She shut her eyes. “Stephen.” That single word, long and drawn out. It was neither yes nor no; he wasn’t sure what it was.
“Every time I’m with you,” she said, “I tell myself I must beware. That this is what you do—make women comfortable, make us forget ourselves, principle by principle.” She rubbed her forehead and slowly opened her eyes. The light in the spire was waning even as she spoke, and yet for some reason, it seemed to find her, glinting in her eyes, reflecting off the warm brown of her skin. It caught a faint tilted smile on her mouth.
“So why is it,” she said, “that I have just now noticed that you’ve only ever come to me about me? You’ve asked about my work, my thoughts, my wants. You set this up for me, and when I balked, you handed me the keys and walked away. If you wanted me to forget myself, you wouldn’t keep reminding me of who I am.”
“Rose, love,” he said in a low voice, “I think you know why that is.”
She inhaled and spread her hands against her belly. Then, very slowly, she walked closer to him—close enough that her skirts touched his trousers, close enough that he could have drawn her to him. She swallowed; he could have set his fingers against the hollow of her throat and felt the movement, so close was she.
She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t want to dream timid dreams.” Her voice was soft, with just a hint of a catch in it. “I want to dream large, vivid ones. I want to dream that you’ll fall in love with me. That…” She bit her lip, but continued on. “That I could dare to reach out to you, that I needn’t fear what would come.”
She lifted her hand tentatively. He had thought that she might brush his cheek. But she didn’t. Instead, she took his hand. They were both wearing gloves; he should not have felt a thrill at the brush of cloth on cloth. But he did, and it swept him from head down to toe, settling particularly in his groin, warming him in the cold air.
“But I do fear.” Her hand clasped his. “You’re clever and never off balance around others. You’re handsome and sweet and outrageous. You could hurt me so badly, and I’m afraid to let you do it.”
He swept his thumb along the side of her hand. “Sweetheart, if you don’t trust me yet, there’s no assurance I can give you that will put your mind at ease. All I can do is keep on not hurting you, and keep on, until you know in your bones I never will.”
Their fingers intertwined, their hands coming together, palm to palm. He was enchanted, enraptured. She let out a long slow breath and slowly reached out with her other hand. This one she set on his shoulder. His skin prickled through his coat, his whole body tensing with her nearness. She drew a finger down his collarbone and then laid her palm flat against his chest.
He couldn’t move.
“I trust you.” Her voice was low, so low. “God knows I shouldn’t—but I trust you.”
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.