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He wanted to stay, still.
“We have to leave,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
It was late. They had to leave. No time to make love again. No time to simply linger, touching her, being touched. No time to bask in lovemaking’s afterglow.
This time he helped her dress and she helped him. It didn’t take long, not nearly long enough.
The drive back to Clevedon House was far too short.
He hadn’t time enough to study her profile as she looked out of the window into the gaslit street. He hadn’t time enough to burn the fine contours of her face into his mind. He’d see her again, he supposed. She wanted him to keep away and he knew he must, but he’d see her again, perhaps, by accident. He might see her stepping out of a linen draper’s or a wineshop.
But he’d never see her in exactly this way: the play of light and shadow on her face as she looked out onto Pall Mall. He would not, he supposed, ever be close enough again to catch her scent, so tantalizingly light but impossible to overlook. He’d never be close enough to hear the rustle of her clothes when she moved.
He told himself not to be a fool. He’d forget her. He’d forget all the details that at this moment seemed to mean so much.
He’d forget the way he’d stood on the pavement this day, pretending not to look at her ankles while he watched her step down from or up into the carriage. He’d forget the elegant turn of her ankle, the arc of her instep. He’d forget the first time he’d looked at her ankles. He’d forget the first time they’d made love, and the way she’d wrapped her legs about his waist and the choked sounds of pleasure he’d heard when he thrust into her, again and again. He’d forget his own pleasure, so violent that pleasure seemed too feeble a word, a word meant for ordinary things.
He’d forget all that, just as he would forget this night.
The memories would linger for a time, but they’d grow dull. The ache he felt now, the frustration and anger and sorrow—all those would fade, too.
She’d given him a night to remember, but of course he’d forget.
Marcelline and her sisters rose early the following day. By half-past eight they were at the shop. The seamstresses arrived shortly thereafter, in a flutter of excitement. But they settled down before the morning had much advanced. At one o’clock in the afternoon, the shop opened for business, as promised in the individual messages Sophy had dispatched and the advertisements she’d published in all the London newspapers.
At a quarter past one, Lady Renfrew and Mrs. Sharp appeared for their fittings. A steady stream of ladies followed them. Some came to shop. Some came to stare. But they kept Marcelline and her sisters busy until closing time.
She was happy, very happy, she told herself.
She’d be a fool to want anything more.
