Page 52 of Miss Devoted
Michael took the center of the sofa and held out a hand to her. “I’m nervous too. No trustworthy source has written a reliable exegesis on the gospel of proper trysting, at least not that I’ve been able to find.”
Psyche took the place next to him, toed off her slippers, and curled up to his side. “I like that you talk to me. Jacob explained finances, shared theater gossip, and was well read, but of his heart… I knew little, and that was a kindness. You speak to me of your children and your frustrations with the Church. I can tell you about my art, and, Michael…”
He appropriated the quilt from the back of the sofa and arranged it around her. “I know. To have a trustworthy confidant, afidus Achates, is precious and unnerving. All week, I would think, ‘Psyche would know how to write to this curate dying of loneliness.’ ‘Psyche would have a few choice words to offer regarding Helmsley’s maneuverings…’ You are in my mind and my heart in lodgings that have previously been vacant.”
“Helmsley is your superior?”
“Helmsley is a superior functionary. He hires smart young fellows with enough integrity to need little supervision, then takes credit for their every success and blames them for his every failure. I suspect his superiors well know what sort of manager he is, but his guiding principle is to keep all problems from their notice, and thus they value him.”
“How long will you endure there before his duplicity and laziness pluck your last nerve?”
“Forever if need be, but enduring has been much easier in recent weeks. I am less absorbed with palace politics and far more likely to be dwelling on pleasant memories of you.”
Psyche arranged the blanket so it covered Michael’s knees. “Hazel is growing suspicious. She caught me whistling as I watered the ferns in the formal parlor.”
“You aren’t to water your own ferns?”
“I’m not to whistle. My father taught me how—though a lady ought never to purse her lips so unattractively—and I tend to whistle when I’m happy. I feel an urge to whistle right now, as a matter of fact.”
“I will make it a point to teach Bea to whistle the next time we are wandering about in the park. Perhaps you’d like to wander with us some day when the weather is obliging?”
The invitation hadn’t been planned, and was doubtless unwise, but to offer it felt… marvelous. Sweet.Normal.Bea wasn’t a by-blow to be kept on society’s margins. She was a treasured daughter in every sense but the biological. With Psyche, Michael did not have to hide his attachment to the dearest girl ever to demand a story.
“I’d like that,” Psyche said. “I’d like to sketch you and Bea and to observe these whistling lessons. One sees you all pedagogical and paternal, while Bea won’t stop giggling long enough to attempt a single note.”
Michael hugged her out of pure joy. “You are terrible. I hope Bea grows up to be just like you.”
In his arms, Psyche stiffened, then shifted to straddle his lap. “Damn you, Michael Delancey. You must not say such things.”
He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. “Why not if such things are true?”
Psyche swooped in and commenced kissing him, and while he delighted to have the kissing start, he also realized that they shared more than reformist politics and an interest in art. He could not acknowledge the daughter he had. Psyche could not have children. Different shades of a related heartache.
That heartache inspired him to gentle his kisses, to stroke his hands over Psyche’s back in easy caresses. The passion was real and wondrous, but tenderness was what he craved for her and from her. Psyche apparently concurred, because her fingers tracing his features were as soft as sunlight, and when she pressed his hand to her breast, she entreated rather than commanded.
“Here,” she said, pausing to untie Michael’s cravat. “Not in the bedroom. Here, where we make art.”
Here, where he’d yielded to exhaustion, where he’d been warm for the first time in ages, where he’d been seen not only as a model, but as a man.
“You’re sure, Psyche?”
He had nothing to offer her except pleasurable moments and a friend’s loyalty, and yet, those moments and that friendship would be meaningful.
“Are you certain?” she countered, starting on the buttons of his shirt.
“I am wholly persuaded,” he whispered against her throat. “A man enthralled and happy to be so.”
A niggling, watchful part of him knew the pleasure would be temporary, and the happiness would fade to bittersweet memories, but he wanted those memories badly. He hoped for Psyche the memories would be more sweet than bitter and could set right some wrongs life had done her.
“Damned, rubbishing clothes,” she muttered, heaving herself off his lap to rise and turn her back to him. “My hooks, please. I understand better why Hazel has so many dressing gowns and why they are so fetchingly embroidered.”
Michael made swift work of hooks, buttons, tapes, and laces and dispatched his own clothing to the nearest wing chair.
Psyche stood in her shift, the firelight turning fine lawn to gossamer. “Some other night, I will undress you, button by button, as one reads a book, page by page. Tonight, I haven’t the self-restraint.”
“Nor do I have the fortitude to endure such pleasure. I have dreamed of you, Psyche Fremont. I have marched half the length of London with you figuratively at my side. My hand has dutifully written one epistle after another, while in my head, I’m drafting recollections of time spent with you.”
The exercise of a man who wanted every detail of a treasured memory preserved, because he’d savor those details for the rest of his life.
