Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page B

gaped at
him in the darkness.   Disbelief and
instinct almost caused her to recoil.   "This comes as quite a surprise."
    "Have you
misunderstood my attentions?"   He
grasped her shoulders.   "I'm in love
with you."   He slid his hands down
her arms and around her waist.   After
brushing his lips over her collarbone, he trailed them down where her shift
peeked from the neckline of her jacket, and his hands guided her hips against
his.   "Kiss me."
    Her lips opened
for his, and from the way his loins performed with hers, she fancied he knew
far more of the act than porcine grunting atop a woman.   Mechanical response stirred within her body,
too long asleep, and her initial shock ebbed, but her brain nagged that his
charm obscured something.   She turned
her face aside.   "You're going
home?"
    His lips
pursued her throat.   "When my
replacement arrives."
    "But this
war is far from over."
    "My elder
brother died.   I've inherited the family
estates."
    The slow
percussion of raindrops pattered the roof while kisses traveled to her
temple.   She frowned.   He must be feigning his fondness, hoping
she'd tell him about rebel printing runs.   "Surely the Crown can ill afford to lose your military
expertise.   And I really must close all
the windows."
    He pressed her
hips to his again.   "The Hunts are
well-regarded in Parliament."   Translation: He, like other officers weary of a war with no end in
sight, had used wealth and Parliamentary connections to buy his way out of the
American conflict.   "Let me show
you what civilization is.   Come with
me."
    One little
detail hadn't yet been discussed.   "As your wife."   She
made it a statement, not a question.
    "Ah."   The tempo of his kisses slowed, even as the
rhythm of raindrops quickened.   "Well,
there's a financial empire at stake with my fifteen-year-old cousin, Beatrice,
having come of marriageable age, and —"
    "Wait a
moment."   She wiggled out of his
embrace.   "You're saying you want
me with you as your mistress ."   Certainly not a slight to a woman's worth, and a more desirable
arrangement than matrimony when the man was grateful to be in the company of
his mistress, having come from a shrewish wife and whining offspring.   But Sophie's thoughts spun.   How in the world could she have so misread
him?   Worse, had she misread herself?
    "Not to
worry.   I shall arrange a fashionable
townhouse in London for you."   He
nibbled the knuckles of her right hand.   "My duties in Parliament will take me there at least twice a
month.   We can be together during those
nights."
    Edward did
indeed sound as though he belonged among the "grateful."   Plus, two mediocre marriages, eight years of
widowhood, and a measure of financial independence had made Sophie indifferent
toward matrimony.
    But anxiety
lurched around in her stomach.   In the
American colonies, where a woman could manage a plantation or operate a
printing press, weren't she and Edward sharing an illusion of equality created
by their intellectual relationship?
    And there was
the matter of that age difference between Edward and Beatrice.   "How happy will you be married to a
girl who's younger than my daughter?   You've almost a quarter-century more life experiences than she.   Believe me, I know.   My first marriage was at fifteen."
    "That's
why I need you.   You and I discuss Plato
and Euclid and Shakespeare."   He
kissed her left palm.   "You
understand what operating a business is about.   Operating estates is like that, but on a grander scale.   Beatrice and I have little in common."
    "Except
consummating a financial empire and placating friends in Parliament."
    "Sophie,
would you stay here running the press for the rest of your life?   Between the Creek, Spaniards, French, and
roving outlaws, Alton could be a pile of rubble within five years."
    "Within
five years, your cousin will have borne you children, and you'll have that bond
with her.   Where will I be?"
    "I know
you