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Chapter Thirteen
The word kiss changed the atmosphere. Viv knew the effect of naming a thing, of giving words to the unspoken. Time slowed. Her soaked skirts hung so heavy that she could not summon the will to move. The dim little room smelled of lavender and wet wool. The lamp glow gave a golden edge to Mr. Larkin’s shoulders. The ends of the towel hung down to his waist, leaving open to her gaze a curved plane of muscle divided by a shadowy cleft to the band of his trousers.
Viv had attended London’s great exhibitions, had seen famous artists’ representations of male flesh in paint and marble. She should not be affected by a mere man, but a hidden warmth ran through her under the cool surface of her skin. A bell rang in the hall summoning one of the servants. Upstairs, poor Lady Melforth must be enduring a barrage of censure from the Strydes, most of it directed at Viv for being absent.
She found her voice. “I shot you.”
“I lived.”
“I ruined your clothes. Twice.”
“I do like a good waistcoat, but I can get another.”
“You aren’t thinking rationally. You can’t behave like a footman stealing a kiss from the parlor maid.”
“I can’t think at all, with the lures you’ve thrown out to me.”
“Lures! Of all the conceit!”
“The soggy bonnet, the drooping curls, the icy fingers, this private place. How is a man to resist?” There was laughter in his eyes but something else as well that made her pulse quicken.
“Be sensible. I led you here only to avoid the Strydes.”
“Convenient those Strydes. I must thank them for driving you to such lengths.”
“You know they would condemn me for…for being here with you. If a woman loses her respectability, she’s not welcome anywhere.”
“We’re betrothed.”
“But our betrothal is a…a ruse.”
He pressed her hand more firmly against his side, his fingers warm over hers, his skin cool under her palm. “Your ring is no ruse. My scar is no ruse.”
“I’m not good at kissing.” His gaze narrowed to her mouth, and she moistened her lips. She’d made a mistake saying the word.
“You’re bound to improve with effort.” He tugged both her hands now, pulling her close, tangling her heavy skirts with his legs. “Tell me about that other time.”
She choked back a laugh. “Oh you. I’ll have you know I’ve been thoroughly kissed. In Bath in a moonlit garden with music drifting out from a ballroom.”
“Did the man who kissed you believe your wits would dissolve under the influence of moonlight and roses?” he asked.
“Well, he might have,” she admitted. “He believed I was an heiress.”
“Did you disabuse him of that notion?”
“At once. The kissing was disagreeable, you see. There was something, I don’t know, practiced about his…his lovemaking. Does that make sense?”
He nodded. “All the more reason to kiss me, to find out if kissing can be less…disagreeable.”
“Without the moonlight and roses?” She searched his gaze.
“I’m not offering moonlight and roses.”
At his voice, low and roughened, something uncurled in her belly. A spool of moments unraveled in her head back to the time in the hackney when she’d first pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding side. She had been so occupied with exploring London, making her notes, intent on her guide for women. Now she understood that his presence had altered the places they went. He had understood from the first her unwillingness to be satisfied with writing accounts of the great squares and eminent buildings, and her need to find the living stories hidden in London’s multitude of lanes and dwellings.
She tried one last appeal to reason. “Jenny will return any minute now.”
“We’ll hear her on the stairs.” He lifted her hand above her head, turning her in a dizzying whirl, like dancing, so that she faced the open door.
