Page 79 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Cordelia gasped, her heart hammering, then he found his footing once more and somehow pulled himself atop the very small overhang above the door. He’d almost reached the level with her window now, and she knew exactly his intentions. If she wouldn’t let him in through the front door, he’d find other means of entering. She wanted to slam the window closed and shut him out. But she couldn’t because… what if he fell? She needed him safe, and the best way to achieve that was to pull his stubborn and attractively agile body into the house.
“Theo,” she said, head stuck out of the window, “go back down. There’s too much distance between that overhang and this window. You’ll hurt yourself.”
He grunted, determination clear as a blinding sun in his eyes. He bent his knees.
And leapt, throwing his body sideways. Cordelia yelped and scuttled away from the window as his arms wrapped with a clatter around the window ledge. He slipped, the weight of his body pulling him toward the hard street below, and she rushed toward him, slammed her hands down on top of his.
“I’m fine,” he grunted. “Get back in.”
“Foolish, horrid man. No.” She leaned out the window and wrapped her hands around his elbows, but as she did, the muscles in his arms flexed, transforming his biceps—all of him really—to pure steel, and he pulled himself up and over, falling into a puddle on her bedroom floor.
Quick as a blink, he stood, brushed her off, and prowled toward her.
She backed away, not fearing him, but fearing herself. She’d locked him out, run away, for a very clear reason. Because when he looked at her as he did now, she melted, gave in, and this was too important for melting.
He came for her, though, forcing her backward across the room until her backthunkedagainst the wall, pushing the air out of her lungs with a hard huff. He took her air for himself, bracing his forearms on the wall on either side of her head and pinning her, kissing her, hard and hungry.
She clutched at his shoulders, his neck, his lapels, kissing him back between admonitions. “You cannot simply climb through my window and kiss me.”
“I can. I have.”
“Aren’t you angry with me?” A breathless question as he tore at her earlobe with his teeth.
“Incensed,” he growled, kissing her neck. “But I missed you more. Was damn worried. God, Cordelia, the need to kiss you will always be stronger than any other emotion.”
Her legs gave out.
His arm wrapped around her, pulled her close, and somehow, she was falling through air, hitting the mattress, and the hem of her gown was raked high, and her bodice pulled dangerously, deliciously low, and—
“No.” She sat up, pushing him away and fixing her gown. “Did you speak with Pentshire?”
He rolled away from her and onto his back, his palms scraping down his face. “Yes. Though it’s more that he spoke with me.”
“And.”
“Innocent. All of it.” He rose from the bed, steady, each movement clipped and controlled. “Foolish and nonsensical, but… innocent.”
“Ah.” She stood, too, straightening her skirts, preparing for battle. “Here’s the anger, I assume. Though you should be thanking me. Had you not found out the truth, you would have published lies.”
His jaw ticked. “Had you left well enough alone, I would have been able to buy this house. The printshops would have battled one another for the opportunity to print it. Your school would be secured.”
She shook her head. “Too high a cost. I’ll not let Miss Mires, Lady Pentshire, pay that.”
“She won’t.”
“Why do you grumble?” She rushed to him, placed her hands on his shoulders. “It is a good thing.”
“Where are my sketches?” he asked, shrugging out of her light hold.
“I… Here.” She knelt near her bed and pulled his satchel from beneath it but hugged it to her as she stood.
He held out a hand.
She hugged it still. “You would have ruined her. You would have besmirched Miss Mires’s name as Simon did mine.” She hesitated, not wanting to say the truth. But she must. So she gathered her courage and closed her eyes and put it out into the world. “As… as your father did mine. I am grateful”—she closed her eyes and swallowed the lump blocking her throat—“I am grateful… I am grateful.” She shook her head, unable to knock the words on repeat into something else, into the thing she meant to say.
His hands caught her wrists. “You do not have to say that. I know you are.”
“But—” A sharp bite of a word that helped her find her forward trajectory as her hands clawed tighter into the satchel held like a wall between them. “Your fatherwasthoughtless. I’ve always known that and did not wish to say it. Or even think it. Because it seemed to be the cost of being saved.” She finally met his gaze. “His thoughtlessness hurt me. As it did you. Andyourthoughtlessness could hurt me, too.”
