Katie Rose (8 page)

He kissed her once more, hard on the lips, and then with a warm smile and wink, he unlocked the door and tossed her the key. A moment later he was gone.

C
harles, are you trying to murder that thing?”

He glanced up through a haze of sweat and saw his friend Gabriel leaning against the ropes of the makeshift ring. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he removed his gloves and tossed them aside. As he straightened and shook out his arms, his muscles hurt but the burning ache actually felt good, especially compared to the painful arousal that Winifred had left him with.

“Just getting some exercise,” Charles replied casually. “I was too keyed up tonight to go home and sleep.”

“I can tell,” Gabriel said sarcastically, indicating the punching bag. “I thought you were going to pulverize that bag. I half-expected it to fly across the room.”

Charles leaned down and picked up the robe hanging on the ropes. “It’s been a frustrating month.”

“So I heard,” Gabriel replied. At Charles’s sharp glance, he grinned. “I’m married to Winifred’s sister Jennifer. Remember?”

Charles nodded. “I do recall that.”

“Then why the workout?” Gabriel’s smirk grew deeper. “As if I couldn’t guess. Winifred is terribly attractive, and having her around all day—”

“Stop it,” Charles said, cutting his friend off quickly. “Let’s just say I find my association with her to be a challenge.”

Gabriel threw back his head and laughed, and Charles scowled as he climbed out of the ropes. “Charles”—Gabriel flung his arm around him—“there is but one cure for getting involved with an Appleton. Either marry her, or drink a lot of whiskey.”

Charles smiled. He
was
getting involved with Winifred—perhaps too involved. She was a decent woman, and he knew he couldn’t just toy with her without eventually courting her. Marriage? The thought wasn’t as troubling as it might have been. She fascinated him. And, having her in his office, so damned close and tempting … his blood pounded at the thought of that kiss, her eyes closing, the soft whimper in the back of her throat.…

“Whiskey,” he decided quickly. “Fast.”

W
INIFRED PUT
the last stack of books away in a daze, her mind still reeling from her encounter with Charles. It was late, and she knew she should go home. But she could not face Aunt Eve and her sister just yet. The feelings roiling inside her were too new, too raw, to share with anyone, and she was not at all certain she could successfully conceal them.

Closing her eyes, she tried to make sense of what was happening to her. She was supposed to be clerking, working as Charles’s apprentice—not falling apart like a giddy schoolgirl! Yet the memory of his kiss, his intimate touch, the way he held her, thre
wher into giddy turmoil. Alone, she could admit the truth: she hadn’t wanted him to stop. She had wanted him to make love to her, to take her to the next level, to teach her much more than the law.…

She felt as if there was a fever in her blood, an illness that defied all common sense. She had been unable to concentrate for weeks, had not been sleeping or eating right. When Charles kissed her, she had actually felt woozy. Maybe there was something physically wrong with her. It had been a long time since she had seen a doctor, but perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea.

As she put the last volume away, a discreet black book sandwiched between two others caught her attention.

Doctor Spatterfore’s Medical Book for Women
. Frowning, she withdrew the volume, wondering how it got here, in the law library. She recalled something about Spatterfore—he was a radical who had written for
Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly
, an advocate of modern thinking. Flipping through the pages, she found chapters on pregnancy, menstruation, female complaints … her finger paused at the chapter on female sexuality.

“Men are catabolic in nature. They are concerned basically with fertilization, and thus are encouraged to expend energy. Women, by contrast, as the weaker sex, are anabolic. They must conserve energy, and are thus considered receptacles for a man’s pleasure. It is the female then, who controls sexual advances, and is held responsible for the morality of the culture, who can say ‘yea or nay’ to the consummation of intercourse.”

Winifred’s nose wrinkled thoughtfully. Receptacles? What on earth did that mean? She read on.

“However, it must be said that with the study of evolutionary theories, there is a distinct possibility that
women, as well as men, are endowed with mating instincts which compel them toward completion of the sex act. These instincts may be subtle, or may cause physical symptoms such as rapid pulse and breathing, distraction, lack of concentration, night sweats, and fantasies. Many believe that these feelings are associated with the seasons, much as they are in the animal kingdom, spring being a particular time for female sensitivity. The only cure appears to be the sex act itself, which temporarily purges the body of impurities and rids the mind of toxins.”

Her hand was shaking as she slammed the book shut. So that was what was wrong with her! Mating instincts! The symptoms the doctor listed could not have been more like the ones she was experiencing if she had recited them herself.

Relief sped through her. She could finally put a name and a cause to her condition. Good Lord, why didn’t anyone inform women about this, tell them that these feelings were normal, healthy, and indeed, good for the species? Instead of watercolors and needlepoint, why weren’t women taught anything useful, especially about their own bodies? Surely she was not the only female who thought she was losing her mind when the only thing she could concentrate on was a man.

Yet her thoughts wandered back to that last sentence.
The only cure appears to be the sex act itself
. That she could believe. Her little experience in lovemaking, rather than sating her, only left her wanting more. Was this the way of it, then, and why lovers would take any risk to be together? Or perhaps, once the act itself had taken place, one felt satisfied?

That notion made some logical sense, and a solution began to suggest itself in Winifred’s mind. What if she were to become Charles’s mistress, at least for one night? Excitement pulsed through her as she
tasted the thought. Their romantic interest was becoming entirely too distracting from her work. Surely, if they experienced the ultimate in a physical relationship, they could both put it from their minds and concentrate once more!

Before she could congratulate herself on her brilliance, a sobering thought came to her. There could be consequences to her plan. Even as sheltered as Winifred was, she knew how women became pregnant, and that the very act she was contemplating could have such a result. Her nose wrinkled, and she opened the book once more to read the section on female fertility:

“The female fertile cycle is a three-day period occurring approximately fourteen days before the onset of menses. If a woman forgoes sexual intercourse during the fertile period, she may safely indulge during the off cycle without pregnancy occurring. Conversely, if a woman desires pregnancy, conception is most likely to occur during the fertile period. Thus any woman can control the size of her family and number of children by adhering to a few simple rules.”

That was it! Winifred knew most married women must practice something like this. They spoke of it in hushed whispers that died when she or another young woman entered the room, and now, she finally knew the particulars. A burden seemed to lift from her as she anticipated her fantasy coming true, without the worry of complications. Charles Howe was the one man in the world who could truly make her happy. And if she could enjoy only that for a time, she would take it.

A
FEW DAYS LATER
, she had an opportunity to approach him.

“Yes, Winifred? Come in.” Charles gestured to a
chair before his desk while trying to clear the oak tabletop of paper. She entered and took a seat, waiting patiently for him to finish. He expertly placed one document on top of another, handing some to Mr. Crocker, tossing others into a cardboard bin. When the secretary was nearly buried under the stack of papers, Charles turned to her expectantly.

“You wanted to see me? I’m afraid this is not a very good time—”

“I need to talk to you, Charles,” she said loudly. “Alone.”

Charles nodded toward Crocker, and the little man exited, closing the door behind him.

“What is it? Are you out of work already? I have a few other cases you can take a look at—”

“No, nothing like that.” She smiled softly, then took a deep breath. “I—”

There was a loud knock on the door. Charles swore beneath his breath, then yelled, “Come in!”

Jared Marton entered, clutching a handful of briefs.

“There you are,” Jared said. “I heard you had come back from court. I have a few cases to review with you—hello, Winifred.”

Jared’s tone changed from brisk to warm. Charles could not help the irritation that arose in him at the handsome lawyer’s attentions to Winifred. He scowled in the man’s direction.

“Mr. Marton, Miss Appleton and I are in a meeting. I will be happy to go over your cases later.”

“All right,” Jared said, flashing Winifred a smile. At Charles’s continued scowl, he withdrew quickly, closing the door behind him.

“Charles,” Winifred began again, “I mean, Mr. Howe, the reason I asked to see you—”

There was another knock, followed by Miles
Witherspoon’s entrance. The clerk placed another stack of papers on Charles’s desk, along with a pile of mail. After a prolonged silence, he finally took the hint and departed.

“One would think this was the train station instead of my office,” Charles grumbled. He turned once more to Winifred. “Please continue.”

Winifred had just started to reply when the door burst open once more. This time two of the attorneys entered, loudly arguing over some legal semantics. Charles rose impatiently and held open the door.

“Gentlemen, I am speaking with Miss Appleton,” he said firmly. “Would you mind taking your disagreements elsewhere?”

The two men glanced at Winifred in surprise, then shrugged. One of them spoke. “Sorry, we didn’t realize—”

“A closed door around here apparently means absolutely nothing,” Charles said sarcastically.

The two lawyers reluctantly took their leave. This time when they had exited, Charles bolted the door, then returned to his desk. Shaking his head, he absently picked up another stack of papers.

“I am sorry, Winifred. Now you were saying?”

“Charles, I have decided I want to be your mistress.”

“What?”

The papers he had picked up fell to the floor. Winifred scrambled to her feet, attempting to retrieve the scattered documents. Charles grabbed her hand and held it tightly, preventing her from bending over. “Charles, your work!” she exclaimed.

“Don’t worry about that. I will pick up the damned papers later. I am far more interested in this conversation. What did you just say?”

“I have given this a lot of thought,” Winifred said
quickly. “It is the most logical decision for both of us. This solution is the best for everyone involved.”

“Go on.” Charles released her, then fumbled to sit down on the front of his desk like a blind man. This had to be some kind of wile, he thought, an Appleton ploy to trick him into Lord knew what. Still, like a starving man being offered a feast, he was helpless to do anything except go where this led. His pulse pounded at her innocent words, and his breathing quickened. Could she really mean what she said? Could Winifred Appleton really boldly proposition him in his own office, intending to let him—

“So I think this is the only answer,” Winifred continued. “The … passion between us is interfering with our work, and I presume the only way to subdue it is to experience it to the fullest.”

“I see,” Charles said. Understanding dawned as he finally grasped her reasoning. His seduction had been effective, all right, so much so that she wanted to experience it all in an effort to put him from her mind! Only Winifred could have possibly come up with such an idea, he marveled.

She was offering him the chance of a lifetime—an opportunity to make love to her. He would have to be a fool not to consider it. He stared at her once more. She had lowered her face again, and he felt a moment’s sympathy for her, knowing what it had cost her to make this daring proposal. Lifting her chin with his fingers, he gazed deeply into her eyes.

Her expression made his breath stop. Along with shyness and embarrassment, he saw confused desire smoldering there, and a need that was as urgent as his own. His mouth went dry, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms right then and there.

“Winnie,” he said hoarsely, “what makes you so
sure that once we have … consummated this relationship, the passion between us would die?”

“It always does,” Winifred said, surprised at his question. “One does not see married couples acting entranced with each other over time. And even the most ardent lovers eventually become disenchanted.”

“I see,” he replied, knowing all too well what she meant. Unfortunately, Winifred’s observations about married couples were correct. He, too, knew few of them who rushed home into each other’s arms. His own parents maintained a cordial relationship, yet so formal that it was hard to believe they had ever experienced the kind of desire he felt for Winifred. But between some married couples, he knew, such passion did exist.