Page 28 of Dearest Beast
“True,” she said, pausing for a moment as if she was considering the matter, raising a single finger. “But one might argue that it is easier for a rich man to fulfill mitzvot, to engage in good behavior, and thus they should be held to a higher standard.”
The woman was relentless.
“With the second part, I agree. Completely,” he told her. After all, he did hold himself to a high standard. Perhaps not the same one as she, but one as important, if not more.
“And the first?” she asked, cocking her head a little.
Now it was his turn to purse his lips and consider the matter, which was far thornier than one would think. And not because hedid not know the specifics of as many mitzvot as she—something he was not ashamed of, per se, but would never disclose. At least not to her.
No, it was more. For example, it was far easier to say a bracha before or after a meal in one’s own home than as a guest at a gentile’s table. Or observing work prohibitions when one only relied on the community for clientele. Or were employed by someone who did.
“I believe it’s… complicated,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, nearly dislodging his kippah.
“Complicated?” There was a distinct skepticism in her tone.
“It depends on the person and on the mitzvah,” he explained.
She stared at him for another long moment, the gaze of those large blue-gray eyes impossible to relinquish. “What about you?”
Roger frowned. “What about me?”
“Which mitzvot do you struggle to follow?” she asked.
This time, a hundred ideas, all of them breaches of modesty and inappropriate bodily contact, flitted through his mind. Which was most certainly a sign that he needed to go to bed.
They both did.
“I enjoy several spirits of the nonkosher variety on occasion,” he told her, pushing himself into a standing position. “The hour is getting late, Miss Adler,” he added, unable to stop himself from leaning forward, so close that he could see the rise and fall of her chest, which sped considerably.
For a moment, he thought she’d turn and run, or at least step backward. But she did not. Instead, she gazed up at him once more, her eyes so focused, so serious. Her tongue darted out and wet those light, dare he say, rosy lips.
Desire sped through him. Hot and fierce, battering his walls of control as he struggled to keep them in place.
He could not break. He could not. It was a mistake the first time and would be disastrous now. He was going to marry Leone Teres, and finally, after so many years of losing, win. That was better than a few moments of pleasure. And yet he couldn’t seem to find the correct words to end the moment.
“It is,” she said finally, breaking the spell.
Turning toward the exit, he motioned for her to follow. “After, I shall verify the work on your house is going as it should,” he assured her. “I promise, you’ll be home before you know it.”
“We can only hope.” She brushed past him. “Good night, Mr. Berab. Thank you for your hospitality,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried back into the main house, disappearing around the corner as he watched.
If Roger had believed he would be permitted the respite of sleep after the ill-advised encounter in the hothouse with Miss Adler, he was sorely mistaken.
No, he did not even reach his bedroom before being halted by a rather loud crash coming from his office. Forcing down a large gulp of air, he turned the knob, pulled the door open, and took stock of what had become of his normally pristine space.
Both his chairs were on their sides, his ledgers scattered over the floor, their spines cracked, their jackets tattered, a jar of ink running all over a rug that had belonged to his family since the time when they were in the eastern trades, and the rather fine curtains, which normally nicely blocked out the sun, were shredded from bottom to top.
The culprit sat in the middle of the room, on his daughter’s lap, glaring at him. Whatever possessed him to bring the little beast into his home, he had no idea.
Well, he did. After the High Holidays where reminders of Lucy’s absence could be found around every corner, his children, especially Fannie, had seemed so melancholy. He’d wanted to bring them a little cheer, and the cat had struck him as a good idea because his daughter was so fond of a poem about one, and well…
Roger closed his eyes for a moment.
It was not the cat’s fault.
Not truly.
Not when he paid very good money to employ a supposedly competent governess who was charged with making sure his children and their accoutrements were in bed and asleep at an appropriate hour.
