Page 52

She shook her head and laughed lightly. But as she ran her thumb up and down the length of his lapel, the flush in her cheeks deepened. She was nervous.

He, menial Rafe Balfour who had never met a task in all his life he was sufficient for, could make this woman nervous. The woman who charged down a dark, dangerous, unfamiliar street to track a child whom she’d only met once. Who would blackmail a stranger for a chance to honor her late brother, and do it so damn well, he invited the arrangement to continue. It was a strange power to hold, one that made him anxious.

“Are we quite alone?” she asked. “Or can I expect some blue-coated man to walk through those doors and announce us for trespassers?”

“I come here as often as I can after dark. The men leave their posts and take to the streets. We are …” Rafe swallowed, anticipation quivering in his limbs. “Quite alone.”

“Then I’d like to lie under the ceiling. Study it, as you do.”

Before he could speak, she lanced him with her smile, brushed a thumb across his chin, and strode toward the hall’s center.

“Wait,” he called after her. “Wait.”

She froze. She had all but laid her head on the unforgiving tile, but now looked up at him with an urgent question in her eyes. Her lips parted on a breath, and, God help him—they were flushed and swollen from his kisses. The sight went straight to his groin.

He tried to ignore the inconvenience, tearing his coat off and crouching beside her. “Here,” he said, folding it into a haphazard shape and placing it behind her head.

Her expression eased and she relaxed, lying back until her curls spiraled out across the black wool. Even the pitiable light couldn’t conceal the warm depths of her. Her eyes glowed like embers, her hair like spilled licorice. When she spoke, the long, delicate muscles of her neck sparked into prominence, the hollows above her collarbone deepening. That he got to see her like this …

“Your coat,” she said suavely, “smells like gin.”

A laugh sprang from him, and he ran a palm over his forehead. “And what of you?” He lowered himself to lie beside her.

“I smell very well, thank you, sir.” She put the backs of her knuckles against his cheekbone, and the touch scorched down his neck.

He rested his weight on one elbow, but with his free hand, plucked the edge of her cloak and drew it to his nose. “You suppose cheap beer smells well, then. How worldly of you, madam.”

She scoffed, her head lurching on the makeshift pillow. “Are you—are you being snappish with me, Rafe?”

She’d said it again. Yes.

“If I am, I know just who I learned from.”

“Lie down and begin telling me about the art, or I’ll be forced to thwack you.” She smiled around the words. The fact that she tried not to only made her easier to adore.

He settled on his back. It didn’t matter how many times he viewed Thornhill’s creation, he always found new details to admire. It was like looking at the stars, a created universe just beyond fathoming.

“I already know Miss Prudence, with her mirror,” Sophie said. “And Queen Mary and King William.”

“Yes. And then you have Peace, offering him the olive branch.” He nearly pointed, but he—his hand, his breath, his heart—stopped when he felt her bare hand slipping into his.

She loosely interlocked their fingers, swept her nails along the inside of his wrist. “Very well. And?”

Rafe’s throat had gone very, very dry. “Yes. And King William’s holding a red cap, too, y’see. He’s offering it to Europe. Well, the lady—you—you understand.”

Jesus be. Her hand was on his thigh, now.

“Mhm. What else?”

“That particular scene is what the painting is named for.” He gritted his teeth as her fingers curled slowly around the inside of his leg. “T-the liberty cap and all that.”

“What is the painting’s name?”

Every fiber of his being was ablaze, now. He squeezed his eyes closed. He was as randy as a bleeding bull. One more inch and she would feel it—

“Rafe?”

He inhaled. “Hm?”