“I’m desperate to marry you.” He moved closer and pressed whispery kisses on the silky skin of her neck as he murmured. “I’m hungry to make you my wife.” He emitted a low groan. “In every way.”
She set down her pen and looked up at him with those big chocolaty eyes, and he thought he’d never seen a more desirable woman. When her hand stroked his thigh, he thought he could go mad with desire. “I must get a special license,” he ground out.
Tracing sultry circles on his thigh, she nodded. “You can set the date,” she said breathlessly.
He snatched her hand and kissed it. Otherwise he might have tried to ravish her on the floor of her father’s library. He did not know what had gotten into him. No woman had ever aroused him as she did. “Then we’ll marry before the week’s out, my beloved.”
With those words, he stood. By God, he was going to find a clergyman and get a special license immediately.
Chapter 17
Judging from the attendance, Dot would say her salon was a great success. Every person she had invited came. Once they had all arrived, Forrester took her hand and went to stand in front of the fireplace, the focal point at which the drawing room.
After he thanked everyone for coming, he made an announcement: “My dear Miss Pankhurst and I wish to tell those of you who have gathered here tonight that we’re to marry on Wednesday morning in Bath Cathedral, and all of you . . .” Forrester scanned the assemblage, “my closest friends, are invited.”
His comment was met with broad smiles, and Mrs. James Blankenship, who’d managed to seat herself next to Mr. Pankhurst, even clapped her hands to demonstrate her hearty approval.
“One other announcement: after tonight’s discussions, whist tables will be set up for all who desire to play. Now,” he said, “I’m going to step aside and allow our hostess to introduce our first speaker.”
Dot had decided that even though she’d been told Melvin Steffington was the shyer of the two scholars, she would have him go first. Her reasoning was that his topic of a Roman philosopher/orator would be less appealing than Jonathan Blankenship speaking on contemporary matters of politics. Having Jonathan go last would extend the discussions to enable all attendees who desired to further address the topic.
“It is my honor tonight,” she began, “to present our first speaker whose newest work is a translation of some of Cicero’s more obscure letters.” She eyed Melvin, who looked so much like Sir Elvin she would not have been able to tell which was which were he not seated next to his pretty blonde wife. “Please welcome Dr. Melvin Steffington.”
He slowly came to replace Dot in front of the fireplace and cleared his throat. “I have decided that instead of reading from my work tonight—which my wife tells me might be considered by some to be dull—I will tell you a little about the remarkable Roman who, in my opinion, came to personify the entire Renaissance movement to bring us out of the dark ages.”
He went on to commend Cicero and explain that he gave up his life to defend his principles.
When Mr. Steffington finished, he asked for questions.
Abby Appleton’s arm shot up, and he called upon her. Dot shuddered, hoping the unthinking young lady would not say something offensive to the shy scholar. Dot’s glance met Forrester’s. He looked anxious.
“I suppose, Mr. Steffington,” Abby began, “that Cicero wrote in Latin?”
He nodded. “That is correct.”
Abby shrugged. “I fail to understand why people like you continue to study Latin. We all know it’s a dead language.”
Dot and Forrester looked at one another, and he rolled his eyes with exasperation.
Melvin Steffington did not answer for a moment. It was clear to Dot that he’d not anticipated questions of so naïve a nature. “Well . . . first, allow me to explain that Latin has heavily influenced every language spoken in Europe today, so I believe an understanding of Latin broadens one’s vocabulary. But most importantly, these brilliant men who ruled the world’s most civilized country almost two thousand years ago imparted significant wisdom which will benefit all mankind for the next two thousand years, and reading their works in the language in which they spoke is the purest, most exacting way to convey their thoughts and to fully understand them.”
Dot was most relieved by Mr. Steffington’s intelligent response—and thankful that Abby’s careless words must not have offended him too badly.
“Well said,” Forrester praised.
The gentlemen in the chamber continued to speak of Cicero, but the ladies, owing to their lack of a classical education, contributed little.
After a while Dot returned to the fireplace and addressed the gathering. “Thank you so much, Mr. Steffington, for such an enlightening discussion. I, for one, will be reading all the translations of Cicero that I can get my hands on—that is, after I read yours. He sounds like a brilliant, fascinating man, and we are indebted to you for sharing your wealth of research with us.”
Then she proceeded to introduce Jonathan Blankenship. “Many of you know the younger Mr. Blankenship from his essays on political economy which appear regularly in the Edinburgh Review, and it is my privilege tonight to introduce Mr. Jonathan Blankenship.”
He came to take her place in front of those assembled. “Tonight I have decided to give all of you a preview of my article that will appear next month in the Edinburgh Review. I’ll be promulgating penal reform.”
Abby shrieked and covered her ears. “In front of ladies?”
Forrester issued an impatient oath. “I beg your pardon, Jonathan, but obviously my youngest sister is unacquainted with the word penal. Would you
