She furrows her brow and I wonder if she’s heard of burlesque in Bretton. It might be too racy for society there. Yet I’ve learned enough about Edwina to know it won’t be too racyfor her. She’s going to swoon once the performers start shedding layers of clothing, though it won’t happen until later in the play.
Excitement dances in her eyes as she faces the stage again. After the opening musical number, the aerialist descends from the lyra and flounces off stage left.
The next scene is a more traditional performance and sets up the first meeting between Dolly and Alexander. The following is another musical number paired with an artistic, seductive dance between two figures representing the couple.
Edwina relishes every moment, her eyes glued to the stage, her lips tilted in a permanent smile. I’m glad she’s enjoying herself. This version ofThe Governess and the Rakemay not be the kind of grand production normally hosted at one of the larger theaters, but it doesn’t make it any less worthy or impressive. You can hear the passion in every song, see it in every move the dancers make. The acting is exaggerated and dramatic, and the burlesque elements enhance the source material without making a parody of it.
I find myself leaning closer and closer to Edwina. Finally, our shoulders touch. She offers me a soft smile before returning her gaze to the chorus line that shimmies and sways behind Dolly as she reaches her pivotal moment where she deems herself worthy of Alexander’s love. She sheds layers of silk, lace, and feathered boas until a form-hugging dress remains, sheer scarlet silk bedecked with crystals.
Edwina’s mouth falls open and a single tear slides down her cheek, catching the light from the stage. I lean ever closer and brush my gloved hand over the tear, gathering it on my fingertip. Her lashes flutter as she leans slightly into my touch, though her gaze remains fixed on Dolly’s dance. I lower my palm and place it between us.
Edwina’s hand leaves her lap at the same moment and lands on mine. She flinches, and I expect her to pull away.
She doesn’t.
My pulse quickens. With bated breath, I turn my wrist. There’s a chance the movement will make her retreat, but I take that gamble, turning my palm over until it’s fully beneath hers. She spreads out her fingers, and I freeze, wondering if this is the moment she pulls away. Instead, her fingers lace through mine. I release a slow sigh, my mouth curving as I more securely take her hand.
With her warmth against my palm, her fingers tangled in mine, I can hardly focus on the play, even when Dolly slides off her dress to reveal her flimsy glittering underthings as her empowering number comes to an end. All I can think of is Edwina. Even with gloves between us, our touching palms steal every inch of my awareness. This is different from when I held her hand on the way here, pulling her from distractions. It’s different from when I did the same to take her out of the north wing.
I don’t know how it feels for Edwina, or if she’s even aware of what we’re doing. For all I know, she’s simply using me to anchor her emotions.
Isn’t that what I’m here for though?
I’m the one who told her to use me.
After the play concludes,I take Edwina backstage to meet the cast. They greet her with delighted squeals, and several ask for her autograph. It’s incredible how Edwina can so easily come out of her shell in certain situations. Sometimes she seems so unsure of herself, so reserved. Other times, she chatters nonstop without a care in the world. Though I’ve learned if there’sanything that can summon Edwina’s charisma, it’s talking about her books.
When we finally leave Vulture’s Prose, the streets are far quieter than they were before. Edwina, on the other hand, won’t stop talking. I don’t mind it. She prattles on about her favorite scenes, her favorite musical numbers. We take our time heading back toward Zane’s apartment, keeping to the calmer backroads, and I listen to her every word with an idiotic grin on my face.
We’re a few blocks away from our destination when I take a short detour to a food vendor. Scents of fried dough, sugar, and cardamom fill the air as I exchange a handful of citrine chips for two bags of Star Court’s most famous confection. I hand one to Edwina.
“What are these?” she asks.
“Lumies.”
She reaches into the bag and extracts one of the round pastries. “Are these what Zane was talking about?”
“The very thing.”
She beams and pops the pastry between her lips. A muffled moan follows. “Oh, these are good,” she says with a full mouth.
I watch those lips, dusted with loose sugar, as I devour my own pastry. I’m almost of a mind to buy ten more bags just for an excuse to linger. Once we return to Zane’s place, we won’t be alone anymore.
Yet the end of our night is inevitable, and once we finish our confections, we resume our walk. I keep my pace purposefully slow.
“Ah, I can’t stop thinking about the sex scene,” she says with a wistful sigh for probably the hundredth time. “It was phenomenal, wasn’t it? They barely even touched, yet the striptease and the dance spoke volumes. And did you see her breasts? They were as perky as two pyramids. What a lovely shape.”
“You seem to have a fondness for breasts.”
She shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I? They’re stunning, in all shapes and sizes. Maybe it’s because mine are so small that I have such an appreciation for their variety. Though sometimes I wish mine were larger.” She mutters the last part under her breath as she glances down at her chest.
Maybe I’m scum, but my eyes fall there too, landing on the sliver of skin between her lower ribs and the front of her dress. That delectable curve. She has no reason to wish her breasts were anything but what they are. They’re fucking perfect.
Her gaze whips to mine and I freeze. Shit. She caught me ogling her.
She narrows her eyes, a taunting smile lifting her lips. “Were you?—”
“I like small peaks,” I rush to say. At the last moment, I add, “Of meringue.”
