A Lily Among Thorns(45)

It wouldn’t be Cornwall, but she’d rather die than crawl to Cornwall, alone and a failure. And Solomon, if he ever troubled to visit, would love the changes Nash was making to the Marine Pavilion. Prinny had shown her plans for the façade.

Serena hated Brighton already.

She looked up to find Solomon giving her that focused look of his. “Do you know what you need?” he asked.

“An annulment?”

“Later. Right now, you need to cartwheel.”

“To cartwheel?”

He nodded decisively. “Elijah always said there was nothing like it for raising the spirits, and except for chocolate, he was right. Do you know how?”

“Yes, but—Solomon, I’m wearing skirts!”

He grinned wickedly at her. “There’s no one about.”

She was actually tempted. She used to turn cartwheels down the hill at Ravenscroft. And the idea of Solomon ogling her ankles wasn’t precisely unpleasant. However, she didn’t think turning cartwheels would be quite the same in stays and four layers of petticoat. “Perhaps later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Serena stared at her bed. Somehow, she couldn’t quite get in and blow out the candle. Her nightmare of two days before, in the light of what she’d discovered at St. Andrew of the Cross, seemed all too plausible. Go on, this is pathetic. She took a resolute step toward the bed. But it was no use. She wasn’t shaking with fright or weak in the knees, but she also wasn’t going to get into the bed.

Like a spoiled child, she wanted light and warmth and comfort. She wanted chocolate. She wanted—why not admit it, since she wasn’t fooling anyone?—to be held as she fell asleep.

All of that was there, on the other side of the door. But explaining to Solomon that she was afraid to sleep in her own room was every bit as unimaginable as getting into bed and pulling the curtains shut. He would know how weak she was, and he would be so gentlemanly about it, so good-natured, so sympathetic—the idea was appalling.

She had let her guard down with him too far already. In one short week, she had let herself feel safe with him. To the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet. Small wonder that something as sweet and unexpected as Solomon had overwhelmed her. But she couldn’t delude herself that because he made her feel safe, that he could really protect her, or even that he would really try. There was no such thing as safety. Even if people cared for you, in the end they put themselves first. René was proof of that.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t control how she felt about Solomon. But that didn’t mean he had to know. He’d own her then.

Solomon had just finished making up the batch of black dye he’d promised Uncle Hathaway when the door beside the fireplace swung open. He looked up.

Serena was barefoot, her embroidered orange robe unfastened over her revealing shift. Her hair hung in a black curtain to the top of her breasts. His black dye was the best in the business, but even so it would streak and fade with time. It would never match the dark richness of her hair.

She leaned against the door frame, her face in shadow. “Hello, Solomon.”

“Hello, Serena,” he said warily.

She tilted her head and smiled oddly. Something was very wrong. “Now, Solomon, you sound so unfriendly. I thought you liked me.”

“Yes, and I told you that I didn’t mean I wanted to kiss you.”

She moved forward until they stood barely two feet apart. Her eyes, fixed on his, glimmered strangely. “Oh, Solomon, so pure of heart. But as you also said, we both know that you do want to kiss me.” And as much as he felt off balance, as much as he knew something was wrong—well, didn’t he always feel off balance around her? She did it on purpose, and whether it was wrong or not, his body responded to her, to her low voice and her nearness and even the odd shine of her gray eyes.

She shrugged her shoulders, and the robe slithered to the floor with a fringed rustle. She stood before him in her shift, shoulders and arms bare, every curve plainly visible—and then she stepped closer and put her arms around his neck. Her breasts pressed against his waistcoat. He glanced down and there they were, there was the birthmark on the squashed curve of her left breast. He remembered the first time he had seen that swell of bosom, the horror it had evoked in him. Now everything had changed—now he knew her. He stifled a groan.

“‘I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with fine linen of Egypt,’” she quoted. “‘I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.’” He knew the next line, just as she must have known he would. Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning. She had been reading Proverbs.