Talk Sweetly to Me (Brothers Sinister #4.5)(22)

“There are. There are also ways to minimize those dangers. Technically, they’re also forbidden to me, but…”

A longer pause. “Do you confess those ways to Father Wineheart as well?”

“I confess all my sins.”

He could hear her behind him, but with his eye on the disc of the sun, he could not see her. He had no idea if she was outraged or interested, if he’d disgusted her forever or set her mind at ease.

“I can’t imagine that. You tell all these salacious details to Father Wineheart, and in turn, he lets you put a telescope in the spire.”

“I only moved to this parish three months ago, Rose.” He shrugged. “I met you almost the first day I was here. I’ve had nothing to confess since that moment.”

She inhaled behind him, sounding almost shocked. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing but lust, which he rather expects from a man my age.” He straightened, gesturing her back to the telescope. “You’d better take it back, Rose. The clouds are coming in—I’d hate to have you miss anything.”

She held his eyes for a long moment. He didn’t know what she was seeing, didn’t know what she was thinking. She bent back down.

She had to adjust the telescope yet again to track the sun in its descent. She didn’t say anything for a while, but he could see her hands nervously tapping against the optical tube. Her breath was uneven.

“Tell me, Mr. Shaughnessy. Is that what you had hoped for from me? To…” She stopped briefly, swallowing, and then continued. “To seduce me and then not fall in love?”

“No,” he told her. “I’m tired of having to remind myself that the women who are after me wish only an experience or a reputation and not a lifetime. I’m tired of holding myself back. I’m tired of having to flatten all but the barest hint of affection.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m tired,” he said, “of not letting myself fall in love.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. “They’re idiots,” she finally said. “Complete idiots, the lot of them.”

“No,” he replied. “They aren’t. I don’t tend to hold idiots in affection.”

“No?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Why do you think I like you best of everyone?”

She didn’t say anything. He could see the clouds coming closer now, dark swells creeping across the sky.

“I am not outrageous.” Her voice was small. “I don’t wish to be outrageous.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ve forgotten how to be anything but the most flagrantly outrageous man ever.”

She drew in a breath. “This was supposed to be the last time I saw you.”

“It’s the only sensible thing to do. We sound like the most ridiculous match; I know we do. But I can’t help but think, Rose, that if we could get over this awkward beginning bit—if we could just get to the part where you tell me about mathematics over breakfast and I buy you telescopes and we spend half the evening kissing—”

She made an annoyed noise.

“Too much? A quarter of the evening kissing?” he amended.

“No.” She straightened from the telescope. “The sun’s gone behind the clouds.” She glanced at him. “We’ve lost it for now. Maybe the weather will clear up.” She glared out over the city.

He didn’t put the chances high. The clouds had gone even darker; they stretched as far as he could see. She rubbed her gloved hands together briskly, and he realized that she was almost certainly cold.

He was, too—his hands and feet were uncomfortably chilled. He just hadn’t noticed, because…he’d been watching her. Hell, he’d been spilling his heart out to her, such as he did these things. He’d just told her he hoped to marry her, and he wasn’t even sure if she had noticed.

“An eighth of the evening kissing?” He looked over at her. “I can go lower if necessary.”

She shut her eyes. “Stephen.” That single word, long and drawn out. It was neither yes nor no; he wasn’t sure what it was.

“Every time I’m with you,” she said, “I tell myself I must beware. That this is what you do—make women comfortable, make us forget ourselves, principle by principle.” She rubbed her forehead and slowly opened her eyes. The light in the spire was waning even as she spoke, and yet for some reason, it seemed to find her, glinting in her eyes, reflecting off the warm brown of her skin. It caught a faint tilted smile on her mouth.

“So why is it,” she said, “that I have just now noticed that you’ve only ever come to me about me? You’ve asked about my work, my thoughts, my wants. You set this up for me, and when I balked, you handed me the keys and walked away. If you wanted me to forget myself, you wouldn’t keep reminding me of who I am.”

“Rose, love,” he said in a low voice, “I think you know why that is.”

She inhaled and spread her hands against her belly. Then, very slowly, she walked closer to him—close enough that her skirts touched his trousers, close enough that he could have drawn her to him. She swallowed; he could have set his fingers against the hollow of her throat and felt the movement, so close was she.

She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t want to dream timid dreams.” Her voice was soft, with just a hint of a catch in it. “I want to dream large, vivid ones. I want to dream that you’ll fall in love with me. That…” She bit her lip, but continued on. “That I could dare to reach out to you, that I needn’t fear what would come.”