Chapter 26 #2
I dared not move. “That sounds terribly expensive,” I managed, my voice unapologetically breathless. “Having a Bow Street officer on retainer.”
He exhaled a shadow of a laugh. “I have a drastically different arrangement in mind.”
“Oh?” I gave a sly smile. “Will you be paying me, then? Perhaps a consulting fee? I did solve this case practically alone.”
His eyes narrowed, and his thumb brushed over my bottom lip. “Do not play coy, Beatrice,” he said in that low, delicious brogue that drove me to distraction.
“I’ll play whatever I like,” I said, tipping my face up to him, daring him. “I daresay you’re going to kiss me either way.”
“Considering I’ve thought of little else in the last three days?” His eyes slid languidly down to my lips. “The chances are very, very good.”
“Well then,” I whispered, “I shall take that gamble.”
He made me wait for it, the horrid man. He leaned forward, taking his time, his movements smooth and unhurried. The air between us felt like the night sky on the edge of a lightning strike. I closed my eyes, felt the brush of his breath against my skin.
His lips touched mine, and that beautiful anticipation burst into pure pleasure. He kissed me slowly, a rich longing unfurling in my chest. I was grateful for the seat beneath me, my knees weak. Alexander Rawlings might be an aloof, serious, sharp sort of man—but he knew how to kiss a woman.
My hands slid up his chest, roving over buttons and wool and the skin above his collar. I took his strong jaw between my hands, and I kissed him back, telling him everything I felt, showing him everything I wanted. His hands dropped to my waist, cinching tight, fingers pressing into my lower ribs.
Our coach rolled to a stop.
We pulled apart just an inch, staring at one another. His eyes were dark, shadowed, beautifully unfocused.
“The Traverses really ought to live farther away,” I whispered.
He brushed his lips across mine once more. “I will ensure they hear my full complaint.”
Reluctantly, we untangled ourselves from one another, straightening clothing and hair. Upon my nod, Alexander opened the door and stepped down, helping me out after him.
Mr. Barton waited until we climbed the steps, then gave a knowing little wave as he started off. I sighed, moving to open the front door.
Alexander intercepted my hand. “I’m not quite ready to give you up yet,” he said, and his words filled every remaining space in my heart.
He pulled me into the deepest-angled shadows beside the door. He kissed me again and again, our hearts melding, our lips dancing. We might’ve kissed all night. I imagine we both would have preferred that.
But one also needed to breathe, and so we finally parted, chests rising and falling in sync. He leaned his forehead on mine, and I kept my eyes closed, relishing every intoxicating moment.
“What have you done to me, Beatrice Lacey?” he murmured.
I could relate. He’d stolen into my heart, right into the very center of me.
The most unexpected, glorious thing. We’d been perfect strangers thrown together by circumstance.
Now though . . . Now I knew him. I knew what sort of man he was, the values he held dear, the people he loved, and the trials that had formed him.
And I loved him so deeply it hurt, like my heart wished to leap from my chest. It was his, fully and completely.
He shook his head, forehead still touched to mine. “I managed to dodge marriage left and right for years,” he said, “and yet here I am.”
I finally opened my eyes and stared up at him. His expression was set and serious, even as one hand traced up the path of my spine.
“A statement like that, Mr. Rawlings,” I breathed, “is sure to keep me from any thought of sleep, so I will beg you to continue.”
“It seems fair retribution,” he replied, “for all the sleep you have stolen from me.”
I frowned. “You’ll recall I did not ask you to sleep outside my—”
He laughed. “Not that. I’m speaking of every night from the one we met. How often I lie awake thinking of you.”
“Oh.” I dragged my hands down his lapels and waistcoat, my insides feeling rather like warm porridge. “Well, that is a bit more romantic, I’ll give you.”
“I’m not romantic,” he said, hands coming to rest against my back, a delicious, solid weight. “You know I’m not.”
“You sell yourself short.” I fiddled with one of his buttons. “But I find I am quite—quite—taken with you, romantic or not.”
“A mystery in and of itself.” His voice grew quieter. “One I cannot solve.”
It did not seem possible he should feel that way.
Of course I would love him. He was the best of men.
He wore honor and strength like a shield.
His intelligence dazzled me. He was kind and compassionate beneath his gruff exterior.
Heavens, he even had wealth and position—and was as near to the perfect physical specimen of a man as I’d ever seen.
That he should want me was the real mystery.
“I should warn you,” I said lightly, though my words were serious enough, “that I am precisely what I appear. I do not improve upon further acquaintance. I am bold and brash, impulsive and vexatious. Not precisely the makings of a good wife.”
Alexander’s cheek twitched. “Are you attempting to frighten me off?”
“I only want you to be sure,” I said. “It would be better to know it all now, before—
“I know everything I need to know.” He bent to catch my eyes, sobering.
“You are brave and beautiful, Beatrice. Generous, sincere but with a backbone made of iron. You are too clever by half, as you are well aware, and a force of nature who often drives me half mad. But I would not have it any other way.” He paused. “In fact, it feels inevitable.”
“What does?” Was I holding my breath?
His gaze lingered, seeing me—all of me—as he held me close. “Loving you.”
My smile spread slowly, like sunshine slipping over a misty morning. “You love me.”
“Have I not been kissing you right?” he said. “I do not think I can make myself clearer.”
“Oh, you’ve been kissing me splendidly.” I tapped his delightfully firm chest. “Only, a girl likes to be told outright every once in a while just what a man intends.”
He exhaled a sigh of long-suffering, though I knew there was more than a touch of amusement behind it.
“What I intend,” he said, leaning forward, placing one hand on the door over my shoulder, “is to marry you at the first opportunity. I intend to kiss you every chance I get. I intend to fight with you, laugh with you, live with you. I intend”—the word tightened like a promise between us—“to make you mine. Forever.”
I stared up at him, my heart so full, so brightly buoyant that I felt I might slip off into the sky.
“You, Alexander Rawlings, have no business calling yourself unromantic,” I whispered.
His gaze drifted over my face, a caress, an embrace. “And you have yet to give me an answer.”
I thought of making another joke, teasing him and testing him, as I was wont to do.
But I allowed my face to settle into earnestness, my eyes keeping hold of his, my hands at his lapels.
“I want everything you said.” My voice was the barest drape of a whisper.
“I want it so badly.” I pressed one hand to his chest, directly over his heart. “I want you.”
He swallowed, his throat bobbing, and looked at me one long moment, as if memorizing a poem. Then he gathered me into his arms, pressed his face into the bend of my shoulder, and held me.
My arms slipped around his waist, inside the warmth of his jacket, and pulled him even closer. “I love you, Alexander,” I whispered. “I’m yours. Forever.”
He did not answer, though I felt the lightest brush of his lips against the slope of my shoulder.
He held me there on the front steps, the night cool and dark around us, and I’d never been so perfectly, wonderfully, beautifully happy.