Talk Sweetly to Me (10 page)

She stepped even closer, skimming her hand down his arm, his elbow, and then bringing it back up to his shoulder. She took another step in, now, bringing her body even closer to his, warming the channel of air between them. He could feel the heat of her breath, the tension in her hand against his chest.

“Truthfully?” Stephen leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I can’t pretend I’m fit for a decent woman—but if the question is whether I’ll hurt you? No, Rose. Never. I adore you.”

She took another step in, ducking her head as she did so, as if she did not want to look into his eyes. But her hand slid around his shoulder, drawing him full-length against her body.

Cold? It wasn’t cold in the spire. How silly of him to think it had been. The air seemed almost hot around them. His whole body was coming to life with her against him. He put his arm around her—it seemed fair game, as she was pressing against him, and it was either that or hold it out awkwardly to the side. But she didn’t protest at all. Instead, she set her forehead against his chest. Her hand slid down his back; his arm came around her shoulder.

She lifted her head. They were both breathing heavily.

“I don’t think I should have touched you,” she said shakily. “It’s—it’s…“

“It’s nice.” His own voice came out like gravel.

“It’s too nice.”

“It gets nicer.”

She leaned against him. “How is that even possible?”

“Ah, well. I promised not to importune you, or you’d discover it. If I hadn’t, this might be a little less chaste.”

“Chaste?” She let out a shaky breath. “This isn’t chaste. It’s utterly wanton.”

“On a scale of wantonness that ranges from…” He paused, trying to think of a suitable analogy. “From multiplication to astronomical parallaxes,” he said, “embracing someone you care about while fully clothed ranks at about the arctangent level.”

“Oh, dear. And I’m already so overheated.”

A wave of his own heat washed over him at that, and he groaned, pulling her closer. “God, sweetheart. You’re killing me.”

She reached up tentatively, and set her fingers against his cheek. He stilled.

“May I slay you further?” she whispered.

“By all means,” he replied, unable to move. “Kill me now.”

His breath stopped. He couldn’t do anything but watch her. She stood in place, her hands on him unmoving, as if gathering up the courage to move forward. Then slowly, very slowly, she came up on her toes. Her weight shifted; he could feel her hand against his jaw, her other hand against his chest, pressing all the harder.

Then her lips brushed his. She was kissing him—lightly at first, just sliding her lips against his, then pressing with greater firmness. He set his hand against the base of her spine and kissed her back.

There was nothing else, nothing but her, the weight of her in his arms, the warmth of her breath, the soft press of her mouth.

“Rose,” he said against her lips. “God, Rose.” He shifted so that he could gather her up, so that the curves of her body slid against him.

She must have been able to feel his erection pressing against her, must have felt the tension in his arms as he held her close.

Usually at this point for Stephen, matters would have easily, swiftly progressed beyond a mere chaste close-mouthed kiss. But he’d promised Rose not to importune her—and no matter how urgently his body responded, there was something delicious about the slowness of the pace. He reveled in the sure knowledge that this would not be the last and only time he tasted her. He could slow everything down, enjoy the electric build-up of desire, delight in every gasp she gave.

“Have I earned a quarter of your evening yet, Miss Sweetly?” he murmured against her lips.

“I don’t know.” Her voice still had a quaver. “I need a little time to decide.”

She kissed him again. He could have fallen into a trance, kissing her. Feeling her lips against his, awakening her first ardor with brush after brush of the lips. He wasn’t sure when the kiss deepened, when he began taking her lips in his, when he first slid his tongue along her bottom lip. She responded with all the enthusiasm he’d ever hoped for, her tongue meeting his, tentatively at first, and then more boldly. He was lost in the feel of her. The space was close about them, warming to the point that the window nearest fogged over with condensation.

He wiped it clean, verified the clouds were still out in force—and then began kissing her again.

At some point, he simply lost his mind. Her hands had begun to roam and his had, too, cupping her breasts—which fit, so nicely rounded, in his palm. A kiss was one thing; running his thumb along the neckline of her gown, undoing buttons halfway down her bosom, sliding it down and then leaning over and nibbling…that was another thing entirely. A lovely, delicious, wonderful thing. She tasted faintly sweet.

Maybe that was his imagination. Maybe he only thought so because she was making the most captivating noises, little moans in the back of her throat halfway to purrs. He let his other hand drift down, cupping the juncture of her thighs over her skirts.

She made no noise of protest, not when he pushed harder, not when he pressed the ball of his hand against her, rubbing in a slow circle. He took his time about it, easing off and then coming back harder, pulling away and then returning, until she was almost as desperate as he was, until her hips were pressing against his hand, until she came apart against him. He felt her orgasm shudder through her, her limbs trembling. It was an almost electric sensation for him, too, watching her eyes flutter shut, watching her give herself up to him.

Her breath slowed after. She opened her eyes, looked up at him.

“Half the evening, do you think?” He gave her a long, slow smile.

That was when he realized that darkness had fallen while they’d been kissing. From the window, he could see a few beginning flurries falling to the ground, scarcely visible in the lamplight from the street below. He had no idea how long they’d been engaged in such pleasantries.

“Rose?” he said. “Are you…?” But he didn’t know what to say beyond that.
Are you in love with me?
seemed too soon. The other words he burned to say—
touch me here, do that to me
—were too brazen. She was still dazed, unsure of herself, and slightly unsteady on her feet.

She still hadn’t said anything.

“Right, then.” He touched his thumb to her forehead, sliding it down the bridge of her nose. “Well. That settles that.”

“Settles what?” They were the first words she’d spoken in God knew how long. He couldn’t decipher the tone of her voice.

“We need more astronomical events,” he said. “Because I am not waiting until the year 2004 to do this again.”

Chapter Six

H
E KNEW IT WAS A MISTAKE
as soon as the words were out of his mouth. As soon as he heard himself and realized that it sounded like an invitation to tryst with him, rather than an offer to spend her life with him. She straightened, pulling away from him.

“Rose.” He reached for her.

She brushed his hand away. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

“Rose. I’m sorry. It was a joke.”

“I know it was a joke.” Her voice shook. “Of course it was a joke. It’s always a joke to you.”

She grabbed her cloak from the floor, found her gloves in the growing darkness.

“Rose.”

Had he not been able to decipher her voice before? He’d not been listening hard enough. Now, now that he’d opened his mouth a moment too soon and spoken just a little too much… Now, he could hear the hurt in her tone.

“Rose. Sweetheart. I never meant to hurt you. You know that. You must know that.”

She pulled on her gloves. “I know that. Stephen, I…” Her voice dropped. “You must know how I feel about you. But I don’t think you understand. This isn’t easy for me, and you aren’t making it any easier. I want to trust you. I am trying to trust you. I even trust your intentions.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t trust your results.”

“Rose.”

She shook her head. “It’s late. I promised my sister I’d be home just after four, and who knows now what time it is. I have to go.”

“Rose.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed. “For bringing me here and arranging for a telescope.”

“At least let me accompany you—”

“I think you’ve spent enough time with me at the moment. Please, Stephen. I told myself I wouldn’t—and look at me. I need to think.”

He rocked back, feeling as if he’d been punched. But he bit back his sharp reply. He’d hurt her first, after all. He’d talk to her when the sting of his ill-timed words had died down, when he was feeling more like himself—less vulnerable and more in control.

She swung down the ladder. He could scarcely see her descending into the gloom.

“Be careful,” he called after her in a low voice.

She didn’t say anything in response, not for a long while. But he heard her reach the top of the turret. She didn’t move for a long time. He wondered if she was looking up at him, if she could see him in the gathering darkness. He wondered what she was thinking.

“I should have been careful hours ago,” she said. “It’s rather late for that.”

T
HE HOUSE WAS NOT DARK
when Rose returned; the lamps on the bottom floor were all lit. Rose could see a silhouette moving against the front window.

She thought back uneasily to the last toll of the clock. It was now…who knew how long after six?

The door was not locked. Her stomach hurt as she turned the handle, but it swung open on easy hinges and she walked into the light.

“
Now.”
Patricia’s voice was hoarse and ragged.

It took Rose a moment, standing there blinking in the blinding light, to understand that her sister was not talking to her. Patricia sat on the sofa in a robe. Her hands were on her knees; she grimaced as she spoke, her whole body tensing.

Doctor Chillingsworth sat on a chair before her, looking at a watch.

Rose could see the tension in her sister’s face, the grit of her teeth, the faint sheen of sweat at her temples. Rose stood in place, unsure of what she was observing.

The doctor, however, raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Really, Mrs. Wells,” he said reprovingly. “Do you really think that you can falsify a contraction and convince me?”

Patricia’s hands gripped her knees. “Falsify? I wouldn’t lie about such a thing.”

Chillingsworth met this with a wave of his hand. “Exaggerate, then. The too-prominent grinding of teeth, the low noise in your throat—Mrs. Wells, you are a doctor’s wife. It does not behoove you to behave in this fashion.” Chillingsworth stood. “There is no cervical dilation; the, ah,
contractions,
as you call them, do not seem particularly intense. And the baby still has not turned. You’ve at least three weeks remaining by my estimation. This is false labor once again, Mrs. Wells. Try to sleep, and do make an effort not to bother me with trivialities until it is truly your time.”

Patricia’s face was a mask. Rose stepped forward, all the heat rising to her face. “Doctor Chillingsworth, my sister does
not—”

Patricia interrupted this defense with a swift shake of her head. “Thank you for seeing me, doctor. I’m much obliged to you for putting my fears to rest. Now that you’ve explained what I must look for, I shall be sure not to bother you again until it is time.”

“See that you don’t.” Chillingsworth ran a hand through his hair and glanced at his pocket watch once more. “Right in the middle of dinner,” he muttered. He dropped the gold disc into his waistcoat pocket and gathered up his bag.

Patricia did not say anything until after he had left. For that matter, she didn’t say anything immediately then. She simply sat on the sofa looking at Rose, while Rose stood in place, afraid to speak.

“I’ve been frantic,” Patricia finally said. “Waiting for you to come home. I was afraid something had happened to you. I looked all over—up and down—I went to the Observatory myself, and they told me you weren’t there. I was so frantic, and then I thought my contractions were starting.”

It didn’t matter what Stephen’s intentions were. It didn’t matter what he wanted. It didn’t matter how sweet or how gentle he had been. It didn’t even matter how much she loved him, how much she still yearned to run back to the spire and fall into his arms.