watch them pucker? To hear his hiss of breath as she cupped him and ran the back of her knuckles against his hard length? To work her way down his body and take him in her mouth…
“…be dried enough by tomorrow afternoon. I may depart then. I have not yet decided.”
Josephine blinked as she realized she had missed half of what Traverson had just said. Blushing, she turned her head to the side and stared fixedly at a portrait on the wall of Catherine surrounded by her three daughters. “Would you care for a walk?” she asked softly.
“A walk? Outside?”
The hint of a smile curved her lips. “Yes Traverson,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, “a walk outside. You told me once you find the indoors oppressive, did you not?”
He took a step towards her. Stopped. Frowned. “You remembered that?”
Josephine nodded. “Yes. I… well I realize I may not always appear to be listening to what you are saying, but I can assure you I am. Well, at least half of the time,” she amended when she caught the skepticism play across his face. “Oh fine, mayhap only one third.
But you must know that when you go off discussing beetles and insects and worms I always become quite tired and it is difficult to pay attention.”
Traverson walked across the parlor and extended his arm. She took it silently, curling her fingers around his forearm with practiced ease. When he bent his head she caught her breath in anticipation, but he only leaned in close to say, “Then I shall do my best to refrain from discussing beetles and insects and worms, although I must admit that does not leave much in the way of conversation.”
“Luckily I always have a myriad of topics I am prepared to discuss at any one time,” Josephine began as they left the mansion and started down the drive towards the stables. “Like the dress Lady Tattersall wore to the Opera last Thursday. You would think with her color hair that she would know enough not to pair orange with—”
“Gossip is not discussion,” Traverson interrupted, slanting her a sideways glance.
Tossing her head back, Josephine grinned up at him. It was a natural grin, one where she did not worry about the corners of her eyes crinkling or the way the left side of her mouth tipped up just a bit higher than the right. “My discussion is always about gossip,”
she informed him.
“Did you know the Formica rufa, more commonly known as the southern wood ant, can lift twenty times its own body weight?
In fact, if you were to measure the lifting capacity of an ant and compare it to that of a human, science says that—”
“All right, all right!” Josephine cried, throwing up her free hand in mock surrender. “No insects or gossip. I swear it.”
“And what, pray tell, does that leave as a topic of conversation?” Traverson asked, sounding as though he were only half jesting.
Reaching the end of the driveway they doubled around and followed a narrow path to a nearby field while Josephine mulled over her answer. When they had walked within a small grove of trees, effectively cutting them off from view of the mansion, she tugged on Traverson’s arm, motioning him to stop, and spoke in a hesitant voice so soft as to barely be heard. “We could talk about ourselves.”
Every muscle in Traverson’s body tightened. “Why would we do that?”
“Because… Well, because we are married.”
“Are we?” Drawing his arm free, Traverson turned to face her. His eyes were deadly serious, his face so hard as to have been carved from stone. “A signed document cannot hold two people together if they wish to stay apart.”
When, Josephine wondered silently as she studied her husband’s drawn expression, did our roles reverse so completely?
“Kiss me,” she said impulsively, clutching the collar of his shirt with both hands. The white linen felt soft beneath her fingertips.
She inhaled the scent of him, earthy and masculine and something else she could not
“…be dried enough by tomorrow afternoon. I may depart then. I have not yet decided.”
Josephine blinked as she realized she had missed half of what Traverson had just said. Blushing, she turned her head to the side and stared fixedly at a portrait on the wall of Catherine surrounded by her three daughters. “Would you care for a walk?” she asked softly.
“A walk? Outside?”
The hint of a smile curved her lips. “Yes Traverson,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, “a walk outside. You told me once you find the indoors oppressive, did you not?”
He took a step towards her. Stopped. Frowned. “You remembered that?”
Josephine nodded. “Yes. I… well I realize I may not always appear to be listening to what you are saying, but I can assure you I am. Well, at least half of the time,” she amended when she caught the skepticism play across his face. “Oh fine, mayhap only one third.
But you must know that when you go off discussing beetles and insects and worms I always become quite tired and it is difficult to pay attention.”
Traverson walked across the parlor and extended his arm. She took it silently, curling her fingers around his forearm with practiced ease. When he bent his head she caught her breath in anticipation, but he only leaned in close to say, “Then I shall do my best to refrain from discussing beetles and insects and worms, although I must admit that does not leave much in the way of conversation.”
“Luckily I always have a myriad of topics I am prepared to discuss at any one time,” Josephine began as they left the mansion and started down the drive towards the stables. “Like the dress Lady Tattersall wore to the Opera last Thursday. You would think with her color hair that she would know enough not to pair orange with—”
“Gossip is not discussion,” Traverson interrupted, slanting her a sideways glance.
Tossing her head back, Josephine grinned up at him. It was a natural grin, one where she did not worry about the corners of her eyes crinkling or the way the left side of her mouth tipped up just a bit higher than the right. “My discussion is always about gossip,”
she informed him.
“Did you know the Formica rufa, more commonly known as the southern wood ant, can lift twenty times its own body weight?
In fact, if you were to measure the lifting capacity of an ant and compare it to that of a human, science says that—”
“All right, all right!” Josephine cried, throwing up her free hand in mock surrender. “No insects or gossip. I swear it.”
“And what, pray tell, does that leave as a topic of conversation?” Traverson asked, sounding as though he were only half jesting.
Reaching the end of the driveway they doubled around and followed a narrow path to a nearby field while Josephine mulled over her answer. When they had walked within a small grove of trees, effectively cutting them off from view of the mansion, she tugged on Traverson’s arm, motioning him to stop, and spoke in a hesitant voice so soft as to barely be heard. “We could talk about ourselves.”
Every muscle in Traverson’s body tightened. “Why would we do that?”
“Because… Well, because we are married.”
“Are we?” Drawing his arm free, Traverson turned to face her. His eyes were deadly serious, his face so hard as to have been carved from stone. “A signed document cannot hold two people together if they wish to stay apart.”
When, Josephine wondered silently as she studied her husband’s drawn expression, did our roles reverse so completely?
“Kiss me,” she said impulsively, clutching the collar of his shirt with both hands. The white linen felt soft beneath her fingertips.
She inhaled the scent of him, earthy and masculine and something else she could not
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