But before Victoria could answer, someone called for party games, and then they were being herded toward the drawing room. Someone had organized charades.
"Right then," announced Mrs. Pemberton-Smythe. "Teams of four. Victoria and Sasha, you're with Lord Ashworth and young Timothy."
Of course. Of course she'd be partnered with Sasha for a game requiring close proximity while everyone watched.
Victoria managed "Gone with the Wind" through impressive mime work. Then it was Sasha's turn, and whatever word she'd drawn required elaborate gesturing.
Until it was the other team's turn, and she found herself pressed against Sasha next to a heavy velvet curtain.
"What are you doing?" Victoria hissed, acutely aware of their proximity.
"Shh," Sasha whispered, breath warm against Victoria's ear. "I'm being a tree. Or possibly a windmill."
"You're terrible at this."
"Says the woman who spent five minutes pretending to be a butterfly."
They were pressed together, Sasha's body warm against hers. Victoria could smell her perfume, feel the flutter of her pulse. Dangerous territory.
"You should move back," Victoria murmured, though she didn't move herself.
"Probably," Sasha said. "Though this is rather nice."
"Sasha…"
"I've missed you today. More than I should have."
"Right, your turn," Mrs. Pemberton-Smythe said, turning to them and beaming.
Victoria could barely breathe. She had to say something. Had to say that she was leaving. She’d go back in the morning, as soon as she could. There were things to arrange and… And she had to say something. Or avoid everything and just disappear.
But the evening seemed determined to throw them together. During dinner, a catering crisis sent Victoria to the pantry for emergency desserts, only to find Sasha already there, surrounded by tins.
"The cook said something about backup puddings," Sasha explained, holding up Christmas pudding. "But I'm not sure this counts."
The pantry was barely large enough for one person. Victoria squeezed past Sasha to reach upper shelves, their bodies brushing.
"Try those tins on the left," Victoria suggested, stretching for a promising container. The movement brought her closer to Sasha, who had gone very still.
"Victoria."
"Found it." Victoria grabbed treacle tart. "This should work."
She turned to find Sasha watching her with dark eyes, the air suddenly charged.
The pantry door swung shut with a definitive click.
"Brilliant," Sasha muttered, reaching for the handle. It rattled but didn't budge. "I think we're locked in."
"What?"
"The door's stuck. Old latch. Georgian house quirks."
They were trapped. In a space barely large enough for a claustrophobic mouse. With Sasha looking at her like that.
"Right," Victoria said, trying to sound calm. "We'll just wait for someone to—"
Sasha kissed her. Not gently, but with desperate hunger that made Victoria's knees weak. She kissed back without thinking, pressing Sasha against the shelves.
