He closed the window and turned to her.
Though her voice was even, there was something of a glow swimming in her eyes, and a soft fluttery wistfulness to her mouth, that sweet and curving mouth.
“I can afford you the scientific view. ‘The opera was an operation to revive love, to try and to reach the fatally coldblooded and breathe unsullied air within.’” A weightless feeling had come on him. He felt carried by winds, blown before a rising storm.
Her lips parted. “Did the opera reach your heart?”
He attempted nonchalance. His artificial shrug rustled the formal collar of his shirt. He watched the hollow of her throat flex. An errant curl escaped her coiffure. He brushed it with his finger at the base of her neck. It felt warm, her skin cool. He looked up into her eyes to catch her gazing at him.
He meant to take his hand away. Her diamond necklace sparkled on her breast. She and the stones were like light, with darkness all around. He was darkness…and plummeting…
He should not have touched her. To succumb to weakness. To allow it to consume him.
The intermittent illumination from the streets found deep highlights in the lock of hair. She lifted her hand to tuck the errant curl into place, but he resisted, gazing down at his hand, fanning the curl between his fingers, resting his fist against the slope of her bare shoulder. He felt every texture, every pale strand of hair, every light breath she took.
He slid his knuckles in a feathery brush up her throat, past the necklace, to a place beneath her ear that was soft with a sensation.
He raised his other hand to her neck, sat silent, touching her.Stop me. Don’t let me.He could not take away his hand; could not speak. No sound escaped his mouth or stirred his lips.
Her eyes grew wide with dusky violet. She had been loyal to him. Secured his financing. Her vulnerability seemed enormous, her stillness beneath his hand an act of infinite trust.
With his fingers, he could flay open bark on the trunks of trees…and he could feel her heart in the fragile pulse at her throat, so light and quick. He lifted his other hand and cradled her face.
Delicate. Like the life of a tiny bird within his palms. Lust flooded him. What he wanted…God, what he wanted.
He thought of his engine, his factory, his dream. He thought of Martha, his former fiancée and her foul husband who stole his invention. All were in another universe. Pipe dreams and illusive fingers of mist, and he’d never been alive before this moment.
He spread his hands, his thumbs brushing the skin beneath her earlobe, his fingertips resting on her temples, just grazing her cheeks. She only stared at him. Such fine eyes she had, the subtle violet of a deep river stream, the lashes so long that he felt the sweep of them against his fingers.
He sat there touching her, imagined her hair all around in waves, her body: the voluptuous scent, the sounds. His throat tightened with a suppressed moan. He wanted to hold her, to gather her up and cradle her against him and he wanted to overpower her. There emerged a terrible violence inside him. If anyone dared to hurt her.
He craved her, despised himself for it.
Women were trouble shouted an angry echo.
The coach stopped with a jerk and jolted him to reality. With Herculean effort, Zachary pulled back.Keep your hands off her. She deserves better.
Chapter Twelve
In the past two weeks, Fiona and Elizabeth had walked up and down Broadway where the elites checked each other out. She had insisted on taking the orphans to Macy’s to buy them new shoes. How she yearned to buy her daughter a whole store of frilly lace dresses replacing the unembellished uniform frock Caroline wore. They followed with homemade ice cream at the orphanage.
Now Elizabeth was off to have tea with Mrs. Merriweather. Since the opera, she had enjoyed the older woman’s delightful company.
She entered the drawing room, resisting the urge to put her palms to her cheeks. Zachary and Chen rose and bowed.
Mrs. Merriweather rushed in. “I’ve invited Mr. Rourke and Mr. Chen to tea today, Elizabeth. I hope you don’t mind. Would you be so kind as to entertain Mr. Rourke while I show Mr. Chen my late husband’s Chinese room? He was so fascinated with the Orient.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said, momentarily forgetting all else. Why had Mrs. Merriweather invited Chen? Then she remembered the tales Zachary had shared at the opera about the Chinaman, intriguing the older woman. Elizabeth’s throatthickened. Was that her mimicking the bigotry of her parents? How they voiced their disgust for the lesser Irish immigrant masses and expressed more contempt for the Chinese.
Elizabeth didn’t understand her society and their ridicule of other people different from themselves. Mother Superior voiced that God made all men equal and to appreciate everyone’s talents.
She fidgeted with her reticule and then walked to the window where an elaborate arrangement of chrysanthemums bloomed on the sill. Had Mrs. Merriweather taken up the role of matchmaker? How cunning she was.
Before the tea arrived, Elizabeth considered the situation of meeting with Mr. Rourke alone, the wagging tongues that would yearn to share her scandalous behavior with her parents. Mrs. Merriweather had left the doors open to quell any burgeoning impropriety that might be bandied about by servants.
Elizabeth’s skin tingled. In a whisper of movement, Zachary moved close behind her. She inhaled, warm spice and male heat.
“If I may be forward, may I ask why a woman as beautiful as you has never married?” asked Zachary.
