He made it as far as the end of the dance floor before Ember intercepted him, just quickly, with a touch to his elbow and a faint whisper—“She turned around to look for you”—before she vanished again, leaving him frozen mid-stride as he processed what she’d said.
Damnation! He was going to combust.
He resisted the urge to look back for her, to see if Ember had been pissing around with his emotions or telling the truth, and charged directly into the damp grass, already gathering dew from the advanced hour of the evening.
He felt it grip at his ankles, felt it soak into the fabric, and he cared not at all. He ought to have gone directly for the carriages, of course, but Freddy was a stupid sort of bastard and just kept trudging off toward the river like he really was going to throw himself into it.
The water would probably be warm this time of year, anyway. Blasted, sadistic river.
She’d called him Freddy. She’d said his name. She’d looked him right in the eye as she ate that little morsel of cake and let him watch. She’d dared him tokeep watching. He’d had to find a fork or some such nonsense to focus on before he crawled across the table to retrieve her.
He jerked his jacket off over his shoulders and threw it in the grass as he reached the riverbank. He sucked in the brackish scent of the wake and then blew it all out through pursed lips as he let his eyes close.
If it weren’t for the way his shoes sunk into the ground here, he might have sat down. As it was, he was going to have to write a full apology scree to the laundress already, so he thought better of it. Besides, there would be no returning to the light if he had a mud-soaked backside.
Instead, he snatched the knot out of his cravat, pulling it apart so that he could breathe without constriction. The breeze, which had been generous with its attentions tonight, gently brushed against the newly exposed skin, making him shiver in exactly the opposite way of helpful.
He groaned, running both hands over his head and into his hair and, despite knowing he shouldn’t, he turned to look at the glow of the candlelit pavilion behind him, twinkling there like a star that was visiting the ground. The music was tumbling softly down the hill, losing volume and shape but retaining its spirit.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, clenching his teeth.
Then came her laughter.
He thought for certain he’d imagined it, that he’d summoned it out of the breeze with the sheer force of his desire, but he turned anyway, toward the sound.
She wasn’t as far down the bank as he was, sensible little wench. She glimmered on the side closest to the wedding party, those faraway candles catching like facets in her golden gown. She had her arms loosely crossed in front of her like perhaps she’d been watching him for a little while before giving herself away, her dainty little fingers wrapped around either elbow.
“Don’t stop undressing on my behalf,” she called, taking a trio of tiny little steps closer. “I was very curious how far you’d take it.”
“You are welcome to come help me,” he returned raggedly, not even able to make it sound charming or defensibly in jest. In fact, he thought he deserved a damned medal for not adding, “Please.”
Her smile faltered a little, those big brown eyes widening. He thought she might flee again, but instead, another three steps, little steps, toward him. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“Why not?” he shot back with a challenging little flash of his teeth. “You’ve certainly done it before.”
“Freddy!” she said, though her gasp sounded more like delight than outrage. “Someone might hear you.”
“So what if they do?” he replied, a laugh bubbling in his chest from the strain and the absurdity. “You’re my wife. You’re allowed to take my clothes off whenever you like.”
“Is that right?” she replied, a little softer now, a little less certain. “I suppose it’s true, or it was, at one time.”
“It’s just as true as it’s ever been,” he replied, holding still, watching her. He thought perhaps he might spook her again, though she had seemed steadier of late. He took a chance and blamed the starlight for the impulse. “It always will be.”
“I shall endeavor to remember that,” she said, reaching up to toy with the scrap of lace at her throat. “Whatareyou doing out here, though?”
“Thinking.”
“You need to disrobe to think?” she asked, tilting her head, ringlets brushing her shoulder.
He watched her, certain he could feel those ringlets on his knuckles, could remember the feel of that exact patch of her shoulder under the pads of his fingers.
His body was still coiled as tight as a copper spring, but his heart and breathing seemed to be finding a bit more rhythm. So, in a fashion that suggested his brain was at least partially working now, but still not quite up to performance standards, he said, “I do all of my best thinking in the nude, Claire. You know that.”
She laughed again. Her teeth glinted, her head dropped, and she released a sound of shared amusement that was more beautiful than the trills of a thousand rare songbirds.
It made him laugh too. It made him laugh in a way that only Claire had ever managed to evoke, because when he amused her, he got to see himself like she saw him. He got to feel the impression of himself as perfectly successful in matters of charm and amusement.
He had forgotten that. Not just what it felt like, but that it happened at all.
