther’s ice?”
Lord Beecham raised his hand instantly and called to the waiter.
He fed her two more bowls of ice cream. On her third spoonful of the third bowl, she said, “Who is that couple just over there? She is wearing that rather alarming blue dress and the gentleman is obviously displeased with her?”
Lord Beecham looked,