After a while, he pulled away from her. “There,” he said. “I knew it. You’re smiling.”
She turned over onto her side and he sat next to her.
“But you want more.” She could see the outline of his erection even against his loose trousers. “And…” She was afraid even to admit this much, but she didn’t want to hide it from him. “And you’re making me want more. And that means…”
“It means whatever we say it means,” he said with a shrug. “Want is not destiny. We’re adults. It should be fun to want.”
“But what is the goal? What are we working toward?”
“Your complete and utter surrender,” he intoned.
She sucked in a breath.
“I won’t be truly alive,” he continued, with a mischievous look, “until I’ve feasted on your virtuous flesh and sucked the marrow from your bones.”
Violet jabbed him in the ribs. “Very funny.”
“You see? You don’t believe I want anything dire. Not really.”
He might say that, but he wouldn’t be satisfied if this was all he ever had from her. A few touches at night? He could say it was fun to want, but after two weeks of wanting, he’d start to lose his warm good humor. That’s when the remarks would start—a few snide remarks about how frigid she was, how selfish to withhold her favors. He’d mention how long it had been since his last release. Men weren’t made for celibacy, and Sebastian least of all of them.
She opened her mouth to respond, and then shut it again. It should be fun to want, he’d said, but it had been a long time since she’d faced the idea of want with anything except dread. Want was a tool that was used against her. The less she wanted…
“Sebastian,” she said. “We can’t keep on like this.”
“Why not?” he answered back. “If matters get dire over here, I’ve got a working left hand.” He glanced over at her. “You have the same.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t?” he asked innocently. “Well, then. I can help you out with mine.”
She let out a scalded breath at that thought—at the notion of his clever hands sliding between her legs, finding the pinpoint of her desire—but he just leaned down and kissed her.
Chapter Nineteen
IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING, and despite the summons in his pocket—and Sebastian could not call that terse note anything except a summons—Sebastian felt unnaturally cheerful.
He was smiling as he was shown into his brother’s study; even Benedict’s careful indifference, his refusal to look up as Sebastian entered, couldn’t dampen his good mood.
He’d made up his mind the last time he’d seen his brother. It did no good to argue with Benedict. He’d tried his damnedest; there was no point upsetting his brother.
His brother paid him no attention for another five minutes, and eventually, Sebastian seated himself on the other side of the desk and began to whistle.
It was a cheap younger-brother trick, but an effective one. After the third off-key iteration of God Save the Queen, Benedict’s annoyance outgrew his ability to ignore Sebastian.
“Can you stop that?” Benedict demanded, finally looking up.
“Stop what?” Sebastian asked innocently. “Was I doing something?”
“That awful warbling.”
“Oh, sorry,” Sebastian said with just enough excess apology dripping from his voice. “I didn’t realize you disliked Queen Victoria. I should have picked a different tune.”
“I like the queen—” Benedict stopped. Despite himself, his lip twitched up in a smile. “No, Sebastian. You’re not going to get me that way.”
Sebastian dropped his pretend innocence and leaned forward. “For the record,” he said, “you asked me to come out here on urgent business and then ignored me when I arrived. If you don’t want me to play the annoying younger brother, leave off playing the too-important older one.”
Benedict met his brother’s gaze and sighed. “Occasionally,” he muttered, “you have a point. I thought about what you said to me last time. About how—perhaps—I might judge you harshly. I wondered if there was any justice to your remarks.”
Sebastian held his breath and sat forward. “Oh. Then I really am sorry about the whistling.”
Benedict didn’t blink. “I thought about it for weeks until I saw a notice in the paper—a little half-inch description—about a talk you delivered in Cambridge. A scientific talk.”
Sebastian swallowed. “Yes. Well.”
“You told me you were done with scientific work.”
“Yes. I…am. Sort of. That was…more in the way of wrapping matters up, see, presenting some final work.”
“That’s what I told myself,” Benedict said. “But now I see I was making excuses for you. What the devil is this?”
He held up his newspaper and pointed to a notice.
Malheur to Deliver Seminal Remarks on Inheritance in Two Days.
The subheading read: Promises to be Explosive and Controversial.
“Ah,” Sebastian said. “Aha, ha. Right. That. I see how that looks.”
“Right?” Benedict repeated in disbelief. “That?”
“It’s…” He leaned in. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked hopefully.
“A potentially explosive and controversial secret?” Benedict said dryly. “Maybe. That depends. What kind of secret is it?”
Violet had told her sister. Everyone would know by evening two days from now. And his brother deserved to hear it directly from him. Sebastian let out a breath.
“My work on inheritance.” He swallowed. “You were right. I’m a fraud.”
Benedict’s eyebrows lowered. “What? What on earth are you saying?”
“Do you remember Violet Rotherham? Now Violet Waterfield, the Countess of Cambury?”
“I could hardly forget her,” Benedict said. “Considering she lived half a mile from us when we were younger. But I don’t see how she is relevant.”
“The work isn’t mine,” Sebastian said. “It’s hers. And in a few days, we’re announcing it. So, you see, this isn’t going to be a presentation by me. It’s going to be one by her.”
Benedict sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “No. I don’t understand.”
“Everything I’ve presented? It’s all been Violet’s ideas,” Sebastian said. “I helped a little. We worked together on some of it. But she’s the brilliant scientist. Not me.”