‘Erotic?’ Jessica murmured, lifting one shell delicately and advancing it closer so she could stare down into the fleshy folds moving gently in their briny liquid, cradled within the opalescent shell. He knew the exact moment she caught his meaning from the blush that coloured her cheeks. ‘Well, really! Do men think of nothing but sex?’
Gareth had been watching her over the rim of his wine glass as he took a sip of the white burgundy. At her question he choked, half-laughing, and put the glass down. ‘I’m afraid we do think about it quite a lot,’ he admitted apologetically.
Jessica knew she was blushing. She put the oyster back on the plate and lifted her own glass, hoping for a little Dutch courage. ‘You mean that in dining rooms all over the country people are sitting down to oysters and the men are looking at them and thinking they look like… And then eating them?’
Now what have I said to amuse him? she wondered as Gareth gave another gasp of laughter.
‘Yes.’ He did not appear capable of elaborating.
‘I see.’ She eyed the offending shellfish. ‘How exactly does one eat a raw oyster?’
‘You squeeze on a little lemon juice, then raise the shell to your lips and tip it in.’ Garth suited the action to his words, chewed a couple of times and then swallowed. ‘Sublime. In very polite company one eats it with your knife and fork, but that need not concern us.’
‘Hmm.’ Jessica knew she was sounding prim, although something inside her was wanting to giggle, partly because the whole idea of food as erotic seemed nonsensical and partly because she was beginning to feel as though she was in a dream, or had had far too much to drink, or both. Not that she had ever had more than one glass of wine at once in her life, but she supposed this light-headed, bubbly sensation was how intoxication felt.
She picked up her oyster, regarded it severely and tipped it to her lips. Cool, salty, fleshy and sensuous, it was like nothing she had ever tasted, and certainly not like the rather rubbery constituents of a pie. Jessica bit, swallowed, thought about it and smiled. ‘It is fabulous!’
‘Then let me give you another.’ Gareth squeezed lemon, then lifted one from his plate and advanced it to her lips. Jessica sat back, a little shocked. ‘Oh quite, absolutely scandalous behaviour, and you do not do this at polite dinner parties, not until we have reached the stage of really setting the ton to talking. But we might be seen sharing our oysters in a box at the theatre.’
Jessica opened her lips and Gareth touched the shell to them. ‘Keep your eyes on me,’ he murmured as, instinctively, her lids drooped. His eyes, as she lifted hers to them, were dark and something hot burned at the back of them. ‘Just so, we are exchanging unspoken words, messages that cannot be said out loud in company. And everyone else will know that is what we are doing.’
This time she let the flesh slide into her mouth and the memory of his tongue, tangling with hers, as hot as this was cold, filled her. ‘What is it?’ He was instantly alert to her mood. ‘What are you thinking about?’
Too startled by her own reaction to prevaricate, Jessica answered honestly, ‘You kissing me’, and was rewarded by the knowledge that she had both surprised and disconcerted him.
The heat in his eyes flared and she knew he was remembering too, but his voice was dry as he said, ‘Those are exactly the thoughts you should be conjuring up—they will add verisimilitude to your acting.’
‘Excellent.’ If he thought he was going to disconcert her, he had another think coming. And in any case, she was more than capable of disconcerting herself, without his help. ‘My turn.’
This time, as she held out the shell and the oyster slid between Gareth’s lips she ran the tip of her tongue over her own and he almost choked. ‘You are worryingly good at this,’ he said when he was recovered and they laughed and ate the remaining oysters chastely from their own plates.
Jessica rang the little bell by her plate and the next course, ‘A pea fowl, larded, removed with a ginger soufflé and asparagus, madam’, was brought in.
The guinea fowl led to a much less disconcerting discussion about taste and texture and a good-natured dispute about the amount of port in the sauce, which Jessica lost as she had never knowingly tasted port before. She thought she had scored points by batting her eyelashes prettily and imploring Gareth to carve, because he was certain to be so good at it.
The ginger soufflé melted on the tongue, leaving an unexpected heat behind it. By this time she found she was paying as much attention to taste and texture, heat and cold, spice and sweetness as she had to the feel of the items Gareth had had her touch the night before.
‘That just leaves the asparagus,’ he remarked innocently.
Jessica eyed the thick green shafts, glistening with melted butter and the giggle finally escaped. She had eaten asparagus often enough in the past, daintily with knife and fork, casually with her fingers, the butter running down her chin; now, fuelled by the atmosphere of sensual indulgence and the experience with the oysters, she had no doubt at all what asparagus was supposed to be symbolising.
‘No,’ she gasped, not worrying that the end of her nose must be turning pink as she laughed or that this was not behaviour expected of either the governess, or of the lady who wore a fashionable silken gown. ‘This is too funny to take seriously.’
Silence. She had overstepped the mark with the man who was, when it came right down to it, her employer. He was paying her to take this seriously and she was giggling. What was the matter with her? Miss Jessica Gifford never giggled.
Eva and Bel had wanted her—expected her—to wear the gown without a fichu, to let her hair down, to rouge her lips and blacken her lashes. But her instincts had told her that the first time that Gareth saw her in public he had to see someone who would shock him in truth. His reaction must convince a jaded, cynical audience.
So she had found a fichu, pinned up her ringlets, left her face scrubbed and innocent—and laughed at the game he was trying to teach her. And now he was looking at her, his face shuttered. Those grey eyes were wet-flint dark and the mobile mouth still. Jessica held her breath, wishing she could not remember what his lips had felt like against hers, wishing she had no memory of the scent and the heat of him.
His mouth moved She saw the tip of one white, sharp, canine catch at the corner of his underlip, and then Gareth smiled at her, a slow, lazy smile that caught her breath in her throat and had the stumbling words of apology tangling into silence on her tongue. Oh, my God, she thought, shocking herself, he is gorgeous.
All he said, mildly, was, ‘Sex often is very funny.’
‘Oh.’ Jessica, charmed out of her embarrassment, regarded him, curious. ‘I thought it a subject men had little sense of humour about. That…place was so cold, so joyless. Would you ever hear laughter there? Joyous laughter?’
‘Perhaps not.’ Gareth picked up his wine glass, twirling it gently between thumb and fingers. ‘But there are more aspects to the relations between men and women than that—and, yes, men, despite our fragile sense of self-worth, do enjoy being with a woman with a sense of humour and wit.’
‘I shall remember that,’ Jessica said primly, wondering whether Gareth was being ironic about the fragile sense of self-worth or whether even large, calm aristocrats had their insecurities.
‘Tell me about your family.’ He changed the subject abruptly as she rang the bell.
‘I was about to leave you to your port and nuts.’
‘You have an absorbing novel, or perhaps some stitchery to occupy yourself?’ Gareth leaned back in his chair to allow the footman access to his plate.
‘Neither, I confess.’
‘Then stay and keep me company,’ he suggested as the man placed the decanter at his side and the dish of nuts before him.
‘Is