They stood inches apart, frozen. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could smell the sandalwood and smoke that clung to his skin, could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat above his loosened cravat.
“Miss Norton.”
“Your Grace.”
It felt as though the world had shrunk to contain nothing more than the pair of them.
She leaned toward him. It was involuntary, gravitational, the helpless pull of a compass needle toward true north.
His grip tightened, then released.
He stepped back.
The sudden absence of his hands left her arms cold, the air rushing in to fill the space between their bodies. He dragged one hand through his hair, disrupting its careful arrangement, and his breath came out in a controlled exhale.
“I should go.” She turned before he could speak and deliberately walked back down the corridor toward the staircase, the milk forgotten.
She made it to her room, closed the door, pressed her back against it, and slid down until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up and her forehead resting on her arms.
Her body was mutinous, flushed, restless, thrumming with an energy that had nowhere to go. She could feel her pulse everywhere: in her throat, in her wrists, in the hollow between her collarbones. The places where his fingers had pressed still burned, a phantom heat that no amount of cool air would extinguish.
She rose, crossed to the washstand, and splashed water on her face. It dripped from her chin onto her bodice, and she watched the dark spots spread through the grey fabric, blooming like ink on blotting paper.
The book sat where she’d left it, half-hidden beneath the volume of essays. She hadn’t opened it since the previous night. She didn’t open it now.
She didn’t need to.
The passages she’d read were already seared behind her eyelids, vivid and merciless, and when she closed her eyes, it was not the courtesan’s anonymous lover she pictured but Hudson.
Hudson’s hands, Hudson’s mouth, the devastating low register of his voice saying,I could teach you a thing or two that those pages never will.
Augusta lay back on her bed, one arm across her eyes, and surrendered to the only honest thought left in her head.
She wanted him. Not the idea of him, not the fantasy spun from French novels and fire-lit libraries, but the man himself.
Stubborn, guarded, fierce in his protection, tender in the moments he forgot to hide it.
She wanted his hands in her hair and his voice in the dark and the weight of his body against hers.
She wanted all of it. And the wanting was not going to stop simply because she willed it.
Chapter Twelve
The Nightingale after midnight came alive, filled with smoke and noise.
Hudson moved through the main floor without haste, his path clearing easily. He did not acknowledge the deference. He simply walked.
The air was thick with tallow smoke and the bitter tang of spilled ale. Somewhere near the faro table, a man laughed too loudly. A dealer caught Hudson’s eye across the room and gave a fractional nod that meantall clear, and Hudson returned it without breaking stride.
He took the private staircase two steps at a time, the noise of the gaming floor falling away as the heavy door swung shut behind him. The corridor was dim, carpeted, and silent. A different world from the chaos below.
His office waited at the end, its door already open. Slater was lounging behind his desk and jumped up the second Hudson entered. His face turned an impressive shade of red, all the way to his ears.
“My apologies, sir.”
Hudson simply looked at him, and though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, he did not allow himself to smile.
“I can only infer that you are waiting in my office for a reason.”
