“Is that a euphemism?”
He considered this. “Yes. By ‘pennies,’ I meant ‘half-pennies.’ It just flows better when you say ‘vingt-et-un for pennies.’”
“Weren’t you furious with her?”
“Should I have been?” He shrugged. “I won three shillings.” He was playing with her hair, twirling it about one of his fingers. “We’re still friends, she and I.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Usually, I’m not,” he said. “But about this? Rakus perfectus spends a great deal of time learning how to find satisfaction without risking disease or pregnancy. It makes for a much, much happier life.”
“But playing cards? Really?”
“I like it when people like me.” Sebastian shrugged. “When a woman bursts into tears in the bedroom because she’s realized she doesn’t want to go through with it, you’ll make her very happy when you pull out a pack of cards.”
Violet could actually imagine him doing that.
“As it happens, she’ll also tell all her friends that you are an extraordinarily considerate lover, and they’ll tell everyone else, and the next thing you know…” His smile glinted at her. “From a purely selfish perspective, I have found that making sure my partner leaves with a smile on her face—however I manage that—is always a good choice.”
“But…”
He smiled at her. “As it happens, I also really, really enjoy intercourse.”
She exhaled, feeling a bloom of heat.
“But I also like kissing,” he said, leaning down and pressing his lips to her breastbone. “And touching. Between the extremes of playing vingt-et-un and doing my damnedest to get you with child, there are innumerable possibilities. And I’m very, very, very…” he paused, his lips pressing against her. “Very,” he repeated, “very interested in discovering which ones you like.”
She couldn’t think, not while he was doing that. Not while his breath tickled her chest, his hands held her close.
“Wait,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you what I think of your so-called classifications.”
“Oh?” He kissed her again.
“They’re complete bollocks,” she said.
“True.” He winked at her. “But you’re smiling now. It’s all part of my evil plot.”
“You have an evil plot?”
“Of course I have an evil plot. Before the evening is up, I intend to engage you in a game of vingt-et-un. One-on-one.”
She did her best to hide her smile and failed miserably.
“We’ll work up to that,” he said archly. “A good rake doesn’t whip out his cards at the first sign of acquiescence. Right now, I’m going to give you a back rub.”
She pulled away from him. “Is that a euphemism?”
He frowned and looked upward. “Yes,” he said, “it is. When I say ‘back,’ I include your shoulders and neck.”
She swallowed, just thinking of what that would mean. His hands, caressing her, kneading her flesh. Coaxing her into relaxation.
“And what will happen when you’re done?”
He leaned down to her. “Then I will stop touching you. Rake’s honor.”
She let out a shaky breath. But she knew she could trust Sebastian for this—if he said he was going to stop, he’d do it.
He stood and motioned for her to lie on her front. She took a deep breath and rolled over.
She was tense for that first touch, so tense that when she felt the palm of his hand fall on her lower back, she almost jumped. But he didn’t move any lower. He didn’t spread her legs, as she’d feared. He just pressed his hand against her lower back, unmoving, until her heart stopped thumping and her exhales grew farther apart. Until, despite the warning bells sounding in her mind, her muscles began to relax.
And then he ran his hand up her spine to her shoulders.
“Here,” he said. “Your muscles are so tense, right here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ll feel better if you can relax a little. Like this.”
It was a coaxing, gentle massage, his fingers pressing ever so lightly into her flesh. It wasn’t the kind of angry, expectant rub that a husband might give his wife’s shoulders—a tit for tat that positively screamed, Look what I’m doing for you; now you’d better let me between your legs, or next time, it’s nothing.