“Yes, I believe I could use a nip.” She accepted the glass, frowning as his fingers slid over hers. “Why are you calling me that?”
“Henry?” he said, smiling at her with that beautiful mouth. “Henrietta takes too long to pronounce.”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s not proper.”
“Neither is it proper for you to be here in my library, drinking with three gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen.” She snorted. “I suppose it is rather fast of me. Well. Circumstances warrant.” She sniffed the liquid in her glass, swirled it, and tipped the contents into her mouth in oneneat gulp. Then she drew in a long breath, placed the glass on the table beside her, and straightened. “I suppose, since I have no other news to report, I should be going.”
Darien stared. “Are you rather accustomed to spirits, Henry?”
“What?” She blinked. “Oh, that. Not ladylike? Shame. Am I meant to take a sip, and simper, and protest I am not used to strong liquor?”
“You may do exactly as you like in my house,” Darien answered, “but I am surprised that did not go straight to your head.”
“Of course it did.” She rose, wobbled a bit, and smiled. “Feels wonderful. Oh, Darien— Are these your drawings?”
She moved to a table covered with scrolls full of engineering designs. She saw Darien make a sweeping gesture to his companions in the direction of the door. She rolled her shoulders in the thick riding habit. Glory, but she’d needed a strong drink. She was no longer concerned about Darien’s imminent death. She was no longer concerned about anything.
She looked around to see that the other two men had obeyed. “Alone, are we?” she inquired.
He set his glass to the side and approached her. “Do you want to be?”
“Of course not. I’ve a meeting with the London Committee for Abolition tomorrow and my debate for the Minerva Society coming soon. It’s trial enough to be taken seriously as a woman. No one would listen to me for a moment were it known I’d succumbed to a rake.”
“What if it were not known?” Darien said in a silky voice.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh, who am I fooling? I could run about shouting like the watchman and no one would believe you’d touched me.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” He moved closer.
She indicated her disheveled attire, her wild hair under the enormous hat, her lumpy and unfashionable habit. “Do you require spectacles, sir?”
He tilted his head slightly. “I’ve done more than touch you, you awful girl. Ikissedyou.”
“You did? Oh, that. A demonstration only.” She shook her head. “Is this for a mill? Would a wheel that size generate enough power?”
He turned her to face him. She glanced at his hands covering her shoulders. He had such strong, lean hands. The nails were neatly manicured and his fingers lightly callused, as if he did hard work without gloves. She imagined those hands moving over Celeste’s curved body and hunched her shoulders.
“Henry,” he said, and his voice had that low, husky quality she’d heard in the garden. His eyes were a smoky blue and his lids lowered, as if he were sleepy. “I think perhaps youshouldbe concerned that I might ruin you.”
“I’m not concerned in the least,” she said. “I’ve seen what kind of women you fancy.”
His hands fell away, and the smoky look disappeared. He reeled as if she had slapped him in the face.
“Besides which,” she said, turning once more to the drawing board, “you aren’t the sort of man I fancy either.”
“Indeed?” he said in a voice that approached a growl. “What sort of man is worthy of Miss Henrietta Wardley-Hines?”
“I like men of industry, like my father. Men who have a passion, and a talent, and work hard at employing it for the betterment of others.” She turned a paper to examine the sketch from a different angle. “Men who are called to serve, who feel a higher purpose.” She put the drawing aside and looked up. “Scholars are my weakness, if you must know. Men like your cousin, actually.”
He looked thunderstruck, his voice rising in volume. “Rufie?”
She drew back, embarrassed. “Not—that is— I meant menlikehim,” she hurried to say. “I would not presume— Unless— Do you think he might?—?”
Darien’s eyes looked almost violet with passion. His hands came to her shoulders again, but not, this time, in a caress. He yanked her to him and she stumbled, treading on his toe. “You are not,” he muttered through his teeth, “going to throw yourself atRufie.” And before she could think to avert her mouth, he ground his down upon it.
She waited, part of her curious. It was not a scientific experiment this time; he was trying to exert his will. His mouth moved in that calculated way, demanding something. A small thread of tension curled low in her belly. He was being masterful again, trying to masterher. She drew back, and his mouth followed, insistent. The thread of tension grew.
