In the fading light, she thought she saw concerned crinkles form at the edges of Andrew’s eyes. He turned down the counterpane next to him and fluffed an extra pillow.
“Come here,” he said again. Della closed her eyes against the force of longing that threatened to overwhelm her. It was no use, she was swept away. She hadn’t allowed herself to be caught in the undertow, but her heart hadn’t asked for permission. She inhaled one quick breath, and it smelled like him. Like leather and pine and ink, more potent than any sensation she’d ever felt.
This wasn’t her intention, not really. She’d never imagined herself ending up here. She’d only wanted to talk. She’d only wanted some assurance that when he left Westfield Manor, it wouldn’t be forever.
Della slid into the bed as gracefully as she could with a body that was actively in decay. Suddenly, she could feel him. That warmth all around her was Andrew. He pulled the coverlet over her legs, his arm brushing over the fabric of her robe, and she shivered.
They didn’t speak for long moments, and already, Della felt better. The racing beat of her heart slowed, and the constant panic in her mind quieted. It was peaceful. Just being with him in a way she’d never been with anyone else. Her soul was much more tranquil than her body, which was struggling to find comfort in this half sitting, halfreclined position. She scooted down the bed, resting her weight on her right shoulder, which began to throb. So, she lay on her back. That was murder on her hips, and the inflamed joints between her ribs made her feel as if she were suffocating. Della tossed and turned, shifting each limb in an attempt to calm the stabbing pains shooting through her bones.
With a huff, she gave up. She rolled onto her stomach, her head facing him. That damned hip was agonizing, but she rearranged herself in a way that helped some, with her left knee bent. She rested one hand in between her pillow and her face and let the other tangle in the sheets between them. Andrew wordlessly mirrored her position, lying on his back and turning to face her. Della stifled a gasp at the closeness. He was so warm and steady, and she was overcome with emotions she couldn’t define. She felt his hand drift to the back of her calf, draping her leg over his. That gasp slipped out into the air between them without her permission.
“Is that better?” he asked, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the back of her knee.
“Yes,” she whispered. It was such an indulgence, being with him like this. She couldn’t help but ask for more. She couldn’t help but reach for everything she’d ever wanted while she could.
So slowly, Della let her hand move up to his chest. She pressed into his skin, her fingertips dancing under his shirt. Giving in to that devastating longing, she felt the dip between his collarbones and the smooth line of his throat. Despite the warmth he radiated, his skin was cool to her fevered fingertips, and Della thought her mangled hands were never more useful for anything than touching him. Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, and he sighed. His chest rose and fell, and she felt him move, turning his face to melt into her touch. She sank her fingers into those curls, and she didn’t even know if the sharp intake of breath she heard was her own. His eyes had become drowsy, what was usually the brown of tree bark had turned an almost as inkyblack as the night itself.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked, low and slow and gentle. Della thought she might have actually felt the imprint of his words on the delicate skin of her cheek. She wanted to keep them there, as a talisman of this moment. She wouldn’t need anything to remember this by, though. As much as the seconds ticking by felt ephemeral, she knew the memory was beyond eternal.
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Della finally asked. She spoke her fear out between them, and for a second, it felt heavy and dense, like she’d exhaled the black smoke of an overburning fire.
Under her hand, those lines appeared in his face again. On his forehead, around his eyes. She smoothed them out with her febrile fingertips.
“Of course,” he whispered, his lips drifting over her forehead so briefly she thought she might have imagined it. “That’s the best part of traveling. Coming home.”
Chapter Fifteen
Andrew hadn’t knownwhat it was to hate until that very morning. Everything even remotely hateful he’d ever felt paled in comparison to how he loathed to get out of bed. For long minutes, he just lay there and stared. The curtain of Della’s unbound hair had fallen over her face, and he swept it back behind her ear. His eyes started to draw lines between her freckles, forming abstract shapes across her cheeks and up over her nose.
Waking up next to Della was the most precious gift of Andrew’s life, and getting up and leaving her behind felt like handing it back. As if it were somehow unwanted, and not something he cherished.
He stood up with perhaps more furor than was necessary. He just knew he had to stay in motion, because if he stopped moving, his body would naturally gravitate back to hers. Breaking that pull took all of the strength he had and more.
Andrew surveyed the room and realized he’d made a bit of a mess in only the few days he’d been here. He couldn’t let Della see this in the light of day and think him slovenly. He packed as he tidied up, wrinkled shirts and lonely socks going into his satchel with little fanfare. He dipped behind the privacy screen to change, and the fabric of his last clean shirt felt stiff and starchy. Tying a cravat around his neck was intensely uncomfortable now that he knew the sensation of Della’s fingers running up and down his throat.
She was still asleep when he returned to stand in front of the bed, fully packed and fully dressed. It was almost impressive that she’d managed to sleep through the flurry of him pacing about the room. Andrew sat down on the edge of the bed at her side, his hip resting against the crook of her bent knees. Della was facing away from him, and he spent entirely too long watching her, counting her breaths. He thought he might be able to see the beat of her pulse against her neck if he tried hard enough. He would. Try hard enough, that is. As he watched her exhale on a dreamy sigh, he promised himself this wouldn’t be the last time he got to see Della like this. It was the end of the beginning, not the beginning of the end. He’d get so many more cold mornings and warm nights and he’d collect each of her smiles like the treasures they were.
“Della,” he whispered, even though he suspected she wouldn’t wake so easily. Maybe he was just prolonging this, wanting to spend each last moment he could in this bed with her. That was shortsighted, though, he told himself. The sooner he left, the sooner he could come back.
“Della,” he tried again, a bit louder this time. He found her elbow, resting at her waist, and it was radiating heat even over the blankets. His hand drifted to the curve of her shoulder, and it was burning, too.
She woke up then, as he gently shook her. Her eyes were bleary at first, almost startled, and then they seemed to melt as they focused on him. Andrew tucked that miniscule moment away for later. On a particularly bad day, it would hearten him to know Della’s first instinct was to trust him.
“Andrew,” she said, her voice nothing but a confused breath. “What’s the matter?”
She must have sensed it, then. His disquiet. The way it would pain him to leave this room. He was sure it was written on his face.
“I have to go,” he said as plainly as he could. He didn’t want to worry her, but he also didn’t want to give her false hope. If he told herall he’d be willing to do on her behalf, she wouldn’t ever let him leave her sight.
“Oh... I—” she started to say, but she cut herself off mid-sentence. “All right.” She seemed suddenly resolved. Gone was the innate trust and natural warmth in her eyes. It had been replaced by a guardedness he hated to see. Something chilled and resigned.
He tucked a strand of that rogue hair behind her ear again. He ran his thumb over the apple of her cheek, trying to memorize the feel of those freckles.
“Goodbye for now, Della,” he whispered, as if she were still asleep and he didn’t want to wake her. In reality, he just didn’t want to hear the words from his own lips.
“Goodbye,” she whispered back. Her warm fingers wrapped around his wrist where he still held her face. For the briefest moment, her lips pressed against the skin just above the sleeve of his coat. His breath caught in his chest as he fought against an onslaught of unwelcome emotions.
He couldn’t do this right now. He had to go.
