“And you’re aware you neglected to bring one?” I snapped back. “It’s my—it’s Mr. Kent. You may not remember him from the ball, but he will certainly recognize you immediately. Stop being tall. Put your head down.”
At a loss, I burrowed further into the shallow space, mind whirring angrily as I tried to hide him. This was entirely his fault. We were trapped. Even if I was well disguised, once Mr. Kent saw Mr. Braddock, he’d see me, dressed like this, with Mr. Braddock instead of him, and he would not be happy. All my plans would fall down around our heads.
A warm, ragged breath disturbed the hairs on my forehead, and my blood began pricking as I realized where exactly I had retreated: right into Mr. Braddock, our strange connection humming through the hairsbreadth of distance between our bodies, our faces. I froze, forcing myself to stop shoving against him further. Before I understood anything, a rough, large hand brushed my chin, my face tipped upwards, and his mouth caught mine, and suddenly my entire body was on fire. Whatever odd sensation had thrummed between us before was just the stroke of a violin bow to this clash of an orchestra. I felt the world pass between our lips, tasting champagne, hunger, and something indefinably darker, while his hand ignited sparks down my cheek to the nape of my neck. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer, forcing that elusive essence to run deeper than my skin, deeper than my veins, until my very bones vibrated.
I stumbled back. My lips had never been so alive, and I was absurdly aware that my body both shivered from his touch and burned with embarrassment. My brain refused to work, and all my mouth could form was, “Mr. Braddock, w-w-why—”
“Why would you do that to avoid your suitor?” His voice was grave, breath broken, and . . . and he could not be serious. I looked up and found his nostrils flaring, brow bent disapprovingly, shadowing eyes flooded with reproach . . . for me. My stomach dropped to the floor, and it was all I could do not to let my entire body follow suit. “What—he is not my—and you are the one who kissed me—”
“Your masterful plan of leaning in and closing your eyes didn’t present me with much of a choice.”
“There was the choice of not kiss—”
“There she is,” he interrupted, peering over my head at the lower level. “Wait here. Do not move.”
“What? No. Stop!”
He brushed by, and the thumps of his steps faded down the stairs. Mr. Kent was nowhere to be seen, but I felt not a bit of relief. Damn them both! Mr. Kent here while he was supposed to be helping me—much like he accused Mr. Braddock of earlier! And Mr. Braddock pretending to be concerned about my reputation, kissing me in a brothel, and then suggesting that I forced him? Ridiculous. And where did he go? He had slipped around the outskirts and vanished behind the mob of dancers, drinkers, and dandies. Lovely. He had abandoned me. I rushed along the railing, circling around and searching from other angles to see the hidden spaces in the corners and behind columns.
A large, boisterous laugh erupted above all the other noise, and I traced it to a plump, extravagantly dressed woman who looked to be the center of attention. There was a matronly air about her. She looked like one of those older women in society who simply must have everyone around them married off at any cost. With a wave of her hand, she introduced a woman to a man, and the couple disappeared together through a side door. Ah, a brothel owner, conducting her business here. And next in line was Mr. Braddock.
She did not pair him up like the others, though. Instead, he somehow compelled the matron to send the other clients and girls away so they could have a private conversation. I tried futilely to get a more intimate look when a smooth voice to my left uttered a greeting, and I nearly threw myself over the railing right there.
“All this drinking and dancing and flirting,” Mr. Kent said with a sigh, balancing a glass on the railing for me. “Dreadful business, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I don’t understand it,” I mumbled, accepting the champagne as if it could magically transport me away. No, still here. What on earth was he getting at? Was he toying with me?
“That’s just it. Perspective is a curious thing. One day, you see everything from one angle and you think you know what’s important,” he continued, looking out at the dancers. Then he turned to me, smiling wryly. “Then another day, from another angle, you see what’s really important, and everything else just . . . melts away.”
“I see,” I said without meeting his eyes, hoping he’d be dissuaded.
He wasn’t. His hand slid across the railing and caught mine. “I have never seen you here before. Are you one of Mrs. Shine’s girls?” he asked.
Seen you here before? Downstairs, the tempo of the violins and cellos quickened. As my blood boiled, I could barely hear my own thoughts, and the response left my lips compulsively. “No.”
“Excellent, then might I ask, who is your—”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” I interrupted, hurrying away past the bar and the horrible paintings toward the stairs.