The Dirty Girls Book Club (6 page)

“Every job has its perks,” Viv said with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile.

“Jesus, Viv,” Terry said.

Georgia glanced at the other woman, so pretty and feminine. Tomorrow, Woody wouldn’t even notice Georgia, not with Viv in the room.

No, she’d make sure he paid attention, Georgia vowed silently, because she was in charge. As for noticing her as a woman—that was the last thing she wanted. Honestly.

“I can’t wait either,” Terry enthused. “And you should both watch the game tonight.” He pumped a fist in some kind of cheer. “Bash ’em, Beavers!”

Georgia and Viv exchanged eye rolls.

Georgia spent the evening on the couch with her laptop on her knees and her tortoiseshell cat, Kit-Kat, curled up beside her. Mostly, she typed campaign notes. Still, in the name of research, she had turned on her TV—rarely used, because she was more of a reader—and tuned in to the hockey game. As she worked, she glanced at it occasionally.

The Vancouver Beavers were playing a team from Anaheim called the Ducks. Despite the silly bird name, at least their jerseys featured only the team name, not an animal caricature.

Within each team, the players were virtually indistinguishable in their padded clothing and helmets, and oddly, they almost all had scruffy beards. Hanrahan was number 77 for the Beavers, and she was glad to see he wore a face shield when he was on the ice.

Not that he was there for very long at a stretch. He was on the bench or in the penalty box as much as he skated. She shuddered as number 77 sent yet another body crashing into what she’d learned were called the boards, though only the bottom part was board; the top was Plexiglas.

It was surreal watching, and knowing that number 77 had been inside her. The same man who had a stadium full of fans on their feet cheering when he took an opposing player into the boards and freed up the puck for a teammate, or groaning in sympathy when the Ducks’ goaltender blocked one of his shots. The thought that he’d
given her two orgasms was ever-present in her mind, and in the warm, not unpleasant, ache between her thighs.

Woody had probably already forgotten. He was sorry they’d had sex. That was what he’d said, when she was still in a rosy glow of sexual satisfaction.

And who cared? She had to stop dwelling on it and put the whole thing behind her.

Georgia focused again on the game. The Beavers were losing. To her untutored eye, it would be better to spend more time shooting the puck and defending their goal, rather than smashing into members of the opposing team and getting penalties. Hockey seemed so useless and violent. Why were players paid millions per year? What was the appeal for all those fans?

She tried to grasp what was going on. Players got credit for assists as well as goals, and the referees handed out penalties for behaviors like hooking and high-sticking. Icing—which had nothing to do with cake—resulted in stopping play, and a face-off. There was something called a power play, which seemed to be a good thing. The Ducks got more of them than the Beavers, and scored on them twice.

In the intermission between the second and third periods, an interviewer shoved a microphone into Woody’s face. “It’s not a good night for the Beavers,” the man said.

“The Ducks are doing a good job out there.” Woody’s face was grim and it sounded like the admission pained him.

The interviewer said, “You’re wearing a face shield. Did that high stick you took in the last game break your nose or cheekbone?”

Woody snorted. “I’m healthy.”

“No player ever confesses to an injury during the finals.”

“Then why’d you ask the”—he paused, like he was swallowing a curse—“question?”

Georgia huffed out a sigh. She’d actually had sex with that Neanderthal?
It must have been temporary insanity. There was no other logical explanation.

Temporary insanity that led to two orgasms …

Notes finished, she clicked off the TV. Yes, she hoped the Beavers won because it would be good for the VitalSport campaign, but she had no desire to watch the rest of the game.

Half an hour later, she’d purchased an electronic copy of
The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead
and was snuggled in bed with her e-reader.

The first chapter expanded on the background Marielle had summarized. Lady Emma had been widowed a year earlier. Her life was circumscribed and her finances dwindling. Her father proposed arranging another marriage, and she knew it would be to another much older man. Her brother was pressuring her to live with him. He said he’d look after her, but she knew he wanted a glorified servant to care for his children and his wife’s ailing mother.

Georgia shuddered, relieved to have been born in more enlightened times.

Emma, faced with a no-win situation, was happy to avoid it temporarily by accepting her friend Margaret’s invitation to visit her and her husband’s country home.

Increasingly caught up in the story, Georgia came to the scene Marielle had read last night, then moved on to the next chapter. Lady Emma, too, was reading. It was afternoon and she was alone in the library.

Books were a great pleasure to Emma, a temporary escape from worries about her future. When the library door opened, she glanced up to see the Comte de Vergennes, a man she’d barely exchanged two words with.

Her pulse raced, no doubt because of his scandalous reputation.
She stood quickly. “Good afternoon, Monsieur le Comte. I will leave the library to you.”

“No, please.” He waved a hand in a charming Continental gesture that would have looked foolish from an Englishman, just as no Englishman could have worn those stylish clothes with such flair. “Please do not go on my account, my lady. I would be distraught to think I drove you away.”

She felt most uncomfortable around this man, and particularly discomfited at the notion of being alone with him; still, she did not wish to be rude to another houseguest. Slowly, she sank down again.

Unfortunately, rather than search out a book to read, the Comte seated himself across from her.

In such close proximity, Emma couldn’t help but notice that he really was most attractive, with wavy black hair and chiseled features. He flashed a smile, and how could she not admire his even white teeth, dimple, and coffee-brown eyes that sparkled with … Well, she had no idea to what one might attribute that sparkle, but it really was most attractive. No wonder women clustered around him.

She felt the same disconcerting reaction as last night: an odd, tingly, pulsing heat that reached even the most private parts of her body.

“You enjoy reading, my lady, and music also. Do you play an instrument?”

How drab and boring she must seem, compared to the women he’d charmed last night. Why did he feel compelled to make conversation? Her pulse raced, making it difficult to draw breath. Striving to ignore her unusual reaction to him, and to be polite, she responded, “The violin, but only passably well.”

“You have an affinity for music.”

“I do?” How could he know that?

“Last night, your body swayed to the music as if you wished to be playing yourself. Or dancing, perhaps?” He cocked an eyebrow.

Her cheeks heated and the bodice of her dress felt hot and confining. How improper to mention her body, to have noticed her body. Of course, it should come as no surprise that this man did not abide by the conventions of polite society. Stiffly, she said, “I do not dance. Perhaps you do not know, but I am a widow.”

“Ah yes, the absurd convention that when a man dies, his widow must for all practical purposes give up her own life too.”

Her eyes widened. Yes, she chafed against the restraints placed on her, but while she might confess as much to her dear friend Margaret, this was not a fit topic of conversation with a gentleman, much less a rake. Again, she rose. “I really must go.”

He rose too, with a rueful and most charming smile. “I have offended you. My sincere apologies, Lady Whitehead.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please. I promise to be more circumspect. Shall we discuss composers, perhaps? Who is your favorite?”

She had no experience with a situation such as this. Still, he was a houseguest and she was a widow, and surely chatting about music in the library was the most harmless of activities. The truth—and she always tried to be honest with herself—was that she wanted to stay. There was something intriguing about the man, perhaps because he was so different from the Englishmen she’d known.

Her reason for staying was not—it most certainly was not—that his presence sent those pleasurable tingles and throbs racing throughout her body.

Ah now, was she still being honest with herself?

“Don’t give in to those tingles and throbs,” Georgia advised. And yet, of course Emma would, because this novel was erotica.

As Georgia read on, she couldn’t help but compare Emma’s first meeting with the Comte to her own with Woody. The Comte, handsome and suave, also proved to be well educated, knowledgeable about music, and interesting company. He charmed and flattered in
a sophisticated way that appealed to a femininity, a sensuality, that inexperienced Emma had never before felt in herself.

As Emma’s attraction to the man grew, Georgia could almost feel it herself. A man like that would be hard to resist.

Woody Hanrahan—the Neanderthal—was a completely different matter. Forcing him from her mind, she turned back to the story.

“We must play together,” the Comte said, flashing that dimple again.

“Play?” Emma asked, breath catching in her throat. What on earth did he mean, and why did it sound so wicked?

“I play the pianoforte. We would make beautiful music together.”

He spoke of musical instruments, and yet his suggestive tone and the gleam in his dark eyes hinted at something far more personal. If she did not know better, she might believe he was attracted to her, but why would he choose a drab widow when there were younger, prettier women who would welcome his company? It must be second nature for him to flirt with every member of the gentle sex.

“Come with me to the music room,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lord and Lady Edgerton are visiting an ailing neighbor, so there will be no one to hear and judge. We may play whatever our hearts most desire.”

She clasped her hands tightly together, resisting an absurd impulse to put one of them in his. Bad enough she was alone with him in the library, but somehow the idea of playing music—beautiful music, the kind of music that stirred her body and soul—seemed far less appropriate. After all, the man had a reputation as a seducer. “I don’t believe it would be proper,” she stammered awkwardly.

“Proper?” He withdrew his hand and his lips curled. “And is being proper so very important to you?”

Knowing her cheeks were rosy, she said, “Of course. I am not the kind of woman you are used to.”

“Which makes you even more a delight.” He studied her, head
tilted to one side. “But I must ask, Lady Emma, what kind of woman do you believe I am used to?”

Surely her entire body had flushed as pink as Margaret’s prize roses. Regretting that she’d left her fan in her bedchamber, she said, “Sir, this conversation is most improper. Let me just say that I have heard of, er, your troubles in Paris.”

“Ah, the gossipmongers have been at work. You have heard that a woman’s husband caught us
in flagrante delicto.
”

Despite her shocked gasp, he carried on. “Yes, it is true, and he issued a challenge to a duel. I am excellent with a pistol, and could not bring myself to kill him, as would inevitably happen. The most circumspect course of action was to depart France.”

“I cannot listen to this.” She would have risen and swept out, but her legs had taken to trembling.

His eyes danced, as if he understood her plight. “There is more to the story than the gossipmongers know.”

“More?” Despite better reason, she was intrigued.

“I will tell you the truth, my lady, because you have been married and will understand such delicate matters.”

Oh my! What on earth did he refer to? Curiosity came close to overwhelming her better judgment, but she forced herself to say, “No, I should not listen to such—”

He held up a hand, silencing her. “I have been misjudged, and I wish one person—you, my dear Lady Emma—to know the truth.”

In the space of an hour she had gone from Lady Whitehead to Lady Emma, and now my dear Lady Emma. She should protest, but sat mute.

“I did not take advantage of the lady in question. She was married to a man who could not—how would you English say this?— perform his marital obligations.”

His marital obligations? Did the Comte mean that the man could not support his wife financially?

“In the bedchamber,” he murmured.

“Oh!” Could he actually be talking about …? Her heart raced so fast she could barely draw breath. She could not, should not, listen, but already he was going on.

“She begged me to give her the pleasure she craved, and I did not refuse that plea.”

Emma’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. The Frenchwoman found pleasure in conjugal relations? For Emma, those acts had been painful and embarrassing—a part of marriage she never, for one moment, missed. Surely no decent woman could enjoy something so base.

When the Comte reached for her hand, she was so shocked she didn’t resist. He stroked the back of it, sending shivers coursing through her entire body. “I see from your reaction that I was wrong about you, my dear. I sense your husband did not teach you the joy a man and woman can create together. The beautiful music their bodies can play. My lady, there is no duet to compare.”

Her lips quivered as she tried to form words to tell him she could hear no more of this. Her legs trembled too; else she’d have sprung to her feet and dashed from the room.

He leaned closer and her breath stopped entirely. And then—how shocking, but oh, how sweet—his lips touched hers.