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‘Oof!’
His arms loosened, and I slipped away, throwing him a smile over my shoulder. ‘Thank you.’
Giving me a cool look, he rubbed his ribs. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘No, but it was fun. I might do it more often in the future.’
Grabbing a sheet and wrapping it around me, I rose from the bed to survey the room. The bed was in chaos. The drawer of the bedside table hung half-op
en, my severely diminished stash inside peeking out for anyone to see. A vase on a nearby table had somehow toppled over. One of the curtains, which I must have grabbed in one of the night’s more energetic moments, was torn in several places. And stretched right across the bed, wearing about as much clothing as Michelangelo’s David and looking a hundred times as tempting, lay Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his sea-coloured eyes gazing up at me from under his lashes.
I glanced at the clock in the corner. Hm… ten thirty am wasn’t really that late, was it? Maybe I could crawl back into bed a little and we could -
‘Good God! It’s ten thirty already!’
Ah. Apparently, Mr Ambrose had noticed the time, too.
Half a second later, an Ambrose-shaped blur shot past me and started gathering up discarded clothes from all over the room. Deducing that the fun times were probably over for now, I started to look for clothes as well. However, my search was far less successful.
‘Come on, move!’ Mr Ambrose’s voice came from inside his shirt as he pulled it over his head. ‘What are you waiting for, Miss Linton?’
I held up a chemise which was torn from top to bottom down the front. ‘For this to mend itself. But I’m afraid I’ll have to wait a long time for that.’
A stone-faced head popped out at the top of the shirt. He regarded my chemise critically. ‘Hm. You should really take better care of your clothing.’
‘I should take better care? You tore it in half!’
‘Exactly. Next time, take it off before I’m forced to resort to extreme measures.’
‘Oh no, Mister! You’re not getting off as easily as that!’ Taking a step towards him, I waved the tattered remnants of my undergarment under his nose. ‘You love me, don’t you? Well, prove it! Pay for a replacement!’
He froze.
His entire body stiffened. His face stayed as stony as ever, but I could see the struggle underneath. A single muscle in jaw twitched, and his teeth were clenched. He was clearly engaged in a titanic battle with himself.
I sincerely sympathised. I really did. On the one hand - the woman he loved. On the other hand - spending money. It really was such a terribly tough decision.
‘Your salary shall have to suffice.’
Oh. Not that tough, after all, apparently.
‘Or you can simply sew your own new clothes,’ he suggested, bending and picking up something from the floor. Rising, he dangled the crumpled, stained little object in front of my face. ‘You seem to be talented at sewing.’
‘Oh.’ My ears turned fiery red. ‘Those were kind of an exception.’
‘You don’t say.’ Turning away, he continued to dress himself. ‘Tell me, Miss Linton - where exactly did you learn about these objects? Where would you acquire such specialised knowledge?’
‘In a whorehouse.’
‘Pardon?’ Freezing in mid-motion, he slowly turned around to spear me with icy eyes. ‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, not through participation. My lessons were purely theoretical.’
‘For the sake of the male patrons of that establishment,’ Mr Ambrose told me in a voice as cold as the heart of a glacier, ‘I hope that is true.’
He looked so cold, so ruthless, so…adorable.
Before I could think better of it, I had thrown myself at him, and my arms were around him, hugging him close. Snuggling my face against his solid chest, I drank in his warmth.
