Page 11 of Cross My Heart
I look up from my phone to find one of those pampered, rarefied students hovering nearby.
“That’s me.” I glance her over. She’s blonde and coltish, and not a day over nineteen; glancing back at the coterie of other whispering girls nearby who clearly urged her to come over.
“I wanted to say, I’m a huge fan of your work,” she says confidently. “I just loved your book on the libertine movement.”
“Really?” I arch an eyebrow. “Even my editor didn’t love that book. Despised it, actually. Thought they would be lowering the tone of the whole publishing company to print the damn thing.”
Of course, he was more than happy to accept the fat promotion after it became a surprise bestseller, but even he had to accept that sex sells—now, as much as it ever did in the eighteenth century.
“Oh no,” the girl gushes quickly. “I thought it was insightful. Moving, even.”
“Is that so?” I regard her, amused. “Which partmovedyou, in particular?”
“Well,” she gives me a coy little smile. “Your perspective on sexual debauchery as political rebellion for one,” she gives me a flirty smile. “It changed my whole outlook on the period. I tried to get in to one of your seminars,” she adds. “But there’s already a waitlist. I was wondering… Perhaps you could send me a copy of the reading list, all the same. That way I could still benefit from your teaching. In private…”
She trails off, and fixes me with another suggestive, flirty smile. There’s no question what kind of ‘private teaching’ she’s angling for. And there’s also no question that I should be happy to instruct her. Give her a personal tour through the teachings of Rochester, and Cleland,Les Liaisons Dangereuses—with, perhaps, a cautionary detour into the work of the Marquis de Sade to round out her education.
After all, I have a reputation to live up to.
Libertine. Rake. The professor who practices what he teaches.
But instead, I give her a cool smile. “You can find a subject list on the college website,” I say.
Her face falls. “Oh. Of course, you must be busy.”
I nod curtly. “Was there anything else?”
“No. Sorry. Thanks.” She scurries away, back to her friends, cheeks flaming, and I can’t help thinking of Tessa’s breathy little act back in class. Fluttering her eyelashes, pouting those pretty lips… If I didn’t know better, I’d write her off as some wide-eyed student angling for a forbidden fling, just like this one.
Too obvious. Too innocent to tempt me.
But then I remember the look on Tessa’s face when I busted her snooping in the administrator’s office: that flash of sharp calculation in her eyes, before she put on the airhead act.
Yes, there’s something different about her. Some secret she’s determined to hide.
Good.
I could use a fresh diversion, and she’s not the only one who needs a challenge. The term has barely begun, but already I’m feeling a restless itch, craving something—or someone—to jolt me out of the ordinary. Inspire me, provoke me, do anything to break up the endless monotony of idle pleasure that somehow has become my life.
And now I might just have found her.
I look back at my phone, to Tessa’s student snapshot, taking in those unreadable grey eyes, and a smart-talking mouth just made for sin.
What’s your game, Ms. Peterson?
“So,that’swhy you’re slumming back at Oxford. All the adoring coeds.”
I look up to find my cousin, Imogen Alcott, approaching, brisk and polished as ever. She’s a few years younger than me, but we grew up like siblings. She air-kisses me on both cheeks. “Who’s the poor girl this time?” she teases good-naturedly, as we leave the college and head along the cobbled street towards our favorite lunch spot in town.
“You mean, who’s lucky enough to be graced with my attention and expertise?” I shoot back, smiling. “There’s nobody yet. Except…”
I think of Tessa again, the grace she’s hiding under those baggy college sweatshirts. How her silky ponytail would feel wrapped around my fist, her body arching under me, gasping in pleasure…
Imogen snorts with laughter. “Aren’t you get tired of it yet?”
“My freedom? Adventure? Indulging every whim at a moment’s notice?” I reply. “Yes, you’re right, it’s a dreadful bore.”
“I meant the way you’re avoiding the real world,” Imogen corrects me. “I mean, come on: You graduated this place years ago, but you still find a way to loiter here like some eternal Peter Pan.”