When Dot and Alexandra shook off the hoods of their borrowed cloaks, Pike nearly fell off the ladder.
“Dot...youwent to the donkey race?” he asked.
But Dot walked right past him and up the stairs as if she had neither seen nor heard him.
Given that it was Dot, it was entirely possible both were true, since her own thoughts were often as vivid as what was in front of her eyes.
Magnus had been silent in the carriage on the way back.
He didn’t say a word on their journey through the black-and-white checked foyer, beneath the rather fine chandelier, through the passage to the annex, and up to their suite.
In fact, she realized, he hadn’t said a word directly to her since she’d thrown herself briefly into his arms. Paradoxically, the quality of his silence was saying a lot of things rather loudly, and all of them were making Alexandra’s heart stutter like a stone skipped across a lake.
She finally broke the silence. “At last I have money of my own.” She jingled her twenty-pence prize winnings in her reticule.
It was childish. Pointed. A bit of a taunt. Meant to prod at the gathering tension of his mood and to ease her own nerves a little.
He didn’t reply.
Once inside their suite he aggressively divestedhimself of both his greatcoat and his hat, then set to work clawing away his cravat until it hung on either side of his neck. He rolled up his sleeves with equal vigor.
She froze, riveted and startled by the almost aggressive rapidity with which he shed his civilized outer shell.
Her eyes flicked to his arms then swiftly away.
His silence seemed to be gathering density.
She removed her cloak carefully, as if to compensate for his vigorous divesting, and hung it up. She unpinned her coiled braid and let it tumble down her back.
She pulled off her gloves and laid them gingerly on the mantel, as if they were a loaded weapon, and paused by the fireplace to warm her hands.
And all the while she was aware that he had paced, slowly, purposefully, across the room, until he was standing just behind her.
She spun about. “Well, I suppose I’ll be off to bed—”
She gasped when he seized her braid, which had nearly lashed him when she turned.
He didn’t relinquish it.
And now she was his captive, like a ribbon snagged in branches.
He didn’t reply. His eyes were mesmerized. His hand slid up the coppery length of her braid until it settled at her nape. He held her, gently, but utterly fast.
They stared at each other.
She swallowed. “First I lash you with my ribbons.” Her voice was frayed. “Now my braid.”
He didn’t reply. But his fingertips had begun to delicately trace the downy hair at her nape. His body heat was sinking into her, lulling her.
“Alexandra,” he said softly. “Do you think I’m actually made of stone?”
There was a sort of tender, amused menace in the words.
But it sounded like a serious question.
He could do anything he wanted to her in this moment, should he choose. They both knew it.
But around the edges of those words shimmered something like a plea.
