Page 98 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Careful,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “These stairs are treacherous.”
So was my heart. Foolish thing that it was.
The lantern’s light flickered between us, gilding the sharp line of his jaw, the intent in his eyes. And then—slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world—he lowered his head.
His mouth met mine in a kiss that was not hurried, not stolen, but offered and claimed in the same breath. His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me closer, anchoring me to him.
The stone stairwell vanished. The rain beyond the walls ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of him, the press of his body, the firm, possessive way his mouth moved over mine as if he’d been waiting years—centuries—for this.
My fingers curled into the lapel of his coat, the rough wool grounding me even as my knees threatened to give way. He deepened the kiss, and the spark of it burned through me, its flame rippling through every nerve, scattering every thought.
The tension that had hovered between us for weeks surged forward, no longer restrained, no longer masked by banter or circumstance.
It was real. It was him. And it was me, kissing him back with everything I didn’t dare say aloud.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathless—and not from the climb. “I think I’ve lost my footing again,” I whispered.
He smiled, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “Then you’d better hold on to me.”
The moment shattered as the door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
“There you are, Your Grace. We’ve been searching all over for you.”
Milford. Of course. Steele’s ever-faithful butler.
“We?” Steele asked.
“Mr. Honeycutt and I. He’s arrived with the Rosehaven carriage to escort Lady Rosalynd home.”
“Of course he has,” Steele muttered under his breath. “Impeccable timing, as always.”
I fought hard not to laugh.
Like errant schoolchildren caught doing something naughty—which let’s face it, we had been—we climbed the remaining steps to meet them, then proceeded to the family staircase.
“How exactly did you conduct your search, Milford?” Steele asked in a mild tone, as we descended.
“I began in the drawing room, Your Grace, then your study,” Milford replied evenly. “And then we went on from there.”
Honeycutt sniffed. “A veritable tour of the house. I daresay we explored every room but the wine cellar.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Clearly, Milford had taken the scenic route.
“Apologies,” Steele said blandly. “I’ll have a map drawn up for you next time.”
Honeycutt was not amused.
Once we reached the entrance hall, Milford handed my outer garments—not to me, but to Steele.
He helped me slip them on—fingers careful at my shoulders, gentle at the fastening of my cloak. He even tied the ribbon of my bonnet beneath my chin.
“We’ll speak again tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’m at your disposal, Lady Rosalynd. Just say when.”
I bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace. For tonight.”
“My pleasure.” His deep voice strummed through every inch of me.
