He buttoned his jacket, as if putting more layers between Kitty and the proof of his impending death would stifle hercuriosity. “It is nothing to concern yourself with. I overextended myself, that is all. Attending a garden party during the day was an item on my list. Not terribly exciting, but my sensitivity to sunlight meant I never expected to complete it.”
Kitty closed her eyes. “I should have guessed it was the list.”
The thread of sadness in her voice made him squirm. “I also wanted to see you again.” And breathe in her intoxicating aroma.
Only then did he realize how foolish he’d been pining after her when he carried one of Marcus’s inventions in case of this exact situation. He reached into his pocket and removed a silver flask. Inside was Adams’s blood, voluntarily given, kept warm by Marcus’s handiwork. It wouldn’t sustain him for long, but given his state, he expected he had less than a fortnight before he succumbed to fever.
He uncapped the flask and drank until his hunger eased enough that he no longer feared for Kitty’s safety, although her scent was as tempting as ever.
He capped the flask, returned it to his pocket, then tugged Kitty into his arms. “Trust me. I have suffered this affliction for many years. Allow me to rest until dusk, and I will be well.”
“But—”
He squeezed her. “Do not make me speak of it. After we have finished the list, I will tell you everything. I promise.”
It was a cruel thing to say because there would be noafter, but he was selfish enough to want a few more days with her. Then he would withdraw from society and wait for death. That way, Kitty would remember him as he was instead of the withered creature he would become when he reached the final stage of mate atrophy.
She relaxed in his embrace. “As you wish.”
Chapter Nineteen
“You want meto dowhat?” Kitty asked, her voice squeaking at the end. Cordon had awakened only a few minutes earlier, but he moved as if he hadn’t been injured at all and spoke with his usual brash confidence.
“You would be reenacting the famous ride by Lady Godiva,” he said as he paced her shop. “It was always my favorite tale. My mother read it to me often when I was a boy.”
“You cannot be serious,” Kitty said. “Why does your list contain an item thatImust complete?” Riding around the park at night was dangerous enough, but to do sowhile nakedwas something no rational person would speak aloud. She ran her fingers through her hair, imagining it falling over her body. She’d known his list contained scandalous tasks, but this was ridiculous.
Also, she still had to figure out what to do about Mr. Blaylock. The entire morning she’d been thinking about how to remove the man from Betty’s life, but the only ideas she came up with involved Cordon’s money and power.
She might be his tailoress and mistress, but she still didn’t feel comfortable asking for such a huge favor.
He grinned. “I am completely serious. I’ve always admired Lady Godiva and her unflinching commitment to saving her subjects from her husband’s taxation.”
She turned around to avoid him seeing how her cheeks burned. “It would have been better to slide a knife through his ribs.”
Then she wouldn’t be considering doing something that would’ve made her mother faint.
He stepped behind her and gently clasped her hips in his hands. “Imagine how it will feel, wearing only what God gave you.” He breathed a sigh. “My heart races merely thinking about it.”
She placed her palms flat on her worktable, resisting the urge to grind herself against him. “Then why not do it yourself?”
He chuckled, and it rumbled down her back. “Me, a lord? There would be no real danger. No excitement. Escorting you, however”—he pressed the bulge of his erection to her rear—“is far more thrilling.”
It was as if he were infecting her with his eagerness. She could imagine what he described. Sitting astride a horse in the middle of the night, the cool, night air kissing her skin. She shivered.
“Perhaps if I braid my hair,” she said, turning around. “Itmightpass for a kind of dress. From far away. In the dark.”
“Oh, yes!” Cordon beamed. “I am adept at braiding.” He stepped back. “Disrobe.”
She clutched the bodice of her dress. “Here? Now?”
He looked around. “Is your shop not closed?”
Well, he was correct about that. It was nearly midnight, and the door was locked.
“Not here,” she said firmly. “Upstairs.”
He shrugged, then followed her up the narrow stairs and stood silently while she fumbled for her keys and opened the door. Then they were inside, and at that moment, the difference between their classes couldn’t have been more obvious. The mean, little space in which she slept and ate was dark and mustysmelling. It contained exactly three pieces of furniture: a narrow cot, a dressing table, and a stool. Her stomach clenched as she imagined how it must have looked to him.
