The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs

the bench, and her startlingly shapely backside thrust out and upward in a way that brought the devil to life in Oliver.
    Wisps of dark hair escaped the detestable coif, and the locks curled softly around her pale face. The hunt for a loophole in the law seemed to animate her, causing hereyes to dance and her lips to curve into an artless smile. Even better, the angle of her pose allowed Oliver to peer unobstructed into the bodice of her dress. It was a beautiful bosom indeed—what he could see of it. High, rounded breasts, the skin like satin or pearls, and if he craned his neck, he fancied he could just barely make out a shadow where her skin darkened—
    “Are you ill?” she asked.
    Oliver blinked. He shifted on the bench. He glanced down at his codpiece. Other than being too tightly trussed, he felt fine. “No. Why do you ask?”
    “You were looking at me rather strangely.”
    He laughed. “That, my darling, was lust.”
    “Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the page. Something told Oliver that she had little experience with lust.
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I assure you, I can control my base impulses.”
    “Perhaps.” She drummed her fingers on the page. “’Tis true, I sense no danger when I’m with you. Yet at the same time, I feel as defenseless as a fledgling fallen from the nest.” A single crease of bafflement appeared between her brows.
    He touched the tip of her nose. “That’s because I threaten the most vulnerable part of you, my pet. Your heart.” He gave her no chance to ponder that, but forged on. “Now. What is it you keep reading on that page?”
    “It’s about the disbursement and recovery of—”
    “That’s it!” Oliver jumped to his feet. He strode to her side of the table, leaned down and skimmed the page. Even as his eyes absorbed the printed words, he noticed her scent of fresh laundry and femininity.
    “What’s it?” Lark blinked at him.
    He lifted her bodily from the bench. He wanted toshare his exuberance, to show her the clean, effervescent joy of a puzzle solved. While she gaped at him as if he’d gone mad, he planted a brief, noisy kiss on her mouth, then spun her around, throwing his head back and laughing.
    “Lark, you have the wit of a scholar!” he cried.
    “I can’t.” The spinning seemed to render her breathless, so he stopped and held her by both hands.
    “Why not?” he demanded.
    “Well.” She looked up at him with heartbreaking earnestness. “Because I’m a woman.”
    “So was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Christine de Pisan. Perkin Warbeck.”
    “Perkin Warbeck was a pretender to the throne,” she stated. “And he was a boy.”
    “Don’t be so certain.” He couldn’t help himself. Such sweetness as he saw in her face should be outlawed as a strong intoxicant. He tipped up her chin and brushed his knuckles along her jawline. “Why in God’s name do you believe such humble ideas?”
    She tried to look away. He held her chin again, his touch gentle yet compelling. “The most learned men of the age have made a great study of the minds of women. They have proven that women are weaker.”
    “Learned men also once claimed the world was flat. Lark, you just gave me the key to breaking Spencer’s entail.”
    “I did?” For a moment sheer joy transformed her face into a vision of loveliness. He had no idea how she could seem so plain and lifeless one moment, so glowingly beautiful the next. She presented a far greater puzzle than English law, a far more interesting one, too.
    “The Common Recovery,” he said with satisfaction. “I never thought of it until you suggested it. You’ve a finemind, Lark, and the man who says otherwise is a fool.” He smiled down at her, his hands cradling her cheeks. “I could kiss you.”
    “You’ve already done that, thank you very much,” she said. “How does it work?”
    He found himself staring at her face. Candlelight had such a happy effect at moments like this. The warm glow healed her pallor, brought out