Page 46 of A Devil in Silk
No wonder she cried herself to sleep.
No wonder she clung to her list of daring adventures.
And here he’d been complaining about dutiful expectations.
Shame settled in his chest. His grievances felt like a child’s tantrum in comparison.
He brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry you suffered for someone else’s weakness. I’m sorry you felt you had to keep it a secret. We can return to the carriage and discuss it properly there.”
She shook her head. “No. Not now. Please.”
“Then whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, thinking of all the petty grievances he’d aired. “And I swear I’ll never grumble about my own trivial problems again.”
Her hand shot up, cupping his cheek with sudden urgency. “Don’t do that.” Her gaze locked with his. “Don’t weigh pain onscales. There’s no comparison here. Hurt is hurt no matter how it’s measured.”
The warmth of her palm seeped into his skin.
She wasn’t pushing him away.
She was letting him in.
For a moment, they simply stood there, his breath caught somewhere between restraint and longing. Then, without warning, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
It was a kiss born of sorrow and gratitude and something sweeter. It stole the breath from his lungs and tied his stomach into knots.
When she pulled away, his heart was thundering.
And still, she didn’t step back. “Your lips have the power to dispel ghosts.”
“Perhaps you’d like me to quieten the spirits again, Clara.”
He bent slowly, watching her, giving her a chance to retreat.
She didn’t.
Their mouths met in a kiss softer than before, but no less consuming. Her lips parted beneath his with a sigh that poured heat into his blood. The glide of her mouth was silk and sin, a quiet invitation that tugged on every thread of his restraint.
He deepened it, savouring the tender press of her body, the way her fingers curled in his coat. Every part of him hardened. Every part of him burned. She tasted of salt and sweetness, grief and need, and he drank her in as though her kiss might cleanse him, possess him, undo him.
It wasn’t a kiss of wild hunger, but something more profound.
And when he finally drew back, he did so reluctantly, his chest rising hard against hers, his hands hot where they held her waist.
Clara lingered for a heartbeat, then stepped back. “We should search Lavinia’s rooms before Mr Lewis wonders what’s kept us.”
He dragged his hand through his hair and thought of morbid things to settle his pulse. “I doubt we’ll find anything useful in here,” he said, scanning the bare walls, not the outline of her full breasts in the fitted pelisse, not the plump, pillow-like lips he wanted to devour again. “But we ought to try.”
They searched the bedchamber in silence, the thrum of desire lessening with every drawer opened and garment inspected and returned to its place.
Finding nothing hidden between the bed sheets or beneath the mattress, they moved to the sitting room.
It was just as sparse.
A single armchair sat angled towards the hearth, though the grate held only a scatter of grey ash. A small writing desk stood beneath the window, its surface bare except for an old oil lamp.
They searched again, beneath cushions, inside drawers, under the faded rug, but found nothing. It was like no one lived there, a room inhabited by cobwebs and dust motes.
Bentley exhaled heavily. “Whatever secrets Miss Nightshade had, there’s no sign of them here.”
