Chapter 11
Insofar as Nigel could see, two clear choices lay before him. He could either cast himself into the darkness and oblivion outside the parlor window, let his bones be smashed to powder on the snowy sidewalk below, or . . . or . . .
On second thought, that really seemed like the only reasonable option available.
Despite this burning conviction, his hands refused to let go of the window frame.
Nigel found himself in a humiliating position, hanging halfway over the windowsill, one leg slung out, the other still hooked on the inside, both hands braced.
He peered into the yawning depths. It was a long way down.
Long enough to cause instant death? Or would he have to lie there, writhing in agonies of embarrassment for some minutes before the end finally claimed him?
Well, that was a risk he would simply have to—
Luna’s hands latched hold of his shoulders.
She yanked him back into the room with surprising strength, despite the slenderness of her limbs.
Nigel’s head bumped the sash, and his foot came down hard on top of hers.
She yelped. He pivoted, wildly off balance.
There was a confusion of tumbled limbs and green satin, followed by a hard landing which drove all the breath from his lungs.
He drew in a gasp of air, inhaled a delicate perfume of vanilla and honeysuckle. And realized his face was buried in a cloud of dark curls.
Nigel jerked his head up to find himself lying atop his rescuer, her body pinned beneath his. Luna’s eyelids fluttered fast, a shocked expression suffusing her features. She had gotten the worst of their brief tussle. He, at least, had a cushion for his landing. A very soft, womanly cushion.
“Oh, gods!” he gasped. “Did you hit your head, Miss Talbot?” His own head throbbed from where it had connected with the sash, but that was a secondary concern just then.
Luna closed her eyes tightly for a second. When she opened them again, they stared up at Nigel, very wide, very round. Very full of some dark fire he didn’t fully comprehend. Then her brows lowered. “You’re darn right, I hit my head!” she snarled. “You’re lucky I didn’t smash my skull wide open!”
He should move. He knew he should move. But for the moment, Nigel couldn’t seem to recall how his arms and legs worked.
One of his elbows was pressed to the floor beside her, his other hand resting on her shoulder.
His legs were tangled up in hers, and the will to extricate himself simply wasn’t to be found.
A burst of laughter sounded from the doorway.
Nigel looked up. Several pretty faces peered into the parlor, boasting a range of expressions from disgust, to amusement, to excited curiosity.
One of them—a pixie-like brunette, who had come into the room and sat in the other stiff armchair beside him for some while earlier in the evening, trying to engage him in flirtation—smothered giggles behind her hand.
Luna twisted underneath him. Nigel felt a rush of heat at even that slight movement of her body, but her eyes fixed on the women in the doorway.
“Oh!” she gasped and, planting both hands on Nigel’s chest, pushed him with such violence, he rolled off her at once and landed flat on his back.
She scrambled upright, struggling rather, her legs tangled in the long skirts of her gown.
Wild curls tumbled across her face, and she lost one silver high heel in the process of reclaiming her balance.
Then, marching at a distinct tilt, she stomped across the parlor and declared coldly, “Show’s over, girls!
” before slamming the door in their faces.
“Awwww!” voices protested from the hall outside. “I thought they were gonna kiss!” followed by loud smooching sounds and more giggles.
Luna stood with one hand on the doorknob, her back to Nigel, her shoulders bent. She seemed to be trying to compose herself. Then, lifting her head and shaking out her tangled curls, she turned around, hands behind her, back pressed against the door, and faced him.
“Mr. Grimm,” she said, in a voice of ice, “what has come over you?”
Nigel gaped up at her from where he sat in a gangly configuration on the parlor floor.
He opened his mouth; no answer presented itself.
He couldn’t tell her that the instant he’d heard her voice in the passage outside, his innards had immediately melted into oozing jelly.
All evening, he’d assumed he would meet with Bryony, present her with the marigolds, propose a little outing for the two of them, and be long gone before Luna returned from her date with Ward.
To suddenly hear her just on the other side of the parlor door was a shock for which he was entirely unprepared.
He’d sprung to his feet, hastened to the door, every instinct urging escape. But when he’d peered through the doorway, his view across the passage had looked directly into the room opposite. And there she was. Standing before him in that emerald-green gown.
She was magnificent.
It wasn’t at all like when he’d seen her at Bruxley Hall in that showgirl costume.
That had been like something out of a wild, sexual fantasy, but it was so deeply incongruous with everything he knew Luna to be, the effect was almost comical.
A feverish, heat-inducing sort of comedy, which came back to haunt him in the darkness of some late nights, yes. But comedic, nonetheless.
This image, however—this was Luna as he had always believed her to be.
The angelic, otherworldly being, with her beautiful features all wildly exaggerated by unnecessary and yet undeniably effective cosmetics, and her hair coiffed like a film starlet.
That low neckline, with all its rouching, hugged her figure and transformed her slender frame into something unexpectedly voluptuous.
Nigel had never once looked at this woman and thought her anything less than perfect. Sick, tired, underfed, angry, sad, puffy-faced with tears, smeared with mascara runs . . . it didn’t matter. She was perfect in his eyes.
But this was more than perfection. This was something for which he had no words.
Only he couldn’t say any of that to Luna.
Not while she stood there in front of him, staring at him with such fury.
She did not realize it (and she would no doubt be mortified if she did), but one of her sleeves had slipped down her upper arm, displaying a smooth curve of porcelain shoulder to his gaze.
“Well, Mr. Grimm?” she said. Her voice trembled.
“Erm.” Nigel stopped, coughed. Tried again. “It was, erm. It was hot, you see. I needed a little air.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So you thought you’d stick your whole entire body out a third story window?”
“In retrospect, I see that it . . . might not have been . . .”
Luna pushed away from the door and marched across the room, still apparently unaware of that fallen sleeve. A tumbled pin curl bounced against her nose, but she dashed it away with some violence. Her dark eyes sparked. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Somehow, Nigel got to his feet and stared down at her.
There was something in her voice, something in the way she asked that question.
Something intense. But he didn’t understand it, didn’t know what it was she truly asked.
He thought if he could just find the right question of his own, perhaps he could gain the clarity he needed.
But his mind simply would not function. It was too overwhelmed by the powerful impulse to slip his hand around her waist and draw her roughly to him.
To press his mouth against that delectable curve of neck and shoulder and simply breathe in all her vanilla-and-honeysuckle sweetness.
Silently, he reached out one hand. Took hold of the edge of her sleeve. Drew it up onto her shoulder.
Luna turned her chin sharply, breath catching. She stared at his fingers for a moment before he withdrew them, then continued to stare at the space where they had been. Her jaw worked, the muscles in her throat constricting.
“I thought you were out with Ward the Wardsman tonight,” Nigel said, his voice low.
“I was.” She swallowed, shook her head, and looked up at him again through that tangle of curls. “He had to catch the nine o’clock express.”
Oh. Right. Nigel had forgotten that pertinent detail. If he’d ever registered it in the first place.
“Did you . . .” He hesitated. “Did you have a nice time?”
“I did. Very nice. We danced a great deal.”
Though his stomach twisted, Nigel refused to let any sick feeling show in his face. He simply nodded, expressionless. His voice was very level when he said, “I’m glad. You deserved a night out.” His eyes flicked up and down her frame again, and on impulse he added, “You look so . . .”
Beautiful.
Unimaginably glorious.
Like an ethereal goddess come down from heaven to grace the world of mortals with her divinity.
“. . . green.”
Luna’s brow tightened. “Green?”
“Erm. Yes. The dress. It . . . it’s very . . .” His gaze swept over her again, taking in the way the shimmering satin hugged her curves. His throat promptly closed up.
“Did you come all this way just to tell me that?” Her head tilted a little to one side. “That I look green?”
“Erm.”
“And what about Bryony’s fellow? Hmmm?” She waved one hand in an expressive gesture. “The chap who was in here with you? Did you scare him off with your antics?”
“Erm.”
She looked away from him then, spotted the marigolds lying on the armchair seat, and pointed. “What are those for?”
“Well, actually,” Nigel rubbed the back of his neck, “they’re for Bryony.”
Luna blinked. “They’re some of ours, aren’t they? From the shop?”
“Yes.”
She blinked again.