Unraveled (Turner #3)(76)
“Thank you so much,” Miranda said. And then, as the woman gathered her keys and bustled down the hall, she looked up at Smite and winked.
THEY SETTLED IN A small room upstairs. The wood floors were covered over with plain rag rugs; the walls were recently whitewashed. The room was clean and cozy. A boy brought up their single valise, and departed after Smite threw him a penny.
Smite had not yet been able to meet Miranda’s eyes. He puttered about, washing with cold water from the single metal basin. He focused on the details of the present: unpacking his bag, although there was hardly anything to set in order. Nonetheless, he laid out the sparse collection of soap and shaving materials next to the basin.
He could hardly ignore Miranda when she came to stand beside him. She slid her arms around his waist. He set his hand atop hers, but couldn’t bring himself to push her away.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.
Ha. “I’ll wager a shilling you’re wrong.”
“You’re berating yourself because you let that little white lie I told stand. Now you’re wondering if you must go and correct my perfidy, and never mind that it will get us tossed out of the inn.”
He turned to her. “Hardly. I win.”
For so long, his wishes had harmonized. He wanted to introduce a certain amount of discomfort into his life. He wanted to avoid the pity of others. That had all amounted to a simple directive: avoid those who fussed over him—namely, everyone.
But Miranda never fussed. And just now, with a handful of smiles, she’d rearranged his life so that he did not need to be an object of pity. He could imagine the future spread before him. The two of them could live in a proper house with a flock of servants poised to wash Ghost when he nosed about in unsavory messes. They would hold doors and make lemon cakes. His bed would always be turned down. On cold nights, hot bricks would appear. He might live like anyone else—so long as Miranda was there to smooth the way.
She’d told him once about her parents, presenting a facade to the outside world and then laughing together when it succeeded. They’d been liars, yes… but they’d faced everything together.
Without even trying, Miranda had just made him part of a team. He wanted to grab hold of the chance that she offered.
And yet he held back.
The thought that he might one day transform himself into one of the fat, complacent burghers who sat in judgment alongside him was intolerable.
He’d been staring at the hard gray lump of his soap for too long. He set it down and turned to Miranda. “It’s like this,” he heard himself say. “When you leave, I will wish you well. I’ll watch you go, and I won’t make a fuss, because I know what lies ahead of you will be better and more satisfying than anything I can give.”
Her chin rose. “That’s terribly kind of you. Hopefully, I’ll have left you with a penchant for company, and you’ll replace me soon enough.”
He had a penchant for her. “Hardly,” he heard himself say.
“Shall we be clear?” Miranda said.
“By all means.”
“We are not talking about some hypothetical future,” she said. “You are talking about when our month is up.”
He was talking about tomorrow morning.
“I’ll be miserable without you,” she continued. “And don’t pretend you’ll be happy to be rid of me, either. I know you better than that.”
He turned away from her and wandered to the window. “I’m sure you’ll find happiness eventually.”
She followed to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “I notice you make no protestations on your own behalf. I expected you’d at least make some cutting remark in a flat tone of voice. Something like, ‘I suppose I’ll survive.’”
He flipped her to face him, pushed her back against the wall. “Is that what you think? That I shall simply survive?”
She stared at him. And then she slowly rose onto her toes and kissed him.
He should have stepped away. He should have remained still when her lips touched his. But he might never have this chance again. He might never hold her this close, might never sink his hands into her hair.
And so instead he kissed her back out of deep, dark desperation. He worshipped her mouth. And when her hands untucked his shirt, slid up underneath the linen to reveal his bare chest, he didn’t bother to restrain himself. He picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.
The sheets were soft against his touch, but not as soft as her skin. The warmth of her breath as she pulled him down to her only reminded him of the cold future that awaited.
But no matter the desperate urgency he felt rising in him, he took his time to strip her bare: unbuttoning her habit and peeling it away, unlacing her corset, freeing the small, firm mounds of her br**sts. He untied her garters and slid her stockings down slim legs. As he removed her petticoats one by one, she undid his cravat, and then removed his waistcoat. She pulled his shirt from his head and undid the buttons of his fall.
She sat up, just long enough for him to pull the chemise from her head, long enough to kick out of his unwanted trousers. Then he pushed her back into the bed. She was wet for him; he slid inside her with one sharp thrust. And this time, he held nothing back. He set his hands on her and took her, claiming every inch of her. Her tight, hot passage clenched around his cock. Her ni**les, tipped in coral, offered themselves to his mouth. She dug her nails into his backside.