Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(43)

He looked up suddenly and caught her staring. Sophia blushed, feeling as though she’d walked in on him in his bath.

And that thought made her blush deeper still.

Mr. Wiggins rescued her again. “Without my wife, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I can’t even decide what color waistcoat to order at the tailor

’s.” He gave Sophia a playful glance, his eyes merry with wine. “Do tell, Miss Turner, how is it such decisions come naturally to the fairer sex?”

Sophia smiled. “For you, Mr. Wiggins, the choice is clear. With your dark coloring, an ivory waistcoat would definitely suit you best.”

The man beamed, tucking into his pudding. A trickle of brandy sauce dribbled down his lapel. Cursing, he dabbed it with his sleeve.

“But then, ivory does show stains most dreadfully.” She looked down at her plate, testing the pudding’s texture with her fork. “You see, sir, there are some of us for whom decisions are no trial. Living with those choices …

now that is our burden.” She gave Mr. Grayson a cautious glance. His boot released hers, and Sophia felt oddly bereft. She wiggled her toes inside her stocking. After all that time, she worried they might never regain sensation.

She need not have been concerned. For Mr. Grayson did not retract his foot. He merely moved it to the floor, to rest alongside hers. And then he stretched his leg and slid that foot forward, so that the edge of his boot caressed her from toe to heel.

Oh, yes. Her sensation was intact. And not only in her toes. A hot tingling spread like flames throughout her body, and her heart began to bounce in her chest. Sophia froze, her fork poised in mid-air. She stared down at her plate, afraid he’d see the crimson staining her cheeks.

Then his ankle brushed hers. Her heart leapt into her throat. And before she knew what was happening, the warm weight of his calf was crooked around her own, his leg twining with hers in an intimate embrace. The posture instantly recalled their tussle with the shark—boots lashed together, bodies entangled, chests heaving with the exhilaration of escape. Oh, and now Sophia blushed everywhere. Her lips, her ni**les, the cleft between her legs—she felt every pink part of her body swelling and turning deep red.

“Is there something wrong with your pudding, Miss Turner?”

Curse the arrogant charm in his voice. Curse her body’s response to it. She closed her eyes, then opened them. “No.”

Teasing, teasing man. He’d rejected her once before; she’d be a fool to throw herself at him again. She ought to pull her leg away, Sophia told herself. Kick him in the shin; stab his thigh with her fork as though it were a slab of roast goat. But she didn’t want to do any of those things. She wanted to sit like this for hours, letting his strong leg support her own. Feeling alive and exhilarated and desired … and not the slightest bit alone. And beyond this dinner, this night, this secret embrace—Sophia wanted more. She wanted to be as close to him as she possibly, humanly could. She wanted him. This night was her chance, and this time she wasn’t scared or uncertain or drunk on rum. This time, she wouldn’t let him get away.

The decision was easy to make. Living with it would be another matter.

“No,” she repeated boldly, looking up. No longer caring if he saw her wanton blush or noted her shallow breath or heard her wildly thumping pulse. His eyes issued a challenge, and she met it without blinking, trading him smile for smile. “Everything is quite to my liking.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“What the hell was that?” Joss turned on him the moment Gabriel cleared the last of the china.

“What the hell was what?” Gray pulled a flask from his breast pocket and offered it to his brother.

Joss waved it away. “You know damn well what I mean. Something’s going on between you and Miss Turner, I know it.”

Gray uncapped the flask and took a sip. “What makes you say that?” He circled the table, discreetly examining the angle of the tablecloth and the perspective from the captain’s chair. Surely Joss couldn’t have seen what had taken place under the table. Even if his brother had noticed, he could demand all the answers he wished. Gray had no desire—or words—to explain it.

For the first time since he’d left England, Gray gave thanks for the thin, impractical leather of those dandified Hessians. The feel of her lithe, shapely leg against his … She’d accepted the contact so readily, blushed so attractively. Beneath that table, they’d formed some sort of alliance. And then she had extended a clear verbal invitation.

If he went to her berth right now, she would be expecting him. At last, he could solve the mystery of what held together that damned striped frock. Or… he could simply rip it from her body.

Gray shoved the image aside before his groin could react further. Joss did his bit to provide distraction. “How did she know about the plantation?”

“I told her in Gravesend, before we even set sail. The minute she mentioned Waltham.”

They stared at each other.

“And on that topic,” Gray continued, “what the hell was that about?

Interrogating me about selling the land?”

“Miss Turner brought it up.”

“You continued it. Why this resentment now, Joss? It’s been almost eight years, and until M—” Gray bit off the end of that sentence. Joss didn’t need another reminder of his wife’s death. “Until recently, you never once complained. At the time, you told me you understood.”