Looking down at his ruined shoes, Edmund caught a whiff of the stench emanating from his body and heaved in disgust. His thorough preparations had been a little too thorough for his own good. It was elementary that a strict absence of soap and water would help ensure he won his wager, but Edmund really didn’t want to marry some old maid sight unseen. As further preparation he’d forced himself to wear the same garments day and night for two weeks and before leaving for his visit had one of his gardeners rub an unhappy tomcat up and down his suit. He knew the effect he’d have on the old maid before he even set off in his carriage. If his own servants couldn’t stand within five feet of his person without gagging, it was unlikely even the most desperate old maid would say yes to a marriage proposal. If the stench didn’t put her off, his determination to break every etiquette rule ever invented probably would. Either way his thoroughness was getting up his own nose. He had to finish the wager quickly; the gnawing anxiety caused by his filthiness was almost unbearable. The thought of pulling on clean underclothes made his eyes water with longing. As soon as he won his wager he’d bathe, put on a clean suit of clothes and depart.
At least if he lost the wager there was no fear of being saddled with an ugly wife. Miss Priscilla Stanley was a pretty woman with alabaster skin, seductive curves and brown silky hair worn plaited into a crown that left her divinely shaped ears exposed. Every time he looked at her or thought about her he felt a luxurious throbbing that reinforced a mad desire to pull her into his arms and kiss away the sadness in her eyes. Finding Miss Priscilla Stanley in his bed every morning would be no hardship, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to marry a woman. It certainly wouldn’t guarantee a happy home. He needed to have a thorough inspection of London’s beauties before giving in to any throbbing madness. He had to choose carefully; once he made his choice he’d be stuck like a pig on a roast. A man couldn’t change his wife like a dirty shirt.
Having finished cleaning his shoes on the grass around the wishing well, Edmund stared at the old stone ledge where he’d touched her hand. He hadn’t meant his flirtatious courting to become physical. Words were empty twaddle without physical proof of sentiment. He didn’t want to trifle with the woman’s feelings. He was here to be rejected not to inspire hope. The impulse to caress her hand was clearly linked to the luxurious throbbing that was trying to persuade him to be a fool. He tried to push the touch from his thoughts, but walking through the garden the electric memory of soft clean skin allowing his caresses shimmered in and out of his conscious like a flickering ray of sunlight through thick grey clouds. If he remained in the woman’s company there was no telling what madness might occur. It was clear he’d have to speed up his departure. The prospect of donning clean clothes was reason enough to bring his courtship to an end at the earliest opportunity.
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