Page 39 of Cold November Rake

Sutton stared at the thumb as though it had betrayed him. "Oh Lord, I did, didn't I?"

"How does it taste?" she asked, delighted.

He grimaced. "Like you should make about a hundred more, so that I might finally like it."

She gasped and threw the spoon at him. He caught it against his chest and tutted. "If only Dr. Grisham could see you now. Hurling a spoon at your wounded husband? He would threaten you with the hot iron."

She retrieved the spoon from his hand, her fingers brushing his. A small jolt went up his arm. "You will not tell him, will you?"

He watched her lick the chocolate from the spoon. "Your secret is safe."

Sutton took the last sip of his drink and hesitated.

He didn't want this night to end.

It was so easy between them, just like it had been when they first met.

And that was exactly how he did not want to feel.

He needed to return to bed. Not because Dr. Grisham ordered it, not because his wound pained him, but because he was beginning to realize that his wife was far more dangerous than any footpad.

"Thank you for the milk." He raised the cup before placing it back on the table.

"The posset," she corrected with a smile, but her eyes scanned his face with something like panic or worry. "There's some more in the pan if you⁠—"

"No." He shook his head. "I think it has already started working. I feel quite sleepy. Besides, I would rather not risk exhaustion and have Dr. Grisham return with the hot iron."

"Of course," Temperance said, her smile strained.

"Good night, Temperance," he murmured and turned away.

"Good night, Edward," she said to the closing door.

Chapter Ten

Geneva

4th September 1816

My dear Sutton,

We have come to Geneva, and the rain has come with us. My aunt says it is a compliment, since the rain follows only those it likes.

Geneva is all aflutter, for Lord Byron has taken a villa across the lake, and the English at the hotel train their telescopes upon his windows as though he were a comet. The rain kept his whole party indoors all summer, and it is said they amused themselves by writing ghost stories. Last week, before her party left for England, I took breakfast with one of them, a Miss Godwin, who travels with a Mr. Shelley in a manner my aunt calls "admirably unconventional." She confided that she is writing a novel, which I found quite thrilling. I wish I had such a talent.

You may be interested to learn that I am now a subject of poetry. A young gentleman from Vienna has composed a sonnet to my ankles, which I am assured is the highest compliment those ankles will ever receive in Geneva. I did not know ankles could inspire so many rhymes. Three separate gentlemen have told me it is a shame to waste such a figure on a husband who does not write.

If you have any objection to any of this, you might write and say so. If you have none, you might write and say that. I find I am curious which.

We go next to Vevey, where my aunt's friend Lady Alderton has taken a house for the autumn. It is called the Villa Belle-Rive, on the lake road above the town, and any coachman in Vevey will know it. We shall be there from the twentieth of this month until the first snows.

P.S. I am not very fond of fish, though filets de perche turns out to be an exception. And the cheese here is the best I have tasted.

Your wife, still,

Temperance

[Sketch of filets de perche in the margins]