A kiss means nothing.
“I need to go,” Ellie said, stepping around Henry as quickly as her trembling legs would allow.
“Ellie,” he called, his voice carrying more emotion than she wanted to think about.
She stopped in her place and looked at him over her shoulder. If she had had to face him fully, she would have run back into his arms, begging for him to love her, to take her away from her miserable existence.
But she wouldn’t. She would never be enough for him.
“It was only a kiss, Henry. A kiss means nothing.”
The London Times, January 3, 1899
The Honourable Edwin Warwick, Marquess of Warwick, is pleased to announce the marriage of his daughter, Lady Eleanor, to the Honourable Hubert Fitzcharles, Earl Ashby, on Saturday, 29 December in St. James’ Cathedral, Westminster.
Chapter 13
Henry’sheadstillpulsedfrom the limoncello leaving his system when his eyes opened. After encouraging Ellie to explore the cathedral across the plaza, begging off with the excuse of a headache, he fell back into bed, hiding under the bedclothes. He couldn’t face her, not when his mind couldn’t stop hearing her moans, feeling the warmth of her body beside him.
With a groan, Henry pushed to his feet and stumbled barefoot towards the bathroom, bleary-eyed. He took one step on the cool marble tiles when he froze with a start.
Ellie. She stood with her back to him at the side of the tub, a pale silk robe draped over her shoulders. She gave a small cry of surprise and pulled the garment tight as she turned to face him. Water traced wavy tracks down her neck and chest; she had piled her copper curls high on her head, but several had broken free and now stuck to her forehead and cheeks. Bringing his eyes down, he watched rivulets trailing along her calves and puddling at her feet.
Henry gulped.
She froze in place before giving him a tentative smile, her eyes wide. “I hope I didn’t wake you. They closed the cathedral for mid-day mass and I wanted a bath.”
“N-no,” he stammered. “Not a bother at all.” He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to stay on her face. “I’ll go,” he croaked, blinking to break the spell of her lush figure.
“Don’t.” Her voice was calm, but she held her body ramrod straight. “I'm not bothered if you aren't. I wanted to talk to you about our plans for the afternoon, and I might as well do so before I pick my clothing.”
After a slow, centering exhale, Henry gave her a wry smile. “Always logical, my Ellie.”
A pink flush crawled up her neck to her cheeks as she lifted a length of toweling from the lip of the tub. “I adore this bathroom,” she said, dabbing her collarbone, a small measure of tension leaving her posture. “Wherever I live next, I will insist on being able to run my own bath and relax whenever I want.”
An image of Ellie, nude and submerged until only the tops of her breasts were visible above the bubbles, danced into his mind and took up residence. Ellie stepped behind the screen, and Henry moved to sit at the wicker stool by the vanity, pointedly averting his gaze.
From here, he couldn’t see her, but the memory of damp silk hugging her curves tormented him, inspiring a lush image in his mind.
“Would you like to dine with the Richardsons or alone, just us?”
Henry rubbed the back of his neck, scrambling through his foggy mind for a response. All he heard were the wordsalone, just usechoing like a siren song. “Um, I don’t know.”
The sound of fabric falling to the ground seemed to echo in the room, and Henry nearly moaned with the erotic vision it inspired.
“Really?Youhave no opinion about eating?”
Henry’s rational thought abandoned him altogether. He had visited all sorts of burlesque shows and brothels in his lifetime, seen more women’s bodies than most men could claim, and yet just thesoundof Ellie undressing left him incapable of functioning. Perspiration beaded on his neck and forehead as he saw the shadows moving behind the screen. “Why, um, you see, I’m not terribly hungry.”
“You? Not hungry?” Her laughter chirped like a bird’s song, entrancing him. He could make all the excuses in the world, but other women didn’t affect him because they weren’tEllie. He didn’t know their minds better than his own, nor could other women see to the very heart of him with a simple glance.
“I’ll get us sandwiches and we can picnic as a group. What would you think about visiting the Villa Borghese this afternoon? It’s a former country home converted into a gallery. The gardens are spectacular and they have works by Rubens. It would be a perfect place for you to paint.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Thanks, El.”
He heard the pleasure in her voice with her response. “You’re bound to be inspired. Signor Calavetti at the desk gave me a guide. I left it on the vanity.”
“Sounds delightful.” He tore his gaze away so he would stop staring at the screen as though mere force of will would make it transparent, searching for the guide.
