Page 33 of A Devil in Silk
“Seems like we do.”
Before Bentley could offer his hand, Clara climbed into the carriage unaided. The intimate moment in Mrs Morven’s hallway had passed. He said nothing, yet recognised the familiar weight of her armour settling back into place.
As the carriage jolted into motion, he waited until the clatter of wheels found its rhythm before speaking. “What do you make of Scarth’s note about Miss Picklescott?”
Clara glanced out the window, not at him. “As yet, we don’t know Mr Scarth wrote it. He may have stolen the journal from Miss Nightshade. That’s why he hid it under the mattress.”
Bentley considered the point. Plausible, yes, but something still nagged at him. “Or Scarth was tasked with providing the material for the seance. That would explain the names and family details Mrs Morven recalled seeing.”
The prospect seemed to startle her, a sliver of fear darkening her face. “You mean he manipulated us? Made us believe he heard secret whispers from our deceased relatives?”
“It’s not difficult to read people.” Strangers, at least. Clara Dalton was different, like a letter deliberately smudged, every line blurred. Yet when her fingers lingered on the Celtic clasp, it told him something. “You wear the brooch often. I’d wager it was a gift from someone you loved.”
“It could have been a gift from a gentleman.”
The thought hit like a blow to the gut. The idea of her smiling for another man unsettled him more than it should.
“If I’d bought you a gift, Miss Dalton, it would have been something more fitting. A pearl choker, perhaps.”
“A choker? Why?”
“Because it would rest at your throat,” he said, imagining his fingers brushing the delicate skin at her nape as he fastened it, pausing just long enough to inhale the sweet scent of her hair. “Drawing the eye to where a man might wish to lay his lips.”
Her breath came faster, the rise and fall of her chest betraying more than surprise. The air between them thickened with unspoken need.
He had never known a silence like it. Not in courtship. Not in the throes of passion. He’d long ago mastered the art of detachment, trained himself to observe without engaging emotion. Cool. Calm. Casual.
But this—this was different.
“I suppose all men think alike,” she said, her censure plain. “You speak for all those who’ve bought gifts for a mistress.”
Oh, he wouldn’t permit her to ruin the moment with a barbed defence. He would not be the one to surrender. It was time Clara Dalton knew there was a warrior beneath his elegant facade.
“No,” he said, his gaze moving from her throat to her mouth. “I speak as a man who’s wondered what your skin tastes like, Clara.”
More than wondered.
He’d started having waking dreams about it.
She swallowed hard, her throat working tirelessly. “What do you imagine it tastes like?” she asked, the question soft and unintentionally provocative.
“Like summer,” he confessed, heat coiling low, desire pulsing through every nerve. “Like freedom. Like the first bite of something forbidden. Something so sweet, nothing else could ever compare.”
He had said too much.
Crossed a line he’d promised he never would. He wasn’t bound to Miss Woodall, a fact he would reinforce withoutapology tomorrow, but Clara had set her sights far beyond London. A future that didn’t include any man, least of all him.
The carriage drew to a halt, sparing him further reflection.
Westminster Abbey rose before them, its towers stark against the night sky, the air thick with the rank stench of the river. Its ancient walls pressed in around the dead, heavy with the burden of buried kings, whispered vows, and sins that lit candles couldn’t erase.
Clara opened the carriage door herself and stepped down quickly, as if the smouldering tension between them had grown suffocating.
Bentley followed. The night air was cool against his skin, yet it did little to calm the heat simmering in his blood. “We’ll be two hours, Gibbs.”
Gibbs gave a grunt of acknowledgement and reached into his greatcoat, removing a small book that looked dainty in his meaty paws. “I’ll be here, beneath the gas lamp,” he said, settling back like a man few people would dare disturb.
Bentley led Clara across the quiet square and into Dean’s Yard, approaching the south side of the Abbey. Gaslight flickered against the ancient stone, catching the tracery of arched windows and the worn faces of saints carved centuries ago.
