Chapter Twelve #3
“Well,” Ashbridge said then, looking irate, “I think we’ve already established that you’ve been spending too much time with men who don’t deserve any of yours.”
It was Vesper’s turn to fall silent for a moment, because she had no reply to that—because she suspected it was the truth.
Before she could work out how to steer the conversation into less emotionally fraught territory, however, she caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye, and a face that she unfortunately recognized all too well.
He was heading in their direction, though she didn’t think he’d spotted her just yet, which meant that she had seconds to act—to calm herself down, to school her expression into something light and cheerful.
She realized, however, in the same moment that she didn’t think she could do it quickly enough; she felt raw and unprotected, and it was important, just now, that her face showed none of that.
And so, she did the only thing she could think of in that instant, and slowly tilted her head up toward Ashbridge, keeping the movement as slow and languid as she could manage.
“Ashbridge,” she murmured. “Can you trust me for a moment?”
A frown creased his brow. “What do you mean?” he asked, matching her undertone.
“Just—I’m sorry about this,” she said, then reached her hand up, cupped his neck, and drew his face down to hers.
It was hardly the first time Vesper had kissed a man with the goal of gaining another man’s attention; it was an old, well-worn trick in her playbook, men being the predictable creatures that they were.
It was, however, the first time that the man being kissed had gone as completely, entirely still as Ashbridge did the moment her lips met his.
In an instant, Vesper was years younger, only eighteen, kissing Ashbridge because it had never occurred to her that a man might simply want to speak to her, to show her kindness, without expecting anything else.
And now, in a sudden rush of embarrassing memories, she wondered if she were about to be pushed away again—
But then, after a second, it was as if his brain caught up to the situation, and he relaxed against her, his mouth softening to return her kiss.
She pressed closer to him, sliding her hand into the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close.
His mouth was warm as it moved against hers; his arm dropped to her waist, then her hip, pulling her against him so that her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel the pulse of his heart racing in time with her own.
He turned his head, and their noses bumped; with his free hand, he reached down to cup her jaw, angling her face slightly so that he could deepen the kiss.
Vesper’s body felt as if it had come alive; all she knew was the warmth of his mouth, the woodsy, smoky scent of his skin, the firm pressure of his fingers at her jaw. The faintest, fleeting slip of his tongue against hers.
And then, as if from a great distance, there was a voice—one that Vesper knew, dimly, but it took her a full two seconds to register it, to remember why she was there, why she was kissing Ashbridge in the first place…
“Vesper Holloway, I did not expect to see you here tonight.”
Slowly, she drew back, gazing up at Ashbridge. His cheeks were a bit flushed, and his eyes were unreadable as they met hers. She blinked, and slowly shifted in her seat, turning on her brightest smile, which she now directed at Edward Grenoble.
“Edward!” she said, shaking her head slightly as if to clear it, which wasn’t entirely an act.
“It’s been ages!” She allowed him to kiss her hand in a manner that made her want to shudder.
A hand kiss was the most innocuous of gestures, but leave it to Grenoble to turn it into something that felt slimy and cheap. A particular skill of his.
“No one to blame but yourself for that fact, Vesper,” Grenoble said, offering her a sad-puppy expression that genuinely made her want to toss her drink in his face.
He was handsome, she’d give him that, with auburn hair and arresting green eyes, broad shoulders, a wicked grin—but it was ruined for her by the knowledge of what a cad he was.
She could practically see him undressing her with his eyes.
It was frankly astonishing that she’d ever been attracted to this man.
She kept her smile firmly pinned in place. “I know,” she said, all rueful embarrassment. “But I’m so pleased to have run into you—I desperately needed a night to blow off some sparks, you know?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ashbridge give the faintest eye roll at the magical expression, but she ignored him; ideally, Ashbridge would say as little as possible to Grenoble, and they’d emerge from this conversation with no one bleeding.
“You seem to have managed that,” Grenoble said, his smile turning arch and a bit knowing as he glanced at Ashbridge.
Vesper let out a titter. “Well, you know. It’s not too difficult to find company, and I wanted to… take my mind off things.” She offered a bit of a pout.
“Heard about your little mishap at Holloway’s,” Grenoble said, shaking his head. “Must have been a shock.”
“Oh, it was nothing too serious—just a bit of excitement on a Friday evening. You were there, someone said?”
“I was,” Grenoble agreed, with no sign of unease, which was disappointing, in terms of his likelihood of being a suspect. Still, Vesper decided to prod a bit.
“I didn’t notice you,” she said.
Grenoble—ugh—leered. “Looking for me, were you?”
“Well,” Vesper said slowly, “it’s nice to know one’s… options.”
Grenoble’s self-satisfied smile grew even wider. Next to Vesper, Ashbridge had gone so still in his seat that she chanced a sideways glance to confirm that he was still breathing. He was—and he was regarding Grenoble with an expression of such open disdain that Vesper’s breath caught in her throat.
Considering all she knew of Max Ashbridge, she suddenly saw Grenoble through his eyes: moneyed, magical, spoiled. A man who’d had every single thing in his life handed to him, and yet still wanted more.
Grenoble was the very worst sort of advertisement for the privileged magical elite, Vesper realized in a rush, and a hot burst of shame overtook her, startling in its suddenness and novelty. She was not one to often feel ashamed of anything.
“Where were you when your friend had his little incident?” asked Ashbridge now—with about as much subtlety as a hammer—and Grenoble jerked his gaze away from Vesper to focus on Ashbridge.
“Sorry, who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Ashbridge.” He extended his hand, which Grenoble shook, still looking as though he were sizing Ashbridge up, trying to decide where to place him in some invisible pecking order. Men like Grenoble always were, Vesper thought with an internal sigh.
“He was at Cambridge with Freddie,” Vesper put in, hoping that this would be sufficient context for Grenoble to lose interest.
Instead, Grenoble frowned. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
Ashbridge smiled thinly. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“He was a few years ahead of you, Edward, I doubt your paths crossed,” Vesper said, eager to steer this conversation away from a direction in which Grenoble was giving too much thought to Ashbridge’s presence.
“You didn’t answer my question, though,” Ashbridge said, leaning forward.
Grenoble’s smile had become rather forced. “And what question was that?”
“Where were you,” Ashbridge repeated, enunciating each word clearly, “when all hell broke loose at Miss Holloway’s club?”
“What business is it of yours?” Grenoble asked, puffing out his chest a bit.
Vesper gave a tinkling little laugh, and then leaned over to press herself to Ashbridge’s side, laying a hand on his chest. “None at all, of course—Ashbridge here just gets a bit protective of anything to do with me.” She tilted her head back to peer up at Ashbridge through her lashes. “Isn’t that right, crumpet?”
This close to Ashbridge, she could see the tension in his jaw, hear the slight inhale as she leaned toward him. He glanced down at her, his eyes unreadable, and then—
He smiled.