He would become little more than a customer who occasionally came to her shop for a purchase. How long before he read every penny dreadful and had no reason to wander through the aisles of shelves? How long before she was married and was no longer sharing her knowledge of books with her patrons, with him?
Because it didn’t matter that nothing had happened between her and Beresford. In the aristocratic world, it mattered only what people thought. Perception was everything.
Matthew could never be her future, but he was deserving of a proper goodbye. One more night of memories that would see her through into her dotage, that he would hopefully look back on with fond remembrance.
Where was the harm in indulging in her yearnings, her wants for just a few hours? For a short time, she could pretend that the horror in the library hadn’t happened, that her reputation wasn’t ruined, that come morning her life wouldn’t be dictated by Society’s rules rather than her own heart.
To avoid bringing her family total humiliation and shame, she would have to give up what she desired. But not for a few hours yet, not until the lark heralded the start of a new day. Not as long as the nightingale sang.
Her decision made, she turned on her heel and headed back out, her steps beating a rhythmic and steady tattoo, growing stronger as the rightness of her actions reverberated through her. Just as she would have no choice tomorrow, so she had no choice now. She needed Matthew with the same urgency that she required breath in order to live. She would not consider the bittersweetness of having him once more, only to lose him. Her entire focus would be on now. Only now.
Up the street she went. Past the mews. Around the corner—
Straight into his arms. Never before had she belonged any place more than she did then, in his embrace, with her face against the soft linen of his shirt, with his heart pounding hard beneath her cheek.
“I had to put on my boots, or I would have gotten to you sooner. What happened, Fancy? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing now.” Not for hours yet, and when the wrongness arrived, she would deal with it. Leaning back slightly, she skimmed her fingers up into his hair, cradling his face between her palms. “Kiss me, Matthew. Kiss me as though it’s the first time you ever have. Kiss me as though it’s the last time you ever will.”
“Fancy—”
“Please. I need passion and fire. I need you. Only you.”
His mouth came down on hers, hard, greedily, hungrily. Yes! This. This was what she wanted, needed, required. With the first meeting of Matthew’s lips against hers, the sparks were kindled, with the full taking of her mouth the fire spread throughout her body, down to her toes, to the tips of her fingers. The heat was consuming, glorious, all-encompassing as their tongues stroked and parried. As though she were clinging ivy, she intertwined her arms around his shoulders, his neck, and his hold on her tightened as though he needed them closer as much as she did.
With a low growl, he tore his mouth from hers, lifted her into his arms, and began walking toward his residence. “We need privacy for what’s to follow.”
“Are you taking me on an adventure, Mr. Sommersby?” she asked breathlessly, gliding her fingers over every inch of him she could reach.
His chuckle was dark, muted. “That is my intention, Miss Trewlove.”
“I do so love your wicked intentions,” she whispered before circling her tongue over the shell of his ear, nipping at his lobe.
Moaning low, he quickened his pace, carrying her inside and kicking the door closed behind them. Barely noting that the front parlor had no furniture whatsoever, she fought not to imagine how she might have furnished it for him, how she would have turned the cold space into a warm and welcoming lair where she would greet him each time he came in through the doorway. At some point, he would marry another who would hang paintings on the walls and snuggle against him on the settee. She didn’t want to think about that, think that another would share this intimacy with him.
Up the stairs he carried her and into the room that she’d only ever viewed a portion of. It was simply furnished, but neat and tidy, the bed made—no doubt by Mrs. Bennett. Would the woman figure out that tonight he’d not been alone, that another had shared his residence, his bed, his body? When all was said and done, would another glass join the one that presently rested next to the low-burning lamp on the bedside table? Would her scent fill the room and mingle with his?
Lowering her feet to the floor, he once more took possession of her mouth as though it belonged to him and him alone. His lips were moist and full, and she loved the way they moved over hers, urgently and yet tenderly. Then he was trailing a path along her cheek, and his mouth came to rest near her ear. “It drove me mad thinking of you at that ball enjoying the company of other men.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to ruin their last night together, not wanting him to know yet that it would be their last. “I don’t even know why I went. You haunt me, and all I could think was that I couldn’t wait to be with you once more. You know everything about me, the good and the bad, and still you seek out my company. I never have to pretend with you.” She let all that she felt for him flood her eyes, her expression, her face.
“God, Fancy, I hate it every time you attend a ball. I sit up here torturing myself, thinking that you’ll meet someone you’ll prefer to spend your time with. He’ll take you on picnics and boating—”
She touched her fingers to his lips. “No one will ever replace you in my heart.”
Even as she spoke the words, she recognized the absolute truth of them. A man such as he had always been her dream. A man who could claim her heart, her soul, her body while still leaving the ownership of them in her care.
With a low growl, he once more took possession of her mouth, deepening the kiss until it was nearly impossible to tell where he ended, and she began. Heat swept through her, through skin, muscle, and bone. Sensations rose to the surface and danced along her nerve endings, causing little sparks to burst forth like the tiniest of fireworks.
She couldn’t stop the little mewl of distress when he separated himself from her.
“Patience, love,” he urged, his low voice sending shivers of need through her. Slowly, he trailed one finger along the line where silk met flesh, over the swells of her breasts. Puckering tightly, her nipples strained against the cloth. “I want you as you were last night, naked before me.”
Those deft pianoforte-playing fingers made short work of removing her clothing and his, but then he was barely dressed. Shirt, trousers, boots. They came off so quickly, a heap of clothing on the floor.
“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped.
Reaching out, he pulled the pearl combs from her hair. As though appreciating the value of them, he carefully placed them on the table beside his bed. He began plucking the pins from her hair. What had taken nearly an hour to pile into place, he disassembled in less than a minute, and the long heavy tresses fell around her shoulders, along her back. “You are as lovely as the first ray of sunlight over the moors.”
