It mattered not. Particularly not when the air around her became as light and weightless as if gravity no longer had a claim on her. Her fingers wrapped around the seat of her chair as a cascade of floaty warmth washed over her. She had imbibed a bit too much wine—or whiskey, as the occasion allowed—more times than a lady would dare admit, but this feeling was that and more.
“Where does it come from?” she heard her voice asking.
“Grande wormwood,” Nick tossed over his shoulder.
“No. Not where, butwhere? What world? Surely not ours. I feel as if . . . as if I’ve lassoed a shooting star.”
She might have detected a roll of Nick’s eyes before he turned away, but it mattered not. She had no use for the here and now, but for epiphany, bright and true: only Nick had done the touching. These last three nights, he’d touched some part of her body, but she hadn’t touched his. It had been years since she last felt him.
Her eyes traveled the broad width of his back. Was he different now? He’d been lean and angular, but the angles these days cut a little sharper. This was a harder man from a decade ago. How had it escaped her notice all those Christmases, Easters, and birthdays? She wanted to feel him. Not through layers of jacket, vest, and shirt, but skin to skin.
Her gaze wandered over the other women, the otherlorettes, her odd sense of kinship with them increasing. Then, she noticed it: they weren’t simply on the receiving end of being stroked. These women gave back in subtle ways: fingertips feathering against a thin sliver of bare skin at the back of a neck; rouged lips pressed against an ear, whispering a promise for later that only the two of them would ever know; hands finding their ways inside jacket pockets, inside trouser pockets . . .
A tingling sensation fluttered out from her belly. She didn’t have to sit here like a demure little nothing all night. Before her was an opportunity to take what she wanted. And right now what she wanted was a touch of Nick.
She moved her chair closer to his and half draped herself against him. The muscles in his back went rigid. Good. Still, this level of touch wasn’t enough to satisfy.
With that thought in mind, her hand found its way to his thigh, and, like the muscles in his back, those, too, contracted beneath her touch. She resisted the urge to test their rigidity with a squeeze. Instead, her hand began snaking its way up the solid length of muscle, her fingers soon locating his trouser pocket. It slipped inside.
Shocked by her own boldness, she hesitated, her breath hitching in her chest. She watched his profile for a reaction, any tic or tell that revealed an effect on him,hereffect on him. Nothing. His face remained frustratingly impassive. But his heart—which she felt, pressed as she was against his back—revealed the opposite of impassivity. His heart beat hard and fast, mirroring the thunder of her own. Oh, he felt it, too.
Her fingers resumed their progress, feeling their way deeper inside his pocket. Did he feel a light increasing in luminescence inside of him until he was glowing with a warm river of sensation, wet and wondrous?
Hmm, that last bit might have been the absinthe.
Oh, delicious anticipation. An image of his manhood flashed across her mind. She remembered it as hard and true and ever at the ready. Was that still the case?
“Am I invisible enough now?” she whispered into his ear.
A vise grip, sudden and steely, clamped around her wrist and removed her hand from his pocket, firmly returning it to her lap.
He half-turned in his chair and faced her. His eyes gave nothing away, and it occurred to her that they should. They should show anger, dismay, desire, disgust . . .something. Yet they revealed nothing, which could be a tell in itself. He wasn’t allowing himself to reveal himself. How was it that she’d never perceived this particular skill in her husband? She’d thought he felt nothing, but she was beginning to suspect it was rather the opposite.
“I don’t feel an ounce of shame for what I just attempted,” she whispered. She’d never been the sort of girl who minded very much getting into trouble. “Wasn’t I behaving like another one of the mistresses? Like another one ofyourmistresses?” He remained stoic and silent. “Indignation and shame are suchmuddyemotions. In fact, I feel the opposite of muddy.In fact, I’ve never felt so pure in my life.”
“That is the absinthe speaking.”
“Is it? And is your absinthe speaking to me right now?”
“Mariana—”
“Oh, stuff the scold. I wasn’t being serious. Well, not entirely.”
No longer did she feel like remaining hostage to Nick’s too-steady gaze. She wanted to enjoy the night. Never in her life had she felt so at one with the people around her. It was as if they stood together on a plane of existence known only to them. It felt miraculous.
Her musing was cut short when her gaze fell upon a familiar figure. At first, she didn’t believe her eyes. She was viewing the world through the lens of the Green Fairy, after all. “Nick,” she whispered, enough urgency in her voice to regain his attention.
“Yes, Mariana,” he returned. She didn’t care for his long-suffering tone.
“Aren’t you concerned this is the sort of place someone you know would frequent? Perhaps someone like the Comte de Villefranche?”
“Villefranche wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this,” Nick returned. “His elevated ideals don’t venture far from on high and down into the realm of reality.”
Mariana felt an unruly smile bloom across her face. She knew something Nick didn’t. “Then how is it that I just watched him walk through the front entrance?”
Nick froze. “Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
