His expression softened. “Together.”
Lucy watched with unabashed delight. “The servants are correct. The pair of you are one exchanged glance away from either murdering each other or—”
“Lucy,” Celine warned.
“—or reconciling your differences,” she amended, though her mischievous grin betrayed the truer sentiment.
“Fine,” he said. “We shall receive callers. But only for an hour.”
“Agreed,” Celine said. “Though we should probably change first.”
“You look perfect,” he murmured—and this time the compliment trembled with meaning.
“I look like someone who spent the night thinking of you,” she blurted, then flushed scarlet.
His eyes darkened. “Did you?”
“You know I did.”
“Thinking of what, precisely?”
“Elias—”
“I shall… remove myself,” Lucy announced hastily. “You clearly require privacy. Or—something.”
With a rustle of skirts, she vanished.
Silence stretched between them.
“We should change,” Celine said again, though neither moved.
“We should,” Elias agreed, stepping closer. His familiar scent—clean linen, winter air, and something darker beneath—wrapped around her. “But first, tell me what occupied your thoughts.”
“The same as yours, I think.”
“You cannot know what I was thinking.”
“Can I not?” She met his gaze steadily. “You were thinking of the dance. Of how I felt in your arms. Of what happens now that the countdown has ended.”
“Has it? Because from where I stand—”
“What?”
Then he kissed her.
The motion was swift, overpowering—nothing performative, nothing measured. His hands framed her face, and she clutched his waistcoat, pulling him closer as if that might steady her.
When they parted, breathless:
“That was—”
“Necessary,” he said simply. “To endure the vultures below, I required something to fortify me.”
“Only that?”
“No. But it is all we may have for—”
“For now, I know.” She leaned her forehead against his chest. “We’re never going to make it.”
