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She lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his.
The pure soft sweetness of her slid right through him, burning through his chest and emptying his head with the potency of a thousand brandies. His hand found its way behind her neck, sliding into her thick, soft hair, cradling her head so he could have more. Their lips moved together, exploring, opening, and when he tasted her with his tongue, she made a small sound in her throat that shot straight to his groin. She arched up into him, and he tasted her again. Deeper. More. And she—so generous and warm—welcomed him. She tasted like brandy and woman and hope and flowers, and he could not think how she might taste like flowers or why that might be a good thing, but she did and it was. He could melt into her, into her generous warmth, surrender to the thud of his heart and the urging of his cock, melt into her and have her melt into him, and all their heartache would melt away too.
He dragged his lips from hers, gently pushed her back onto the pillows. She smiled up at him and it took all his strength to keep his distance.
“There,” he said. “Now we kissed.”
“That was lovely.”
“You’re drunk. You think everything’s lovely.”
“Even your scruff is lovely.”
Her palm rubbed his cheek and he resisted the urge to lean into her again. He lowered her hand, tucked it by her side. In the candlelight, he could not tell the current color of her eyes, but it didn’t matter because her eyes made up their color as they went along, and that was only one of the delightful things about her to discover.
He needed her to fall asleep so he could escape this madness.
“Close your eyes,” he said. She did. He stroked her hair back from her face, stroked her forehead, stroked her cheek. He longed to stroke every part of her. “Breathe in now,” he said. “And breathe out. And in, and out.”
She obeyed and then she was asleep.
Thank God. Now he could escape.
But not yet. That would not be right. She was upset, and he was sure it was wrong to leave someone who was upset. And it was the first time she was drunk, and she might be frightened, if she woke alone to a spinning room. So he should stay a little longer. Until he was sure she was calm. Until the feel of her lips had left his. Until his urge to weep had passed.
* * *
Cassandra awoke.There was almost no light in the room. She had a touch of nausea, a touch of headache. Her bed was warmer than usual. She was not alone. She was too sleepy to be frightened, and it was Joshua anyway. The weight over her waist was his arm. The heated wall at her back was his chest. She listened to him breathe: He was sleeping. She had kissed him. His lips had been warm too, and surprisingly soft. He had touched his tongue to hers. She should have been disgusted but instead a raw pleasure had shot straight down her center and all she had wanted was more. And the things she had said! She must never drink again. But he had not judged her. She did not move. She did not want to disturb him, or face him. Besides, it felt so lovely, to be wrapped up in this man. She closed her eyes and enjoyed it.
When she woke again, he was gone.
Chapter 11
The next afternoon, Mr. Cosway, who bore the cumbersome title of Secretary In Charge of Everything That Happens In London, showed Cassandra to the empty office that Joshua used when he was at the dockside warehouse. Dominating the small room was a desk crowded with dossiers and yard-long rolls of paper, as well as a globe and items of equipment she could not begin to name.
Also present: a cravat strewn over the chair, a coat tossed onto the table, a hat balanced on the globe. Joshua could not be far, as he had, yet again, left half his clothes behind.
Cassandra tucked away her rosewater-scented handkerchief as Mr. Cosway crossed to the window. The secretary was approximately the size of a carriage, with a shaved head, battered nose, and a peg where his left hand should be, but he spoke incongruously like a gentleman and treated her with every courtesy.
“He’s on the dock with the children,” he said, tapping the thick, greasy glass.
“The children?”
She hastened to the window. There was Joshua, clean-shaven today, in his shirtsleeves and a plain black waistcoat, crouching on the dock, talking to two boys and a girl. The children, who were no more than eleven or twelve, were simply but neatly dressed, and all were looking at him with enthralled faces. A woman who bore the air of a governess and whose features hinted at African heritage watched from nearby.
Cassandra pressed a hand against the window pane and leaned in. Her bonnet bumped the glass and she impatiently shoved it off her head so she could see.
Joshua’s buckskins were pulled taut over his powerful thighs. The breeze ruffled his hair and toyed with the billowing sleeves of his shirt, teasing her with glimpses of the body within. Her palm recalled the tickling sensation of his scruff and she wondered at the smoothness of his cheek now.
One of the boys, the small, red-headed one, said something and Joshua nodded. He sketched a diagram on the wooden dock with his finger. The three children gathered closer, blocking her view.
For a man who declared children to be a nuisance, he seemed fond of these ones. For a man who claimed to be busy, he seemed to have time for them.
“What is going on?” she asked.
“The children are supposed to be working, but Mr. DeWitt, he likes to talk to them sometimes.”
“What about?”
