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Excerpt:
Pausing
to straighten a watercolor on the wall, Martha said, "Well enough
a thought, but for the here and now, I think we are justified to
retaliate." The picture tilted the opposite direction and Martha
raised her hands to it again. "I have been mulling possibilities."
Not
satisfied that the picture hung straight, Martha stood back from
it and tilted her head. Vera coaxed, "Leave that. Every time a door
closes along the hall, the picture rearranges itself."
"But
it offends me," Martha replied absently, reaching to tip the corner
a smidge. Just then, a door closed and the picture sagged to the
left. "Pooh," she exclaimed.
"Is
there a problem?" a deep voice enquired. Both girls swung around.
Lord Brinston pulled a negligent hand from the pocket of his inexpressibles.
He looked at Vera, then at Martha, and repeated his question.
"No,
my lord," Vera said as Martha began, "The picture..."
He
moved shoulder to shoulder with Martha and looked at the painting.
"I see." He removed the picture and propped it against the wall.
"That is easily remedied." Taking hold of Martha's hand, he placed
her thumb just below the nail protruding from the plaster. "Lean
against it hard," he said.
She
leaned and he placed his hands over hers with his thumbs on the
nail. He experimentally pushed, then moved behind Martha. "Can't
get it straight that way," he muttered, and pushed again.
Lord
Brinston murmured in her ear, "Lean harder, my girl." So Martha
leaned. But he leaned also, pressing the length of his body against
hers as he pushed at the nail. His hands, warm and hard, not moist
in the least, surrounded hers as his form seemed to envelope her
with the masculine aroma of lemon and leather. Hot lemon, hot leather.
Lord Brinston was a furnace that sparked a fire in the girl.
Martha
opened her mouth to protest just as he said, "There," and stepped
back. "You can take your hand away now, Martha." She shifted and
he hung the picture back on the hook, where it hung square.
"Just
a little trick I learned. Now, if you will excuse me." With a short
bow, he sauntered down the corridor. Vera and Martha watched him
go, then they turned to look again at the watercolor. It hung perfectly
straight.
"Well,"
was all Vera could think to say. "I'll tell Dalton." She grabbed
Martha's unresisting hand and pulled her along. Once inside the
safety of Vera's room, Martha began to recover her poise. Glowing
fireflies stung where he had touched her hand. Her back also. What
was happening in her stomach didn't tingle--it burned with feverish
joy.
"So,
what shall we do?" Vera crossed to the table and began stuffing
floss willy-nilly into her embroidery bag, knots and all. Martha
didn't answer; she hadn't a clue what Vera was referring to. She'd
had a firm purpose that morning: avoid thinking of Lord Brinston,
avoid Lord Brinston. He could have cooperated.
Why
had he kissed her? Martha was afraid to know.
Vera
threw the bag; it clipped Martha on the shoulder. "Wake up. I said,
what shall we do to Janice?"
With
an inward shake, Martha's imp pushed Lord Brinston to the back of
her mind. She bent her head close to her friend's ear and began
to speak. Hushed voices and muted giggles bespoke a prank in preparation.
"Mind
now, this was not original to me. I heard of it happening to another."
Martha would not claim the inspiration. Nor would she confide the
existence of coals--red hot, incinerating coals of desire--in her
stomach. Her attention was best turned on someone other than mystifying
aristocrats. Someone like Janice, who needed a setdown.
"But
it is perfect." Vera bounced on a seat, flouncing the forgotten
embroidery bag to the floor. "When shall we act?"
"You
know the old saying; 'Never put off till tomorrow what you may accomplish
today.' Shall we see what we can bring about now? Then I would like
to search the attic." Vera's grin faded to puzzlement.
"What
is in the attic?"
"The
papers, silly. They might be hidden there."
Around
the corner of the hall, Lord Brinston leaned his forehead against
the cool plaster wall and groaned.
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