Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 90
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“Annabelle…” Simon’s voice was edged with amusement. Bending to grasp her elbows, he pulled her to her feet. “I can’t talk to you when you’re kneeling in front of me like that. Not coherently, at any rate. I can explain exactly what—” He broke off, his dark eyes flickering strangely as he saw her expression. “You’re upset, aren’t you?”
“Any wife would be, if her husband came home in this condition!”
Simon slid his hand behind her neck and squeezed lightly. “You’re reacting a bit strongly to a bruise and a slight burn, aren’t you?”
Annabelle scowled. “First tell me what happened, then I’ll decide how to react.”
“Four men were trying to pull a metal plate out of a furnace with long-handled pincers. They had to carry it to a frame where it could be rolled and pressed. The metal plate turned out to be a bit heavier than they expected, and when it became clear that they were about to drop the damned thing, I picked up another pair of pincers and went to help.”
“Why couldn’t one of the other foundrymen do it?”
“I happened to be standing closest to the furnace.” Simon shrugged in an effort to make light of the episode. “I got the bruise when I knocked my knee against the frame before we managed to lower the plate—and the burn happened when someone else’s pincers brushed against my arm. But no harm done. I heal quickly.”
“Oh, that was all?” she asked. “You were only lifting hundreds of pounds of red-hot iron in your shirt-sleeves?—how silly of me to be concerned.”
Simon lowered his head until his lips brushed her cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Someone needs to.” Annabelle was keenly aware of the strength and solidity of his body, standing so close to hers. His big-boned frame was formed with power and masculine grace. But Simon wasn’t invulnerable, or indestructible. He was only human, and the dawning realization of how important his safety had become to her was nothing short of alarming. Twisting away from him, Annabelle went to check the accumulating bath-water, saying over her shoulder, “You smell like a train.”
“With an extended smokestack,” he rejoined, following at her heels.
Annabelle snorted derisively. “If you’re trying to be amusing, don’t bother. I’m furious with you.”
“Why?” Simon murmured, catching her from behind. “Because I got hurt? Trust me, all your favorite parts are still working.” He kissed the side of her neck.
Annabelle stiffened her spine, resisting the embrace. “I couldn’t care less if you jumped headfirst into a vat of melted iron, if you’re so silly as to go into the foundry with no protective clothing and—”
“Hell-broth.” Simon nuzzled into the delicate wisps of her hairline, while one hand coasted upward to find her breast.
“What?” Annabelle asked, wondering if he had just spouted some new profanity.
“Hell-broth…that’s what they call the melted iron.” His fingers circled the reinforced shape of her breast, molded artificially high and stiff within the frame of her corset. “Good God, what do you have on under this dress?”
“My new steam-molded corset.” The fashionable garment, imported from New York, had been heavily starched and pressed onto a metal form, giving it more stiffness and structure than the conventionally designed corset.
“I don’t like it. I can’t feel your br**sts.”
“You’re not supposed to,” Annabelle said with exaggerated patience, rolling her eyes as he brought his hands up to her chest and squeezed experimentally. “Simon…your bath…”
“What idiot invented corsets in the first place?” he asked grumpily, letting go of her.
“An Englishman, of course.”
“It would be.” He followed her as she went to shut the valves in the bathing room.
“My dressmaker told me that corsets used to be kirtles, which were worn as a mark of servitude.”
“Why are you so willing to wear a mark of servitude?”
“Because everyone else does, and if I didn’t, my waist would look as big as a cow’s by comparison.”
“Vanity, thy name is woman,” he quoted, dropping his linens to pad across the tiled floor.
“And I suppose men wear neckties because they are so excessively comfortable?” Annabelle asked sweetly, watching her husband step into the tub.
“I wear neckties because if I didn’t, people would think I was even more uncivilized than they already do.” Lowering himself with care, for the tub had not been designed for a man of his proportions, Simon let out a hiss of comfort as the hot water lapped around his middle.
Coming to stand beside him, Annabelle ran her fingers over his thick hair, and murmured, “They don’t know the half of it. Here—don’t lower your arm into the water. I’ll help you to wash.”
As she lathered him, Annabelle took a pleasurable inventory of her husband’s long, well-exercised body. Slowly her hands coasted over hard planes of muscle, some places ropy and delineated, others smooth and solid. Sensual creature that he was, Simon made no effort to conceal his pleasure, watching her lazily through half-closed eyes. His breath quickened, though it was still measured, and his muscles turned iron-hard at the stroke of her fingertips.
The silence in the tiled room was broken only by the sluice of water and the sounds of their breathing. Dreamily, Annabelle tunneled her fingers through the soapy mat of hair on his chest, recalling the feel of it on her br**sts as his body moved over hers. “Simon,” she whispered.
“Any wife would be, if her husband came home in this condition!”
Simon slid his hand behind her neck and squeezed lightly. “You’re reacting a bit strongly to a bruise and a slight burn, aren’t you?”
Annabelle scowled. “First tell me what happened, then I’ll decide how to react.”
“Four men were trying to pull a metal plate out of a furnace with long-handled pincers. They had to carry it to a frame where it could be rolled and pressed. The metal plate turned out to be a bit heavier than they expected, and when it became clear that they were about to drop the damned thing, I picked up another pair of pincers and went to help.”
“Why couldn’t one of the other foundrymen do it?”
“I happened to be standing closest to the furnace.” Simon shrugged in an effort to make light of the episode. “I got the bruise when I knocked my knee against the frame before we managed to lower the plate—and the burn happened when someone else’s pincers brushed against my arm. But no harm done. I heal quickly.”
“Oh, that was all?” she asked. “You were only lifting hundreds of pounds of red-hot iron in your shirt-sleeves?—how silly of me to be concerned.”
Simon lowered his head until his lips brushed her cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Someone needs to.” Annabelle was keenly aware of the strength and solidity of his body, standing so close to hers. His big-boned frame was formed with power and masculine grace. But Simon wasn’t invulnerable, or indestructible. He was only human, and the dawning realization of how important his safety had become to her was nothing short of alarming. Twisting away from him, Annabelle went to check the accumulating bath-water, saying over her shoulder, “You smell like a train.”
“With an extended smokestack,” he rejoined, following at her heels.
Annabelle snorted derisively. “If you’re trying to be amusing, don’t bother. I’m furious with you.”
“Why?” Simon murmured, catching her from behind. “Because I got hurt? Trust me, all your favorite parts are still working.” He kissed the side of her neck.
Annabelle stiffened her spine, resisting the embrace. “I couldn’t care less if you jumped headfirst into a vat of melted iron, if you’re so silly as to go into the foundry with no protective clothing and—”
“Hell-broth.” Simon nuzzled into the delicate wisps of her hairline, while one hand coasted upward to find her breast.
“What?” Annabelle asked, wondering if he had just spouted some new profanity.
“Hell-broth…that’s what they call the melted iron.” His fingers circled the reinforced shape of her breast, molded artificially high and stiff within the frame of her corset. “Good God, what do you have on under this dress?”
“My new steam-molded corset.” The fashionable garment, imported from New York, had been heavily starched and pressed onto a metal form, giving it more stiffness and structure than the conventionally designed corset.
“I don’t like it. I can’t feel your br**sts.”
“You’re not supposed to,” Annabelle said with exaggerated patience, rolling her eyes as he brought his hands up to her chest and squeezed experimentally. “Simon…your bath…”
“What idiot invented corsets in the first place?” he asked grumpily, letting go of her.
“An Englishman, of course.”
“It would be.” He followed her as she went to shut the valves in the bathing room.
“My dressmaker told me that corsets used to be kirtles, which were worn as a mark of servitude.”
“Why are you so willing to wear a mark of servitude?”
“Because everyone else does, and if I didn’t, my waist would look as big as a cow’s by comparison.”
“Vanity, thy name is woman,” he quoted, dropping his linens to pad across the tiled floor.
“And I suppose men wear neckties because they are so excessively comfortable?” Annabelle asked sweetly, watching her husband step into the tub.
“I wear neckties because if I didn’t, people would think I was even more uncivilized than they already do.” Lowering himself with care, for the tub had not been designed for a man of his proportions, Simon let out a hiss of comfort as the hot water lapped around his middle.
Coming to stand beside him, Annabelle ran her fingers over his thick hair, and murmured, “They don’t know the half of it. Here—don’t lower your arm into the water. I’ll help you to wash.”
As she lathered him, Annabelle took a pleasurable inventory of her husband’s long, well-exercised body. Slowly her hands coasted over hard planes of muscle, some places ropy and delineated, others smooth and solid. Sensual creature that he was, Simon made no effort to conceal his pleasure, watching her lazily through half-closed eyes. His breath quickened, though it was still measured, and his muscles turned iron-hard at the stroke of her fingertips.
The silence in the tiled room was broken only by the sluice of water and the sounds of their breathing. Dreamily, Annabelle tunneled her fingers through the soapy mat of hair on his chest, recalling the feel of it on her br**sts as his body moved over hers. “Simon,” she whispered.
