“Would you like to read some Donne? I can find it in the library in an instant.”
“No,” he laughed.
“Oh, good. What a rogue that man is.”
“He was a man of God.”
“He was a rake of the first order if you ask me.”
“He loved his wife,” George countered.
“He also loved other ladies and tempted them to his bed. With fleas.”
“Riding Westward,” George said.
“The Flea,” Jane said.
George chuckled and rubbed his forehead, his expression softening. “I think we can agree the man loved love.”
“Certainly. Whether that love was holy or not…” She shrugged.
“How do you know Donne’s poetry so well?”
“It became clear quite early on I was no scholar. But when I was sixteen or so, Edmund determined to see if he could find a means of interesting me in my studies. He compiled a list of bawdy and frankly scandalous readings, under the guise of literature, and gave them to me to read. I must confess it is the only reading I’ve done with much enjoyment. Does that shock you?”
“No.” It delighted him. He wanted to pick her mind clean of all the knowledge she’d gleaned through her bawdy literary studies.
He gnashed every question between his back teeth and swallowed them down.
They sank into a companionable silence.
“George.” She whispered his name so quietly he almost did not hear it.
“Yes?”
“It is different between us now. Is it not?”
He licked his lips. Damn, what he’d do for a glass of whisky right about now.
“Are we still friends?” she asked.
“Indeed we are, Jane.”
“Good. Perfect really. Just… perfect.”
Did he note a hint of disappointment in her tone? Or was that merely wishful thinking?
Wishful thinking leading nowhere.
“Read to me,” she blurted out.
“You dislike books.”
“My mind is home to a thousand bees buzzing tonight, and I need some distraction. Read to me. Please?”
George lifted his gaze from the page. His gaze bored into hers. He snapped the book shut and placed it on his lap. “We must find another book. I don't read poetry aloud.”
“Really? I would have thought it your favorite pastime.”
