I may have been protective a time or two, but the first instance was brotherly instinct over a maiden in distress. Thesecond instance—shielding her from the horrors in the north wing—was out of consideration for her fragile human nature.
But in the hall outside her room…
The way I spoke to her. The offer I made. The things I said I’d do to her. The things I wanted to do to her. The things Istillwant to do to her.
That was neither teasing nor protection.
That was jealousy and desire.
For fuck’s sake, I no longer have the luxury of denial. I’m attracted to the weirdest woman I’ve ever met, and just acknowledging as much opens a chasm in my chest, one painful and pleasant at once. The former outweighs the latter as I recall how she misread my every flirtation, just like she did the night we made our bet. She even taunted me about mybedfellow of choice, when she’s the one I was trying to tempt into my bed. She’s the one I was fucking with my eyes across the room at Somerton House. How did she misread that? How does she not know?
I suppose I didn’t know until now either?—
A touch on my arm has me leaping in place. I whirl to find Jolene beside me, the turmoil in her expression more pronounced. What the hell am I supposed to do with her? Not once did I consider sleeping with her. There’s no way I could kiss her again. The thought alone has my stomach turning, sending me back to my experience with Meredith in the north wing, with Greta Garter at rehearsal. I take a deep breath, debating how to let her down easy without soiling my reputation as the poet she admires.
“Is this about June?” she asks, tone gentle.
“June,” I echo, and as soon as the word leaves my lips, my mind clears. That’s right. I can use this. Forcing away thoughts of Edwina, I settle into my role as William the Poet. I don’tbother shifting my outward mood, for the frantically pacing man she witnessed will serve me just fine.
“I can’t stop the memories,” I say, letting my voice warble. She reaches for me, but I lift my hands. “Please don’t touch me. I…I can’t let you touch me, not when I’m trapped in the past like this. It wouldn’t be fair to you. Oh, how I wish I could be present with you right now, but the pain…”
She presses her hands to her heart. “You can tell me about it. I’ll listen.”
I unfocus my eyes and lower my voice. “There are things I haven’t told anyone. If I tell you, you must keep it to yourself.”
Eagerly she nods, pleased to be granted such exclusive access into William the Poet’s innermost thoughts and traumas. I proceed with my performance with ease, insisting we keep our distance and sit on separate beds while I talk. She eats up my every word, and it serves me well too. The more I talk and the more I immerse myself in my role, the more I can distract myself from the thought that Edwina is likely—at this very moment—making love to another man down the hall.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EDWINA
Iwake with a start and find not a pillow beneath my cheek but parchment. Wincing, I lift my head, blinking into the morning light. The muscles in my neck and back revolt as I straighten in the chair I fell asleep in. I squint at the sight before me, gathering my bearings. I’m dressed in only my chemise and corset while my notebook lays open before me on the desk, my ink pot uncapped.
“Good morning,” says a cheery voice, reminding me of why I awoke in the first place.
I swivel in my chair, despite the protestations of my still-aching muscles, to find Jolene flouncing into our room. She glances at my bed where Daphne dozes on the pillow that should be mine. “Oh good, I’m glad it’s just Daphne. I didn’t want to walk in if someone else was still here. I knocked, but you didn’t?—”
Her words cut off as she meets my eyes. She blinks a few times before her lips quirk at the corners.
I stiffen. I’ve seen that look before. It means I’ve done something embarrassing. My hands fly to my face. Sure enough, there’s a smear of moisture that has the suspiciously familiar viscosity of drool.
“No, Edwina, it’s all over your cheek.”
Frowning, I shift back to the desk and the small circular mirror propped off to the side. My reflection reveals what so amused Jolene. Across my cheek is a splotch of ink. As I rub at it, I find my fingertips stained with ink too. The latter isn’t unusual, considering I was writing all night, but I don’t usually make a habit of falling asleep mid-sentence.
With a chuckle, Jolene sets a steaming pitcher on the desk beside me and hands me a cloth. “I picked these up on my way to our room. I don’t have time to visit the student baths before I catch my train back home.”
Thinking about whose room she just came from—and why she’d be so eager to wash—spears my chest with something hateful. But Jolene is my friend and I should be happy for her, so I breathe the emotion away. That doesn’t mean I’ll ask her how her night went. It would be akin to prodding a bruise.
I accept the cloth and pour some of the water into the washbasin on my nightstand. Wringing out the lilac-scented water, I ask, “You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I’ll be taking the morning train back to Floating Hope. But enough about me.” She sits at the edge of my bed. The movement jostles Daphne awake, who in turn grumbles and repositions herself on my pillow. Jolene beams at me. “How did your night with Archie go?”
I keep my gaze on my reflection as I wipe the ink stains from my cheek. My stomach drops at her question. “Uh, well…we kissed.”
“And?” She scoots forward, eyes alight with expectation. When I say nothing more, her face goes slack. “Wait, that’s all?”
I grimace, glad I have an activity to distract myself with. I rub my cheek more vigorously as I give her a nonchalant, “That’s all.”
