“Can hang herself with her odious purple dress.”
Clara laughed, quiet and incredulous, the sound like something breaking. “One night.”
“Every night. For our month.”
“Gabriel…”
He swallowed, pride falling away. “I beseech you…”
The word landed between them with the weight of a confession. Gabriel Davenport did not plead. He did not ask. He commanded, demanded, endured. But now, his need was too raw to disguise.
Her eyes softened. “Every night,” she said quietly. “But only sleeping.”
“Only sleeping,” he echoed. It was mutually understood that the circumstance amounted to a sweet deception, utterly devoid of truth.
He led her down the corridor, the manor hushed around them, shadows spilling like secrets across the floor. His room smelled faintly of cedar and smoke, the air heavy with warmth. He handed her one of his shirts, the white linen soft and oversized.
“I’ll turn around,” he said, and did, every rustle of fabric behind him feeling like a test of will.
“Gabriel,” she said softly. “You can turn around.”
He did. And promptly forgot how to breathe.
She stood barefoot by the fire, drowning in his shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, her hair tumbling loose in a dark, unruly halo. The sight of her bare legs, bare face, utterly unguarded, undid something in him.
“This scheme is altogether devoid of sense!” she said.
“Completely.”
“We’re going to regret it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
But when she climbed into his bed and he slid in behind her, everything else ceased to matter. She fit against him perfectly, her back to his chest, his arm looping around her waist as if his body had been designed to keep her there. Her scent of soap, roses, and warmth filled his lungs.
"You're doing it again," she murmured without opening her eyes.
Clara woke to the sensation of being observed, which should have been alarming but had become rather commonplace in the three nights she'd been sharing Gabriel's bed. He had a habit of waking before dawn and studying her in the pale pre-morning light, as if memorizing her features for some future solitude.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to, though I must say it's rather presumptuous of you to accuse me of anything when you're currently occupying three-quarters of mybed and have somehow managed to steal all the blankets despite being half my size."
Clara smiled into the pillow. "You gave me the blankets when I mentioned being cold, and as for the bed situation, you're the one who keeps pulling me closer in your sleep, so really, the territorial violations are entirely your doing."
“A wicked slander! When I sleep, I am perfectly still, like any properly interred gentleman should be.”
Clara finally opened her eyes and turned to face him, finding him propped on one elbow, his dark hair thoroughly disheveled and his scarred face soft with something that looked dangerously like contentment. "Perfect composure? Is that what we're calling the way you practically attacked me against the library door last night?"
"That wasn't an attack, it was a carefully orchestrated romantic gesture that happened to involve some slight enthusiasm regarding the removal of your hairpins."
"Slight enthusiasm? Gabriel, you broke two of them and nearly set my hair on fire with that candle you knocked over."
“The candle was poorly placed,” Gabriel said, attempting a veneer of composure that fooled no one, “and those hairpins were clearly defective. I’ll buy you new ones, perhaps a set less inclined to sabotage my romantic endeavors.”
Clara arched a brow, her hair a glorious disarray around her shoulders. “Is that what we’re calling your attempts to undress me with your teeth?”
His eyes darkened, the faintest curl tugging at his mouth. “Would you prefer I use my hands?” he asked, voice low enough to make her pulse stumble. “I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of demonstrating alternative methods if you find my current technique unsatisfactory.”
She did, however, regain her equilibrium, though scarce escaping a most grievous outcome. “Your current technique,” she said, smoothing a trembling hand over her hair, “You will be the utter ruin of us both if you do not instantly acquire some measure of prudent restraint, particularly with your aunt arriving in...” She glanced toward the window where dawn had begun to pale the edges of the curtains. “Approximately four hours.”
