“So that’s why you declared yourself at last. Because you could no longer stand the thought of my marrying Mr. Somerset.”
He picked up a coconut biscuit and then set it down again. A fraction of a second later he was standing before her, as close as if they were about to start a waltz—which was far too close for any kind of normal interaction. But she did not move away.
Instead she studied his silver stick pin, which she’d first thought entirely plain, but which at this proximity resolved itself to be hammered in the shape of a tulip. She was beginning to like the way he dressed, with little fancies and eccentricities. Or sometimes with a big splash of whimsy, like the sail-rigged airships on his wallpaper.
He touched a thumb to her cheek, the sensation like that of coming into contact with a creature of the wilderness—a stag perhaps—nothing fearful, but unfamiliar and unpredictable. “Does your presence here mean what I think it means?”
His hand slid down, and now nestled next to her lips, as if waiting for her to speak to feel the vibration. Her breath came in shallower.
“I’m not sure what you think it means. I came to find out about the flowers.”
“For that you could have sent me a note. You needn’t risk coming here by yourself.”
His other hand settled behind her neck, warm and strong and intent.
“It’s not that risky coming here,” she said, her voice reduced to a whisper.
“No?”
At last he kissed her.
The moment their lips touched she suddenly had a better understanding of attachment, of what it meant to desire symphonic concerts at all hours of the day with someone. It wasn’t his hunger that surprised her—she’d sensed it all along, she supposed—but her own. She had enjoyed the intimate act with Henry, but she had never wanted it to this extent. She wanted Mr. Marsden—Will. She wanted to yank out his beautiful antique silver stick pin and toss it across the room because it was in the way. She wanted to use him, to astonish him, to own him.
She pulled away.
“I can’t do this to Mr. Somerset.”
“Then tell him you cannot marry him.”
“And then what? Marry you?”
“It would be a challenge—you are not the easiest of women, as I’m sure you know. But I’m game.”
“You are game?” she cried. “You’ve nothing to lose. I don’t want poverty to be my lot. My pride may not survive it.”
“Then you must do what’s best for your pride.”
She was startled. “Pardon?”
“I won’t always be a secretary, but most likely I will not have a country seat in this lifetime. And I may not ever have a house in Belgravia. So if your pride is the most important thing to you, you should marry Mr. Somerset and enjoy everything that he can give you,” he said, his tone perfectly serious.
“You are supposed to persuade me to see things from your perspective.”
“I don’t want you to be persuaded. I want the decision to come from you and you alone.”
She walked away to the far corner of the room—not very far—and turned around before her knees hit a canterbury full of books and periodicals. “You understand that my other choice is to do nothing: I only need to follow the course that has already been laid out and paid for.”
He smiled slightly. “I was there planning your wedding, if you’ll recall. It promises to be exceptional. Much time, effort, and money would be wasted were you to walk away from it. Moreover, Mr. Somerset could very well become prime minister someday: There will be women lined up to take your place, should you choose to vacate it.”
Her hands lifted in a gesture of futility. “You are not helping at all.”
“I’m not helping me at all. I’m helping you as well as I know how.” He approached her in her corner and traced her eyebrow with the tip of a finger, a touch that shocked her with its intimacy. “You are a hardheaded woman, Lizzy. You want all that glitters. You want London at your feet. And yet in here,” he rested the back of his hand briefly against her heart, “are the inconvenient desires of a romantic.”
“I thought I was a cynic.”
“As am I. And there is no worse fate than for a cynic to fall in love and realize that while cynicism is a fine shield against shallower emotions, it is no use at all against love.”
“I don’t know that I’m capable of such love,” she said mutinously.
“I don’t know that you are either, which makes me worried for myself.”
She gasped. “That is a very fine thing to say to the woman you love.”