Sunshine streamed through the open window, casting his carpet and counterpane in brilliant light. There, on his bed, lay a radiant young woman. She wore a printed cotton day dress that was many inches too long for her, yet her stocking-clad toes peeped from beneath the hems. The shoes, she had kicked onto the floor when she’d climbed into his bed.
Her soft brown hair was pinned atop her head, forming little haloes upon his pillows at her temples and cheeks, and her soft lips were parted in slumber. The sight took Mark’s breath away, for this daring thief, this troubled girl, this newfound friend appeared utterly at peace.
She slept in safety, without a care in the world. Thanks tohim, no one would harm her. She wouldn’t starve, freeze, or sicken so long as she lived at Green Street. Mark felt a tender ache in his heart, a warmth in his soul, and a yearning of which he hadn’t known he was capable.
He’d been alone for so long that seeing Eliza in his bed felt like coming home.
His house was not empty now.
His life was no longer lonely.
For a long while, Mark simply stood in the doorway and watched her doze.
“Eliza.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. When she saw him, her lips curled into a drowsy smile. “You’re back at last.”
“And not a moment too soon, it seems.” Mark schooled his features into a frown. “What are you doing in my bed, girl?”
She might’ve been snooping. She might’ve been stealing. But he knew her better than that, for she had merely been sleeping—like a spoiled house cat. He wanted to tease and taunt her, yet she stretched her limbs on the warm patch of eiderdown and confessed, “I missed you.”
What could a fellow say in response to such a sweet admission?
Only the truth would do.
“I missed you, as well,” said Mark. He approached the bedstead hoping that she wouldn’t bolt. He wanted to lay with her. Chastely, he wanted to hold her. “Shove over,” he bid, for the bed was large enough for the two of them if they pressed very close together.
Eliza scooted toward the window, giving him space. The mattress creaked as he crawled beside her, and he settled his head on the pillow next to hers.
He stretched his arm out, and she nestled into the pit of his arm. Still wearing his sack coat, Mark curled his soft sleeve around Eliza’s warm, pliant body. She felt smaller than he’d imagined, thinner and bonier, though she had been eating well since arriving. She smelled clean and powdery. He recognized the fragrance of his favorite brand of soap on her skin and the fresh, minty scent of his toothpowder on her breath.
Eliza looked, smelled, andfeltlike a woman in his embrace. It had been so very long since he’d welcomed anyone into his private space. He was humbled that she’d come, on her own, into his drab, masculine domain.
He was touched that she missed him, for he had missed her, too.
Sighing contentedly, Mark dipped his chin to kiss the top of her head. He buried his nose into her wispy curls, breathing in and out, filling his lungs with the sweet-smelling, powdery scent of her.
“Your face is healing nicely,” said he, softly. “One can hardly see the bruises.”
She pressed her palm against her brow bone, testing the place where those lads had punched her. “I must be on the mend. I cannot even feel the welt anymore.”
Mark lifted his free arm to touch her wrist. He turned her discolored knuckles for his inspection. “And your hand?” Eliza gently curled her fingers into a fist so that he could examine her stiff, swollen joints. “Fighting fit, I see.”
For too long, she had battled for her daily bread. She had lied, pinched, robbed, and purse-snatched to survive. He feared that her days as a fleet-footed girl were coming to an end, and that her life would only become harder the longer that she lasted.
Thank God for the small fortune that she had stolen! Otherwise, what might’ve happened to her when she could no longer outrun her victims or outwit the police? What if she had slipped into the wrong carriage and their paths had never crossed?
“I went to see Ann today,” he explained. “She says that you are welcome to keep the clothes you’ve been borrowing if you wish.” He stroked his fingers over her hair, softly skating his fingertips through the wisps and whorls that had escaped from her pins. “Of course, you can afford a new wardrobe, and you’ve no need to wear my sister’s cast-offs, but I thought you might at least have the hems taken in so that you’re not tripping over them.”
He felt Eliza nod her head. “Jenny, the housemaid, will do that for me.”
“Good. You must think of these things as yours—the frocks, shoes, and bonnets. Corsets and underpinnings, nightdresses and wrappers. My house is yours for as long as you want to stay, and I hope that you do stay until you are ready to spread your wings.”
He wasn’t foolish enough to try and keep her.
Girls like her didn’t fall for men like him. He was modest, starchy, and dull. His choice of career was hardly the stuff of heroes. He kept a predictable schedule and earned a comfortable income, and he was nearing forty years of age. Silver streaks had begun to form at his temples, and there were mornings when Mark listened to his clerks at their desks, gossiping and joking and dreaming, and he felt positively ancient.
Even Hilda Prevost considered life as Lady van Bergen to be a safe, stale choice compared to an artist’s existence. A future as a banker’s wife would be a soulless fate for a spirited young woman like Eliza.
