Page 74 of Ruined by the Wrong Earl

He nearly bowled over. ‘Nora,’ he murmured.

‘Do you like it?’

A black bustier pushed up her luscious breasts and he could make out peaks of her rosy nipples. The garment nipped at her slender waist to flare over her feminine hips. Black frilly garters at her smooth thighs held up black stockings which encased her slim legs.

She was an erotic fantasy.

‘I know you admired my white shift,’ she said. ‘But I thought to try something different. The French call it lingerie.’

His voice was rough. ‘I like it very much. Come here. I’ll show you how much.’

She came to him, and he’d never wanted a woman as badly. He desired more than her body. He was assailed by longing and something that went deeper than just want. He wanted all of her. They shared their passion for their work and celebrated their successes. This was much more than lust. He wasn’t supposed to become this enraptured. A deep part of him wondered if he’d ever get enough of her to sate him.

He lifted her by her waist to set her on the edge of the desk. His fingers entangled in the silken auburn mass of her hair before he lowered his lips to hers. She clung to him as he kissed her deeply and possessively. His need was great and she was just as urgent. Tearing the buttons of his shirt, she reached for the flap of his trousers until her fingers fisted around his cock. He nearly spilled right then and there. Pulling her to the edge of the desk, he entered her with one smooth stroke.

He groaned as her hot sheath encased him. Her gasps of pleasure urged him on.

‘You feel so good,’ he whispered into her ear.

Her nails dug into his biceps. ‘And you feel just as good, and big.’

He moved roughly and she met him with her own wildness. She kissed his throat and licked his skin, until he felt her tighten around him. She called his name with a ragged moan as she peaked. He came with a low, hoarse growl.

Gasping for breath, he held her still. He could stay like this, burying his face in her hair, cradled by her softness. ‘I did not mean to be rough.’ He was appalled at his lack of finesse.

Her lips brushed his. ‘No, it was splendid. I do believe it will help me overcome my fear of public speaking.’

Heads together, they laughed.

Nora stood before a panel of eight members of the London Scientific Society. Seven of them were male, one female. After a week of studying, note-taking, and practicing before a cheval glass (as Ralston had suggested), the time of her presentation had finally come.

Her hands were folded before her, her notes on a lectern. She’d memorized the notes, another of her husband’s tips, but had them before her in case of necessity. Still, despite all her preparation, she’d been so nervous that morning. She’d only been able to nibble on toast and drink cold tea. She turned to scan the small audience, her gaze seeking Ralston’s.

He smiled and nodded, a silent show of encouragement. Her heart and confidence were buoyed. She recalled his impactful words before they’d left for the presentation in the carriage.

‘You have practiced and are prepared, and I have every confidence that you will do splendidly. Those stuffy Society members will be awed and impressed, just as I was when I first saw your sketches that day on a Cornwall beach.’

Once again, her heart fluttered in her breast at his encouraging words. If they weren’t in public, she’d throw herself into his arms.

Managing a smile, she turned back to the members. The seven men all looked somewhat similar. In their early sixties, with thinning hair greying at the temples, spectacles and serious expressions. She recognized Mr Collins. The others had nameplates before them—Davis, Evans, Brown and Johnson. The one female on the panel, Miss Lyons, was a tall, thin bespectacled woman with an even more serious expression. Nora suspected she would be the hardest to impress.

‘The London Scientific Society welcomes Lady Ralston to present her findings on seashells.’

Nora reached for her notes. ‘To the honorable members of the London Scientific Society, thank you for inviting me. Seashells have fascinated people since the age of time and shell collecting continues to be popular. Conchology, however, differs from mere collecting. It is the study of mollusk shells.’

The panel members looked at her, their gazes sharp and attentive. It was a good sign. She took a quick breath and continued. ‘Shells, like those of snails or clams, are made mostly of calcium carbonate. You can see my supplemental drawings of a cockle shell magnified four hundred times beneath a microscope.’

She’d previously submitted her drawings and she waited until the members looked at them. ‘When a shell gets damaged, the animal inside can repair itself by slowly producing more calcium carbonate from special cells in its mantle. The mantle is a soft tissue just beneath the shell.’

‘How?’ A question from Miss Lyons.

Nora leaned forward. ‘The shell lays down new material layer by layer, patching the broken area over time. The process is slow but protects the mollusk’s home—its shell.’

‘And are there specimens?’ Mr Davis asked.

She nodded. ‘Yes, I have a collection of damaged and repaired shells as exhibits.’

The rest of the presentation continued. She spoke, and the panel members fired off questions. She answered each inquiry and if she was unsure, she offered to supplement her research and submit it to the panel for future consideration.