Pleasure for Pleasure
Page 75

With a little cough, Billy scooted sideways and out the door of the stable.
“As a matter of fact, we were keeping record books,” Josie said, scowling at Mayne. “My grandfather detailed every horse that passed through his hands. I can tell you without hesitation that Gentian didn’t have a short pelvis anywhere in her line.”
“There will always be exceptions to any case, but a breeding program has to be organized around a principle. I’ve seen enough evidence for this idea that I’ve designed next year’s program around it.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “No wonder you haven’t had a solid win in two years.”
“An unjust observation. After all, I haven’t even started this breeding program.”
“May I see it?”
“Are you going to be kind?”
“Do you want kindness or a win? Don’t be an—” She caught herself.
“I suspect my new wife was about to call me a name,” Mayne said.
“Never,” Josie said, although she was guiltily aware that husbands didn’t like to be called asses. She’d almost forgotten about being honey-sweet.
But a moment later, reading his breeding program, she forgot it again. “You’re dreaming if you think that you’ll get a good match from breeding Selkie with Tisane. You forget that I know Tisane. She raced against one of my father’s horses two years ago at the Kelso races. She would have won, except that she didn’t care enough.”
“That wasn’t the reason,” Mayne protested.
“Yes, it was,” Josie stated. “I had the distinct impression that Tisane was a little afraid of being run over. That is not something that you want to redouble by breeding her with a stallion who has no spirit.” She stroked Selkie’s nose to apologize for the insult.
“You can’t expect the characteristics of the parents to transmute perfectly into the sire line. I’m not worrying about these horses having poor performances because it’s their parents’ qualities that will skip into their progeny.”
“Absolutely absurd,” Josie said again. “I’d think you’d been out in the sun too long if you were standing before me. Do you really think that children take after their grandparents only? What about you? Are you expecting our daughter to look like your mother? I think not!”
“I hope not,” Mayne said. “I adore my mother, but she has a voice like a bullfrog.”
“According to you, our daughter will inherit a bullfrog’s temperament, then,” Josie said. “Luckily for her, your theory is utter drivel.”
Mayne burst out laughing. “Now I’m going to start praying that our daughter’s temperament doesn’t take after her mother’s!”
Josie blinked at him and then realized she’d forgotten. Utterly forgotten that she was a honey-sweet wife.
Mayne was still laughing at her when she saw something change in his eyes. He glanced down the long, empty corridor of the stables. No one was there except for a few horses drowsing in their stalls as flecks of straw floated through the shafts of sunlight. “I’ll show you the lofts,” he said, taking her hand.
“The lofts?” Josie questioned, and then reminded herself to be nice. Very nice. “Of course, darling,” she said. “Whatever you wish.”
He took her over to the ladder against the wall. Then he paused. “Are you able to climb a ladder?”
Josie rolled her eyes and then nipped up the ladder so that he wouldn’t have time to examine her bottom. As a consequence, she went up the rungs so quickly that her slipper caught at the top and she fell sprawling into a pile of hay.
Laughter sounded behind her and she had the prickly sense that he was gazing at her bottom, so she flipped over.
Sure enough, he was standing at the opening, legs spread, looking about as delicious as any man had the right to look. His pantaloons clung to his legs as if they were painted there. It just wasn’t fair, to Josie’s mind, that he came by that body of his naturally, and she…
He didn’t bend down and pick her up; instead he squatted down next to her, just as if she were a small girl who’d fallen in the grass. “What are you thinking about?”
“Your legs,” she said honestly.
He snorted with laughter. “You’re thinking about my legs. Legs? What’s there to think about?”
Suddenly she was feeling it again, that lovely sweet singing low in her belly, and the racing in her blood that made her feel just right in her body, not plump, not awkward—just right. She turned on her side and put her hand on his knee. “Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“You’ve probably heard symphonies of praise about your body. I don’t want to make you any vainer than you already are.”
He laughed again, a dark soft sound deep in his throat. “Believe it or not, among those women to whom you refer so casually not a single one mentioned my legs.”
“They must have been blind,” she said. It was hard to ignore the muscles bunched in his thighs. They made her want to dance a little waltz, right here in the straw. And by the look of his eyes, he knew it.
“Now you,” he said slowly, “you didn’t have the hundred lovers that I was lucky enough to experience.”
She pouted, the kind of pout that pushed out her lips. His eyes caught there and she felt more like dancing than ever. “One of the many unfair things about being a woman rather than a man.”
“You missed nothing by it. That’s what I wanted to say. Nothing. Not a single woman praised my legs.”
“Well, what did they praise?” she asked, surprised out of her haze of desire for a moment. “This is a most improper conversation,” she added, looking at his grin.
“You, Josie, are quite often improper,” her husband said. “I think it’s a congenital trait. In fact, I would guess that our daughter will be at risk of getting herself thrown out of the ton for impropriety if we don’t watch her closely.”
He had given in, albeit silently, on the breeding program, Josie realized. He had listened to her and he meant to change his program on the basis of her logic. No one ever had done such a thing before, surely not her father, who laughed at her every suggestion until she stopped making them.
“Your legs are beautiful,” she said, with a shaky little catch in her voice. “I—” But she couldn’t think how to phrase what she meant. Something about the muscles and the hardness of him and the way he was everything she wasn’t: powerful and yet graceful, with no unnecessary bits or blobs about him.
“The odd thing is that I would say the same to you, but never of myself,” Mayne said, and he really did sound puzzled. His hands were stealing up her skirts and she let it happen.
“My legs—” she said, and broke off. There was no point in detailing her feelings about that.
“Soft and curvy,” he said, his fingers discovering just that softness. The dancing feeling was back, so strong that she almost twitched her hips. “Your skin is as white as a petal. I know that’s not very original.” His hands were on her thighs now. He was over her, and she closed her eyes because there was something in his face that made her feel…