His tired gaze sharpened, and he turned onto his side again. There was, perhaps half a foot between us, our bent knees brushed against one another. It wasn’t a particularly spacious bed, after all. He caught my hand with his, his fingers tracing mine, lashes flicking down to watch them interlace.
Kit’s tongue darted between his lips, the only sign that he intended to answer my inarticulate grumblings. “Your brother is a good man. He deserves to be happy, however that looks.”
“You’re not going to…”
“Have him arrested? No. It would be bad form as a solicitor to have my client arrested. And it would be unforgivable as a husband to have my wife’s brother arrested.”
“I’m not— We’re not?—”
“Actually wed? I am aware. I think I would remember that. But until we sort outthatmess, you’re as good as.” His thumb and forefinger found the base of my ring finger, charting it. “Speaking of…”
Without finishing that thought, he brought his other hand up and plucked an elegant—feminine—gold and pearl ring from his littlest finger. “May I?”
“Kit… I cannot possibly— That is intended for your wife.”
“Tonight, that is you.”
“But—”
“Davina, please?”
“I don’t— Why are you pressing this?”
“I do not know. I just— Would you just put it on? Just until we reach your brother? It will offer you a small measure of protection, at least.”
“Fine,” I pouted, unable to argue with his last assessment. He worked the delicate band onto my third finger, his thumb gliding along it as it slid home.
The ring should have felt foreign, awkward. Instead, it was a perfect fit, the metal disappearing into the crease where my finger met my palm.
“Kit?”
“Yes?”
“What are we doing?” I whispered, afraid to give the question too much body.
“I don’t know that either.”
“This doesn’t feel like a lie.”
His dark gaze finally abandoned my finger and tripped over my lips before finding my eyes. “We should go to sleep.”
“We should.”
“Everything will be clearer in the morning.”
“It will,” I agreed again.
He huffed in what I thought might be a laugh before pressing his lips to my forehead, lingering there for a moment, soft and warm.
“Go to sleep, little menace.”
His back found the mattress again, but his fingers still curled around mine. And I was overcome with the desire to drop my own kiss on his fingertips. Instead I whispered, “Good night.”
Twenty
EARNSHAW RESIDENCE—APRIL 12, 1817
KIT
