“Nothing.It was in my pocket.It burned a hole right through my skirts.”
“Did it burn you?”His gaze devoured her fingers, hands, saw no marks.
“No.It fell right to the floor, and I prepared for the heat before picking it up.But it made me feel… odd.”She bit her bottom lip as she squirmed then looked up at him.“Do you think this means gold is my metal?”
“No idea what this means.”
She nodded, pushed the bowl out to him.“You should keep it.”
“No.”He pushed it back.“It’s yours for now.I think this is a good sign.”
Her face brightened.“I’ll figure out what to do with it to keep it from burning through my skirts again.”She stepped backward into the hallway.The fire there danced across one side of her body.“Have you had any luck?”
He nodded.“I’ve just about mastered growing the candle flame.With your help.”God, he felt so soft saying that, as if anyone could come along and tear him in two.“Good night.”
“Good night.”She opened her door.
“Sybil?”
“Hm?”
“You said it feltodd?What do you mean?”
“I felt…” Her head was bowed, and the silky, pale curve her neck made his trousers more uncomfortable than they already were.“Hot.And hungry.”
“Ah.Well.Perhaps call for more stew.”He shut the door.He’d request more stew too.
Because hungry couldn’t begin to describe the monster he was afraid ravaged him.
It was ravenous.
For Sybil.
9
A KISS IN THE DARK
Defying convention had always felt like fireworks in Sybil’s veins—all color and excitement and a hint of danger.And nothing defied convention more than traveling the country with the sort of man mothers warned their daughters about.
The first time she’d ever seen him—in Hyde Park, surrounded by admirers—he’d been astride a horse and winking at a debutante.Vain andchosen—a handsome, wealthy marquess with magic in his veins.So she’d thought then.She’d not known—no one had—that his cousin had received the talent instead of him.
He was stripped bare now.No money, no title, no magic.Only his good looks, charming smile, and hard desire to be more than he was.
Which was stockingless, stretched out across one entire side of the coach, ankles crossed, hands folded behind his head, and his face scrunched into a wrinkled mass of concentration.
“If you think much harder,” Sybil said from her own position stretched out on the seat opposite his (stockings very much on, thank you, but boots long abandoned), “your brain might explode.”
“Perhaps then I might be able to find the constituents of brass splattered across the upholstery.”
She wrinkled her nose and wiggled her toes, which stuck out from the hem of her skirt.“I find I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Perhaps it can be restored with a bit of…” More face scrunching.Toe curling, too.“Copper and…” He squinted out of one eye at the roof of the coach.“Silver!”
“Wrong.”
“No!”
“It’s zinc.”
