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“My dictionary and my writing are my priorities. My words will live on after me. The dictionary will be my legacy. Lady Beatrice Bentley, the noted etymologist.”
“Sounds like you’re writing your epitaph, but you’re young, for God’s sake. Too young to bury yourself in Cornwall.”
“It’s not some passing whim, Ford. Retiring fromLondon and moving to Cornwall is the choice I’ve made. I haven’t found a way to tell my mother yet, but I’ll have to find the courage to do so very soon.”
“Why are you so afraid to live?”
“I’m not your rehabilitation project, Ford. You can’t paint a new coat of confidence on me and transform me.”
“I don’t want to change you.” He cupped her cheek with his hand. “I didn’t know that you felt that way. I assumed that your protestations were only surface deep. You can marry, just don’t marry Mayhew.”
“Thank you very much.”
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m... damn it, I care what happens to you. I don’t want to see you hurt. You’re so vibrant and intelligent. I wouldn’t want anyone to take away your power. Promise me that you’ll never be alone with Mayhew.”
“I promise.”
Somewhere below them a soprano voice soared into the heavens on a run of trilling notes.
Beatrice was acutely aware of how close they stood. How they were shielded from prying eyes, here in the heart of London, with music swelling around them.
Desire didn’t follow any rational order or purpose.
When he was near, she wanted to touch him. Be closer to him. Listen to his voice, because it made her skin sensitive, made her body thrum and throb.
Really, there was no more delicate word for the sensation. A throbbing in hidden places, a tingling awareness of her body... and his.
He was a forceful blur in the darkness. A warm wall of man, heating her through her clothing.
Her hand still rested on his chest, perilously close to his heart.
His thumb stroked her cheek.
Viola was waiting for her beyond the curtain. The aria would end soon.
This was a risky game. Alone in the velvety darkness with Ford. This was about danger and it was about possessiveness.
He’d come running to the opera house to warn her about Mayhew.
He kissed her and she met him halfway, closing her eyes and surrendering to her desire. His lips caressed hers. He hadn’t removed her spectacles and they felt like a barrier, so she removed them and slipped them into her pocket.
His hands moved to her waist and he pressed her closer until their bodies met.
She tasted ale on his tongue, sweet fruit with a hint of bitterness.
He cared about her. He urged her to take risks.
She wanted to take this risk, seize and savor it.
Perfectly suspended in this moment up above the crowd, above the drama being enacted on the stage, up near the rafters where the notes reverberated in a different way, where the soaring high notes felt like they were reaching for her, trying to find her, and when they did the beauty of it made her want to cry.
The orchestra and the singers were all here for her pleasure. Everyone was there to give her joy. Ford, most of all.
He dipped his head to her bodice and kissed the tops of her breasts. She tilted her head back against the wall.
This. She wanted this.
She arched her back, offering herself to him.
