Talk with her

"Oh, look. A woman who reads," Torg said, trying to keep any patronizing tone out of his voice. He leaned against the mahogany shelves, his shadow stretching toward her across the Persian rug. "You seem fascinated. Explain it to me." Perhaps she would prove more interesting than the Lord's dull son.

Margaret’s breath caught. Fine hairs stirred at her neck. Her fingers tightened on the leather binding, nails digging into the gold-tooled title. "A woman who reads?" Her eyes darted toward the oak door. "Do not mock me, sir." She flushed scarlet from cheeks to collar.

*He saw my hand beneath my skirts! The shame—my own heat still there.* Despite herself, curiosity tightened her throat. "A treatise on... anatomy and passion," she whispered over the hearth's crackle. "The illustrations are... provocative." Her thumb brushed an engraving of intertwined limbs. "It speaks of delights I cannot comprehend."