Page 60 of Debtor’s Daughter

“Oh!” Connie said, and buried her face in the handkerchief Mr Weston had thoughtfully supplied her with as her own was sodden. Then Mr Thompson closed the carriage door, and they jolted into motion. Connie looked up then, almost pressing her nose to the glass as she watched Mr Thompson waving at her, until finally he was out of sight.

6th November 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

“Come, Auntie, a nice little nap will do you the world of good,” Caro said as she accompanied Connie up the stairs, leaving Larkin with Mrs Finchley in the hallway below.

“Well,” Mrs Finchley said, tugging on the ribbons of her bonnet. “I feel like I’ve been plunged into a delightful melodrama. I only hope everyone lives happily ever after.”

“I think there’s every chance,” Larkin said. “I confess I rather like Mr Thompson. He seems a genuine fellow, but if it will put your mind at rest, I shall ask around and see what I can discover about him.”

“Oh, Mr Weston, could you?” she said, looking so desperately relieved he was glad he’d suggested it. “Like you, I found him rather endearing, but this is Aunt Connie we are talking about, and I cannot bear for her to be hurt or disappointed.”

“I will discover what I can,” Larkin promised, adding. “On one condition.”

She gave him a speculative look. “What condition?”

“Might you dispense with the Mr Weston in private, and call me Larkin?”

A slow smile curved over her lush mouth, sending a sudden shaft of desire lancing through him. Lord, but the need to pull her into his arms was becoming hard to resist, but he did not wish to move too fast and spook her. Yet, since their conversation, all the uncertainties he had felt seemed to be evaporating. Maggie wasn’t Elmira, she wasn’t keeping secrets from him, and he wasn’t being a fool, wasn’t viewing her as some perfect version of herself and refusing to see and love the reality of her. She was real and imperfect, stubborn and proud and kind and lovely, and she wanted him as he wanted her. He took a step closer, gazing down at her.

“Larkin,” she said, as if trying his name for size.

The soft, slightly breathless way she said it sent heat coursing over his skin.

“Magdelina,” he said in return, but she shook her head, smiling to show it was not from disapproval.

“Maggie,” she corrected.

“Maggie,” he repeated, his heart picking up speed as she took a step closer to him.

They stood toe–to-toe, staring into each other’s eyes. The small distance between them seemed to fizz and prickle, tickling his skin and warming it until it burned with the need for her to touch him, yet neither of them moved. Longing filled his chest, a pleasant ache that demanded soothing as his gaze fell to her mouth. He swallowed, his entire body on fire with the knowledge that she was right there, so close he could feel the warm flutter of her breath against his mouth. The moment was entirely perfect, heavy with desire, the anticipation of all that was to come so tantalising that he did not break it. He wasn't a naive boy who rushed in, claiming what he wanted, believing he must seize passion to keep it. Larkin knew well that passion heightened if given time to grow; a period of longing and teasing only made temptation grow, and made the inevitable conclusion burn so much brighter.

So he merely extended one finger, and slid it caressingly down her ungloved hand, once only.

Maggie closed her eyes and shivered, and Larkin smiled, pleased and a little smug at her immediate response.

He leaned in, his lips close but not touching her ear. “I should go,” he murmured.

“Y-Yes,” she replied, her eyes still closed as her chest rose and fell with increasing speed. “You-You sh-should.”

“Maggie?”

“Yes?”

“I will not kiss you here in the hallway, but you ought to know that I want to, very, very badly, and I’m going to be thinking of nothing else for the rest of the day.”

Her breath hitched, her colour rising as her eyes fluttered and she gazed up at him, her mouth opening a little. “Oh, you wicked man,” she said ruefully.

Larkin chuckled and straightened. “Bye, love. If you need me, you know where I am.”

Giving her a wink, he picked up his hat and let himself out.

Maggie stood, staring at the door he’d just closed. Her entire body was taut with longing, vibrating like a plucked violin string for a kiss that had never come. He was going to be thinking of nothing else for the rest of the day, she thought crossly. What on earth did the wretched man think she would be doing?

She smiled, still feeling the brush of his finger against her skin and knowing he was playing a game that she had missed out on with her first husband. Their courtship had been short and sweet, two young people who knew nothing, infatuated and getting swept up in the romance of their ideas about each other, about the moment they were living in. This was different, this was considered and deliberate and far, far more powerful.

“Well, Auntie is having a nap. She’s quite exhausted the poor darling,” Caro announced as she came back down the stairs.

Maggie jumped and turned around, making Caro stop in her tracks.

“Why are you standing there staring at the door?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not,” Maggie retorted.

“You were.”

“Well, I’m not now, I’m staring at you. Now stop talking nonsense and let's have some tea. I’m afraid I was too on edge to take advantage of all those lovely cakes Mr Thompson provided, and now I’m famished,” she said briskly, hurrying into the parlour to ring for Wallace.

Caro followed her and then stopped, the colour draining from her face as she entered the room. Noticing her sudden pallor, Maggie frowned.

“Caro? Whatever is the matter?”

Caro swallowed nervously and glanced at the wall. “Well, I was just wondering, Maggie, if Cecil is still alive… Exactly who is haunting the cuckoo clock?”