Page 65 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“Delia.” Her hair had started to fluff up with dry curls, and he gave it a gentle tug. “Delia, you’ve fallen asleep. Let me move you to the bed.”
She made a little sound, adorable, and he lifted her in his arms and placed her on the bed, then he kicked off his boots and joined her, wrapping around her like a blanket.
“You’ll stay here with me?” Her voice low and dreamy, the cadence of her words slow, as if she onlyjustpieced them together. Turning in his embrace, she nuzzled against his chest.
“Yes.” No other answer. Though he needed to speak with Pentshire to ensure Bradley’s departure. And he needed to sniff out any of the others who might hurt her here. Hurther? Who in their right mind would feel such evil for such a creature? Made him feel hard and jagged and snarling.
She yawned. “Nothing like falling into a moat to tire a lady out.” A sleepy chuckle as she patted his chest. “No ideas now. A short nap. Nothing more.”
No ideas?
Much too late for that. Whatever feral, possessive emotions had ridden him hard when he’d seen her fall, they would not soon dissipate. They might possibly course through him forever. Hell. What would he do when they returned to London, and he still felt wild to keep her in his arms? The same question he’d woken to the last several days. How could he stop wanting her when he didn’twantto stop?
Perhaps he’d simply… not stop, not give her up. Why must he? They fit so well together—their bodies perfectly matched while their souls were deliciously opposite in some ways. She moved through the world with greater comfort than he did, seeing good where he saw evil and ill intent. In other ways, they were perfectly attuned. She worked for the same causes he did, after all, desired to bring goodness to the world. As he did.
Why not keep her? As a mistress? That thought curdled the small amount of food in his belly. She could not be notorious if she planned to run a school. What then? Neither of them believed in love. But… marriage did not require it.
Marriage then?
He peeked at her face cozied against his chest, waited for the rebellion in his gut to scream in no uncertain terms,never! His gut did not speak, however. Only his heart did, increasing in a pleasant rhythm of anticipation.
Lady Theodore Bromley? A headmistress of a charitable art school as the satirist’s wife?
He caught the corner of his lip lifting. Damn. He liked that. They would have little to live on, but his parents had had everything upon their marriage and lost it. Perhaps he and Cordelia could start with nothing and build up a life.
Foolish thoughts, perhaps. But damn if they didn’t drift him right into a blissful sleep.
Seventeen
Cordelia woke first, tangled as she had been the last many mornings with Theo’s long limbs and hard body. Unfortunately, they were clothed this time. Another key difference—he still slept, and she was awake. What should she do with this turn of events?
Watch him, first. Absolutely she must look her fill because the gargoyle had brushed her hair before the fire after pummeling a man to a bloody pulp in her defense, and frankly, she’d never wanted a man more. Odd what that combination of violence of caring had done to her. Each stroke of the brush through her hair had made her damp between the legs, had made her heart grow and grow until she feared it would no longer fit within the confines of her ribs.
Silly little heart. Why would it do such a thing?
She suspected its reasons, but some things were better unexamined.
So she continued examining him. Not enough of him on display, though he did not wear a cravat. He wore only his shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and trousers. Presumably smalls as well, but she’d never find out. Unless she looked.
She’d get there. Eventually. She ran her fingers down his neck. Why did she like it so much? If she could draw, she’d draw him sleeping on his side, his neck curved and open above the snowy linen of his shirt.
His waistcoat was a dark gray. He always wore black and white and shades of darkest gray, as if he were his sketches. She traced the buttons of the waistcoat, and then fluttered her fingers through his hair, placed a kiss on the tip of his chin, and closed her eyes.
“What am I going to do with you?” she whispered, an echo of his morning musings.
“Keep me.”
Her eyes flew open. His slack arms snaked round her, tightened, pressed her body against his. He was hard, and the knowledge made her achy. She reached between them, took him in hand and squeezed.
“Shall I?” she asked. “Keep you?” She used the tone of a tease to cover the truth. She wanted to keep him. Not just for the morning or afternoon. Not just for the length of the house party. But forever. She could not see her future clearly, but she could see him there with her, and that made the hazy fog consuming her whole not quite so terrifying.
She expected him to roll his eyes or for a teasing spark to light them up, but his gaze grew soft, softer than she’d realized it could be, and he rolled her to her back, rested his body over hers, and kissed her. He tasted of tea and cream and smelled a bit like moat water and sunshine, and his kiss made the whole world evaporate. Bradley’s venom and her school’s uncertainty—gone. Simon’s betrayal and Lord Waneborough’s possible flaws—of no matter.
For Theo kissed her and kissed her well—made an art of it, really, each stroke of his tongue better placed than some of those he put upon a slip of paper. She adored kissing him, so she joined in with a fury.
A fury he stroked calm with steady hands on her back, her hips. “Slow, Delia. Slow. Let me watch you simmer. Let me stretch out this hour.”
Slow? When they’d been all frantic panting and eager limbs up until now? Hard and fast, more like a flame that rose high and hot but never lasted. Gentle? As if they had time to explore and the desire to do so?
