Slightly Wicked Read Online Free PDF

for food.”
    “Almost,”
she said in that brisk voice he had heard once before. “But not quite. How foolish, Mr. Bedard, when your dinner awaits you on the table and you are hungry.”
    “Ralf,” he said. “You had better call me Ralf.”
    “Ralph,” she said. “It is time for dinner.”
    And later they would indulge in dessert, he thought as he seated her at the table and took his place opposite her. A sweet delight that they would savor all night long. His blood hummed in anticipation of good sex. He had no doubt that it would be very good indeed. In the meantime she was right—his body needed to be fed.
    He talked of London at her request since it appeared that she had never been there. He talked about the social scene during the Season—about the balls and routs and concerts, about Hyde Park and Carlton House and Vauxhall Gardens. She spoke about the theater at his urging, about the parts she had played and those she longed to play, about her fellow actors and about the directors she had worked with. She described it all slowly, with dreamy eyes and a smile on her lips as if it were a profession she thoroughly enjoyed.
    They ate well. And yet it surprised Rannulf about an hour after they had begun to look down at the table and see that most of the large quantities of food were gone and that the bottle of wine was empty. He could hardly remember the taste of anything, though he had a feeling of general well-being—and a constant spark of anticipation.
    He got to his feet, crossed to the fireplace, and pulled on the bell rope. He had the dishes cleared away and another bottle of wine brought up.
    “More?” he asked Claire, tilting the bottle above her glass.
    She set one hand over the top of it. “Oh, I really ought not,” she said.
    “But you will.” He looked into her eyes.
    She smiled. “But I will.” She removed her hand.
    He leaned back in his chair after filling their glasses and taking a sip. Now was perhaps the moment. The meager light of day was finally fading beyond the windows. The rain pelting against them and the fire crackling in the hearth added an atmosphere of coziness and intimacy, unusual for summer. But there was something else.
    “I want to see you act,” he said.
    “What?”
Her eyebrows rose and her hand, holding the wineglass, paused halfway to her mouth.
    “I want to see you act,” he repeated.
    “Here? Now?” She set the glass down on the table. “How absurd. There is no stage, there are no props, no other actors, no script.”
    “A talented, experienced actress surely does not need a script for some parts,” he said. “And no stage or props either. There are any number of famous soliloquies that do not require other actors. Perform one for me, Claire. Please?”
    He raised his glass and held it up to her in a silent toast.
    She stared at him, the flush back in her cheeks. She was embarrassed, he thought in some surprise. Embarrassed to put on a private performance for a man who was about to become her lover. Perhaps it was difficult to think one’s way into a dramatic role under such circumstances.
    “Well, I could do Portia’s famous speech, I suppose,” she said.
    “Portia?”
    “
The Merchant of Venice,
” she explained. “Surely you know the ‘Quality of Mercy’ speech?”
    “Remind me.”
    “Shylock and Antonio were in court,” she said, leaning slightly across the table toward him, “for it to be decided if Shylock had the right to take a pound of flesh from Antonio. There was no doubt that he had such a right—it was stated clearly in the bond they had both agreed to. But then Portia arrived, intent on saving the dearest friend and benefactor of Bassanio, her love. She came disguised as a lawyer’s clerk and spoke up in Antonio’s defense. At first she appealed to Shylock’s better nature in the famous speech about mercy.”
    “I remember now,” he said. “Do Portia for me, then.”
    She got to her feet and looked around. “This is the