I knew how the conversation would go as well. Kit would insist on taking the floor, and, in ordinary circumstances, I might let him. But he’d hit his head earlier, and to be quite honest, I rather thought it might have been the explanation for his free affection today. So I would demand to take the floor, which Kit, even half-concussed, would never allow. We would both threaten to sleep on the ground before determining that the best course of action would be to share the bed.
And I was just so tired in the midnight hours. I couldn’t bear the thought of the song and dance only to end up precisely where we were now, two unwed people about to share a marriage bed.
I wasn’t certain why the thought was so much more intimate than the night before. Why was awakening beside him in a bed a more visceral prospect than doing so in the carriage?
But it was. And he knew it, too, if the way he looked at me was any indication.
“I have a suggestion,” I began, exhaustion creeping into my voice.
“That’s good, because I have none to speak of.”
“What if we skip it? What if we merely skip to the end where we agree to share the bed and keep to our own sides?”
“Truly?” he asked, relief washing over his countenance. “Consider this a token protest. But, Lord, I am asleep on my feet.”
“Protest noted and appreciated. Which side do you prefer?”
“Door, I suppose. I’ve never really considered it,” he murmured, his fingers working the buttons of his waistcoat.
“The door is yours,” I said, then turned my back to him once he shrugged out of the garment. “Buttons, please?”
He was less careful this time, either due to fatigue setting in or familiarity with the task. His fingers brushed along my back. Then, without prompting, he set to work on my hairpins, plucking them out one after another. I hadn’t noticed the tension in my severe coiffure until he freed the last and I groaned with relief.
My hair fell in a dark curtain, shielding me from his gaze. Instead of a reprieve from the intensity of his touch, an emptiness lurked, my skin bereft of the heat that lingered from his fingers.
Kit urged the cotton down my back before loosening the silk corset ties with the same efficiency before he stepped back. The garments hit the floor in a heap of contradictory fabrics.
I considered my trunk, still in the corner by the door. I had a nightdress, but unlike the relatively plain chemise I wore now, it was decidedly French. No, the chemise was the safer choice.
Kit had settled at the edge of the bed, tugging at the loosened hem of his shirt and tangling his braces in his other hand. It was obvious from the way he fussed that Kit was unaccustomed to nightshirts and didn’t sleep in trousers.
It wasn’t such a strange thing. Gabriel had always complained when Mother purchased him a sleep shirt, saying he never wore the damned things. And as far as I knew, no men slept in such restrictive breeches. But I’d never followed that thought to its conclusion. No, I was nearly certain Kit made a habit of sleeping in nothing at all. The very idea had heat pooling on my cheeks. Kit would never, I knew he would never—not in my presence. But now, I suspected that he generally did.
Shaking the image away, I settled on the end of the bed and removed my shoes and stockings.
“What happened there?” His voice interrupted the tentative quiet that had fallen over us. I turned to him, confused, and he tipped his head to the hole in my stockings. I’d almost forgotten my fit of pique earlier that day.
“Just a snag.”
“That’s disappointing, they’re very fine.”
“It happens to all stockings one day. I may be able to do something with it. Embroider it. Add a ribbon. I’m not certain.”
“Clever. Do you— The basin?”
I didn’t respond with words, instead gathering my items and taking my turn. When I finished, I made a half-hearted effort at a braid at Lizzie’s vanity. By the time I found myself perched at theedge of the bed again—facing the window—he was on the other side, mirroring me.
He pulled up the coverings, easing my passage underneath before joining me. Kit still wore his shirt and breeches when he let the blankets fall over us. Then he leaned over and blew out the candle, casting us into darkness.
It wasn’t the same black veil of the carriage. There was a fire behind the screen, warming the room and casting shadows in that corner. But our positions… That was a closeness I wouldn’t have been able to name.
Our breaths were loud as we stared, stiff, at the ceiling for long minutes. It was so quiet, I could almost believe he had fallen asleep. But his breath was too shallow and too unsteady, and he held himself like a statue.
“Kit,” I whispered into the darkness, not turning.
“Yes?” he replied, no delay to indicate I had awoken him.
“If I tell you something you don’t like, you won’t tell anyone?”
