Chapter Fourteen

 

 

THE DAY HAD DAWNED bright and clear, the sun shining fiercely in the cloudless sky. Many had been lured from the protection of their homes by the false promise of warmth, only to dash back inside when confronted with frigid stillness. The lack of cloud, so pleasing in the warmer months, precipitated a particular cold, and while the sun shone brightly, the light could not combat its frozen grip.

The waning days of January had ushered a bitter chill through London. Ever enterprising, the chill found its way through cracks and gaps, insinuating itself beneath the skin, chilling the bone. This night, only a breath from February, the sun had set to be replaced by the barest sliver of moon, the air turning glacial as a thin film of ice covered all, lending a strangely ethereal beauty to a city that glistened with silvery brilliance.

Earlier that day as Elizabeth had sat in Bella’s parlour, she’d hoped the bright sun would herald the beginning of spring. Though the chill had brought with it the pleasures of ice-skating and whimsical ice sculptures, she would not be sorry to see the end of winter. Even Bella, who’d always had a passion for the colder months, had complained heartily about the weather. Of course, she’d been influenced by the harebrained dinner gathering she was determined to hold, even though most of society had decamped to the country for the winter months. Bella, though, insisted she’d still manage to assemble a decent guest list.

Elizabeth dreaded the gathering. She never enjoyed such affairs, especially those organised by Bella. Elizabeth’s attendance, however, had been secured under penalty of death, and though she would much rather spend the evening with James, she rather liked her limbs intact. Therefore, she would attend Bella’s dinner party ten days hence.

Ugh. It would probably be freezing that night, too.

Now, in the entrance hall of James’s townhouse, and with her feet undertaking a fair impression of blocks of ice, she lingered on removing her gloves, loath to lose their warmth. Strangely, Cartwright had not been there to greet her, a footman opening the door and then absenting himself as soon as she’d entered. Unsure what to do, she’d decided to remove her coat and gloves before going in search of James.

Scrunching her toes in an attempt to force blood into the nerveless appendages, she cursed the short trip from carriage to door. Such a brief exposure to the elements, and yet somehow she’d managed to douse her feet, bringing them to their current icy status and staining her slippers beyond recognition. Idiotic to have donned slippers in the first place, but they’d matched her gown and so she’d worn the flimsy things. She’d wanted to look pretty—nay, beautiful—for James and, obviously, slippers were the path to beauty. So, dunderhead that she was, she now had blocks of ice for feet, even though he’d never noticed her footwear before. Besides, the point would be moot once he saw the gown she was wear—

Strong arms hauled her against a warm body, trapping her in an embrace. Letting out a small yelp, she was disoriented before comprehension dawned. With a sigh, she settled against him, and his arms tightened about her as she relaxed into his embrace.

“You’re here,” James murmured. Soft lips brushed beneath her ear and finally the cold dissipated. Finally, she was warm.

They stayed so but a moment before he pulled away. Cold rushed to replace his heat and she wrapped her arms about herself as she turned to face him. She frowned. Why on earth would he be wearing such a heavy coat and gloves in his own home?

“How warm is your cloak?”

She blinked. “My cloak?”

Impatient for an answer, he took a hank of fabric between thumb and forefinger. The heaviness seemed to satisfy him. Changing tack, his hands delved inside the cloak to sweep it open. At the sight of her gown, he visibly lost composure, his throat moving convulsively as his eyes ran over her. “Jesus, Elizabeth.”

“You said to wear something alluring.”

Her grin widened as he muttered a curse under his breath. Brusquely, he pulled the cloak back in place, his hands lingering just a little too long. “You would cause a riot in that dress.”

Smiling, she flipped the cloak behind her shoulders once more, exalting in his groan. His was exactly the reaction she had hoped for when she had donned the gown that evening. The garment was new, only delivered two days ago. A deep blue, so deep it appeared black at times, it made her flesh appear creamier than it actually was. The gown fit like second skin, so much so that she wore no corset, the bodice cleverly designed to hold all that needed to be held. The low neckline displayed her breasts almost to the nipple, only saved from true exposure by a tight band of dark blue lace that hid and concealed depending on the light. The skirt was less full than fashion dictated, moulding more to her hips and thighs than was deemed seemly, but then, she would never wear such a garment in view of society. This gown was for James alone.

Throwing her shoulders back, which had the delightful side effect of thrusting her breasts forward, she swept past him.

“Not that way.” He stopped her, taking her hand and instead leading her through the hall and into a portion of the house she’d never before seen.

Stealing a glance at him, she raised her brows at his expression, a strange mix of anticipation, fear and a sort of grimness. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

He led her through the corridor, proceeding at an unwholesomely brisk pace. The corridor led to a room, which led to another, and yet another, and then they were traversing another hallway, narrower than the hall leading to his study.

The corridor wound up and around, a set of stairs appearing out of nowhere to lead them to the upper levels of the house. Paintings of what she could only presume were Malvern ancestors lined the walls, the monotony of the empty hall broken by the odd forlorn table.

“Where are we going, James? Are you leading me into something depraved? You are, aren’t you? Debauchery lies in wait for my poor, innocent self.”

He provided no answer, but the ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

“What do you have in mind?” She tapped her finger against her lip. “Oh, but I shouldn’t even try to imagine, should I? The mire of dissolution that is your mind could never be fathomed by one such as I.” Flinging her hand against her forehead, she continued in grandiose fashion. “For one such as I couldn’t even begin to traverse its dark and twisted…hmm.” She mused as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Are you going to strip naked and have me do wicked things to you?”

No matter that he tried to disguise it with impatience, he couldn’t quite conceal his amusement. “Can you not wait and see?”

She thought about it for a moment. “No. So, what is it? Where are we going? What do yo—?”

James stopped, so suddenly she crashed into him. Before she’d gained her bearings, he’d turned and pushed her against the wall, his larger body crowding hers. Fleeting unease filled her as he stared down at her, his hands cupping her face. Then he slanted his mouth over hers.

All thought fled. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she opened to him, accepting his tongue, giving him hers in return. He played and teased and tormented, murmuring approval. Her brain turned to mush. Burying her hands in his hair, she returned his kiss, lost in his taste. His texture. James.

Slowly, he pulled back, his hips still pressing hers to the wall, his hands still cupping her face. Dazed, she stared into his eyes, a hint of the wicked dancing in their depths.

“Elizabeth.” His tongue flicked her upper lip. “Be a good girl, and you’ll find out where we’re going.”

Breath and thought returned only once he stepped from her, and they had begun again their progress through the house. The ghost of his kiss on her lips, she had not the wit to recommence her teasing.

When he chose to enter the lushest conservatory she’d ever seen, astonishment instead stole her tongue. Never would she have imagined James caring for a conservatory, and caring for such an unusual one.

A delightful warmth lingered in the air, what little heat the day had to offer trapped by glass tiles. The lush greenery swayed gently, as if entreating one to lose oneself amongst their dense foliage. The second story locale was both whimsical and insane, but it was obvious from the abundantly healthy condition of the plants that a great deal of effort had been expended to maintain their wellbeing. “Do you have a green thumb?”

“Pardon?”

“The plants.” A smile touched her lips as she glanced around them. “They’re beautiful.”

He shrugged. “They were here long before I was. My mother may have had something to do with it.” No glance was spared for the plants, no sense of pride in his voice. Curious. “Stop dawdling, Elizabeth.”

Taking her gaze off a particularly fulsome rhododendron she smiled winningly, just to be annoying. Laughter threatened as his frown deepened into a scowl. Really, the man could be so very endearing. “Why do you have a conservatory on the second floor? And why do you maintain it so?”

He exhaled. “You’re not moving until I tell you, are you?” Raking his hand through his hair, he gave in. “My mother. I think she was responsible. Back in the days when my father would have done anything to secure an heir.” His lips twisted, a hard glint entering his eye. “Even building such an impractical thing as this.”

“And why is it still here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The order to maintain must never have been rescinded. I really don’t care. I’m never up here.”

She searched his face, his posture, something to show he may have been hiding his true reaction.

He stared right back at her. Hmm.

Elizabeth grinned. “Anyway, why must we rush? Do you know I’ve never been in this part of your home before? Surely I can take the time to enjoy it a little. Or is there something we absolutely, positively, must attend this second, dash it all?”

An unwilling smile twisted his lips. “No, nothing, it’s—” Exhaling, he ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the carefully disordered curls. “You’ll see.”

“What will I see?”

He raised a brow, his fingers tapping against his thigh. “Do you really think to pry this out of me? It’s not much further. Come. We can look at the conservatory later.”

He ushered her through the conservatory, and she allowed herself to be dragged along but not, of course, without doing her best to protest each step, simply for the delight of seeing him become frustrated. So focused was she on antagonizing him that at first she didn’t realise he wanted her to step through the glass-panelled French doors. The glass-panelled French doors that led to the balcony. The fully-exposed-to-the-elements balcony.

“Outside? We are to go outside?” It was freezing out there. Well, it was official. She had finally driven him insane.

“Elizabeth, would you just go through? Your cloak is warm enough.” He sounded so very frustrated, the poor dear. And, unaccountably nervous. Still, it was no excuse to send her out into the elements.

Shooting him a look that quite clearly intimated she would kill him if she froze to death, she pushed open the doors. A blast of iced air raced to steal the warmth from the conservatory. Pulling her cloak about her chin, she stepped out onto the balcony and braced for the worst.

It was indeed freezing, this night surely the coldest yet. Frigid air battered her, cutting to the bone and frosting her breath. None of this she noticed, for if it weren’t so very cold, the ice sculptures on the balcony would never have existed.

Carved into florets and leaves and vines, ice skipped across stone, meandering lazily from the ceiling to join in delicate congress with the balustrade. Dozens and dozens of candles surrounded the ice, throwing light and flame as swans and waterfowl chased the other ever upward in a grand sculpture reaching almost to the roof, impossibly ringed by carvings of birds frozen mid-flight. Perched on a frigid branch, an icy bird peeked out from a delicate flourish of frosted leaves, each detail rendered perfectly.

The contrast should not work. Neither flame nor ice existed with the other present, and yet somehow they’d been coaxed to co-exist, to create the dichotomy before her.

The beauty of it stole her breath.

James wrapped his arms around her, his body encasing her in warmth. “You said you liked ice sculptures.”

“Did I?” Each intricately carved shard was more dazzling than the last.

“Last week. You said you had been to the display along the Serpentine. You said you liked it.”

“Oh.” He had done all of this. For her. This magnificent display was all for her.

The man could be so very endearing.

“Are you—do you like it?”

Nodding dumbly, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the sight before her.

His chest pressed against her as he let out his breath. Until then, she’d not realised he’d been holding it. Still distracted by ice and flame, she made no protest when he led her to a bench, piled high with cushions and furs. “Are you warm enough?”

She nodded again, still unable to look from the scene. Oh, there was a rabbit, hiding in the foliage on the floor! “When did you organise this, James?”

He shrugged. “On and off for the past few days.”

“James, I….” She gave a helpless laugh. Gratitude, affection swirled inside her, tangled together in a mess no words could ever explain.

Gently, she pressed her cold lips against his. This. He had done all this for her.

He was so very dear.

Resting her head on his shoulder, Elizabeth watched as an icicle twinkled in the candlelight. “Do you like winter?”

James’s lips moved against her temple, a soft exhalation of warm breath washing over her cold skin. “Not particularly.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I’ve never liked the cold. It’s one of the reasons I chose to stay in Italy for all those years.”

Surprised, she lifted her head. “You lived in Italy?”

He looked as if he wished he had bitten his tongue. “Yes. For some time.”

Before she could ask, as he must have known she would, he continued. “I found a casa in a small village on the Amalfi coast. Positano. It was amusing, so I deigned to stay. It was of no consequence.”

No consequence? For the son of an earl to live in another country, and one so very far from society? Not bloody likely. This town, Positano, was unknown to her, but then, she’d not travelled further than London, and none in society would talk of a small Italian village. Florence was all the rage and many had waxed lyrical about Venice and Rome, but beyond those cities she knew nothing. Never could she have imagined him staying in such a place, let alone living there for a time. Vienna, yes. Paris, definitely. But a small village on the coast of Italy? “What was it like?”

Affecting that look, the one she had seen so often, the one that said you were a fool for asking such a question, he shrugged. “It was hot and green and the food was tolerable.”

She hid a smile. What a fine attempt at nonchalance. Dear man. Thinking he could get away with so little when it was obvious it had meant so much.

He exhaled. “You want more? Fine. It was magnificent, with dramatic plunges of coastline, a sea that went forever and a sky that raced to meet it.” His words began as mockery, but soon he lost himself in memory. “An acquaintance in Naples pressed me into a cruise along the Amalfi coast and, when I saw Positano, something about it….” He exhaled. “There it was, this village scoured deep into the mountainside, houses clinging precariously. The people were gregarious and always welcoming. Every Sunday, the woman would cook for all in the villaggio. The smells were intoxicating—exotic herbs, ripe tomatoes, and huge slabs of meat, and we would gather together at a communal table to enjoy the bounty. Every week it seemed there was a religious festival, celebrating this saint or that. The procession through the villaggio would see all the people on the streets—” A peculiar expression came over his face and he stopped abruptly.

“Yes. I can see you hated it.” At her words, he found something of extreme interest in the curve of her shoulder. Hiding a smile, she prodded further. “Say something for me. In Italian.”

Ah, there was that look again. That imperial, highhanded look. Why did he persist when it so obviously did not sway her?

“What makes you believe I can speak Italian? No other would learn such a pedestrian tongue.”

None other than him. Now the surprise of his revelation had passed, it wasn’t so very strange James had lived in a small village. The man everyone thought of as Malvern would have lived in Paris, Vienna, but James would have relished the village life. He would have gone to those village festivals every week. He would have sat at the tables and observed the festivities around him. He would have revelled in it.

And so, she waited.

Exhaling, he muttered something under his breath. Though she barely heard the words, she was fairly certain they were English. So still she waited.

Finally, with rather an intense scowl, he said, “Siete la donna piu fastidiosa.”

Her breath caught. “What did you say?”

The scowl melted away and…oh God, he had such a wicked expression. He had said something terrible, she was sure of it.

Gleefully, he translated. “You are the most annoying woman.”

“I am annoying?” Throwing a good-natured swat at him, she mock-scowled. “I’m not the one insisting I don’t speak Italian. Which is patently false, you big liar.”

He grinned, the sight of which took her breath though she tried to act as if it were an everyday occurrence. Capturing her wrists to avoid her half-hearted blows, he placed a kiss against her palm. “Mi dispiace, il mio topo. Sono gravi.”

Cradling her hand against his cheek, he laced his fingers through the other, his eyes darkening as his gaze burned into hers. “Gli amo il tatto sotto mi. Intorno a mi.”

The words flowed through her, holding her captive. She had no notion of what he was saying, but the way he said it, the wickedness in his expression as he formed the words….

“Voglio farvi gemito. Urlo. Voglio fare tanto cosi con te...” The soulful words trailed away, and he turned to brush his lips against her palm. He rubbed his cheek against her nerveless hand, his lips brushing against her fingers with every pass. A faint smile touched his mouth, affording her some sanity.

“What—” Swallowing harshly, she started again. “What did you say?”

His lips quirked. “I love the feel of you beneath me. Around me.” His fingers trailed sensation up the skin of her thigh under cloak and covers. “I want to make you moan, make you scream. I want—”

Unable to bear any more, she stopped his words with one hand against his mouth while the other halted his hand on her thigh. Undeterred, his tongue flicked against her palm, his eyes wicked.

“That’s quite enough, sir.” Good lord, but her voice was husky. She cleared her throat and ignored his sudden grin at her all-too-obvious reaction. “Why did you leave Italy?”

His grin froze and then disappeared as if it had never been. Smooth, emotionless, his face revealed nothing, all playfulness bled from him with her question. “It was time.”

“That’s it? It was time?” She ignored the niggle of foreboding at his reaction.

“Leave it alone, Elizabeth.”

“No, really, why did you return to England?”

“It is of no consequence.” He shifted, his hands grasping her upper arms.

Refusing to let him set her from him, she persisted. “There must have been a reason, James. You wouldn’t have just left.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his lips pressed tight. Doubt unfurled inside her. He wasn’t going to respond, he was just going to stare at her like that and make her feel horrible for asking. But it was obvious something had forced him from Italy, something over which he’d had no control. Only…why was she pressing him? ’Twas obvious he didn’t want to talk about it. Damn her and her insatiable need to know. Was she really going to make James answer because of her stupid, relentless desire—?

“My father died.” The abrupt words tore through the silence between them. “He was dead, and I was now Malvern, and I had to return.”

“Oh.” She had no idea what to say. He’d only mentioned his father in passing, and never more than a handful of words at a time. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely.

He shrugged.

All the closeness of the evening had disappeared. Always this happened, always she took her questions to a ridiculous degree. She didn’t know what to say, how to put right what she had rent apart.

So she avoided it entirely. “So you came home and entered into a life of debauchery.”

His whole bearing relaxed. “More like re-entered. Besides, it was a little more subtle than that.”

“And then you met me.”

“Yes,” he said. “That is exactly how it happened. Amazing how my life can be boiled down to two sentences.”

“Hmm.” Tracing the lines of his palm, she kept her gaze trained on his hand. “So why did you?”

“Why did I what?

“Why did you enter—re-enter—the life of debauchery?”

His hand went lax in hers. She said nothing when he pulled his hand from hers. “It is what one does. My father, and before him his father, and his before him.”

“Indeed?” His face was so cold, so flawlessly impassive. She shouldn’t push. “How do you know?”

Impatience flashed across his features. Then, just as quickly, a sultry glint lit his eye and, hands grasping her hips, he leaned in to kiss her.

To distract her, of course. He was so very obvious. Avoiding his mouth, she placed a hand on his chest. “No, how do you know?”

Exhaling in frustration, he leaned back, his arms crossed and hands gripping his biceps. “I don’t know. My father told me. It’s our family history. My grandfather decreed it in his will. Pick one.”

“Oh.” Annoyance fairly vibrated from him, and she knew she should cease. “Do you enjoy it?”

His hands bit into his biceps. Finally, he shrugged again.

“Then why did you do it? The whoring, the drinking, any of it?”

A kind of frustrated impotence came into his eyes. “Does it really matter why? It is who I am. Who I was raised to be. I cannot think why we need to discuss it.”

“Yes, but James—”

This time she couldn’t avoid his kiss. His lips moved over hers, his tongue seeking entrance, and she let him distract her, her arms creeping around him as she returned his kiss. Clearly he did not wish to speak further. Well, she could take a hint. Eventually.

Blood thrumming through her, she pulled back. “Oh, so the ice sculptures are not a present? You expect payment, do you, my lord?”

Brows drawn, he stared at her, then languid sensuality painted his features as he seemed to realise she wasn’t going to ask any further questions. “Of course not, my dear. I operate purely from an altruistic standpoint, as always.” His hand drifted over the soft flesh presented by her indecent bodice. “If, however, you wanted to show your appreciation, I would not object.”

“Indeed?” Rolling her hips against him, she bit back a smile at his groan. “And how may I do that?”

“Lean closer, my dear, and I shall tell you.” Face schooled to impassivity, only his eyes displayed any emotion. Wickedness twined with lust and approval as she suited action to his words. “Ah, no, it is not close enough. If you will allow?”

Heart pounding erratically, she nodded. A half-smile wreathed his lips as he arranged her so she straddled his lap, running his hands over her, all ostensibly in an effort to keep her warm.

“Ah. Now this is workable.” His lips brushed against her ear. “See? We are close.”

A tremble ran through her. Yes. They were close.

“Are you warm?” His breath, chilled by the air, shivered along her neck.

Nodding slowly, she shifted closer, unaccountably drunk on him. All it took was a touch, a glance, and he brought fire to burn inside her.

“Good.” He dragged his hands up her back. Then down. Then up. Then down. “So what should I ask of you, Elizabeth? There are so many things that would afford me pleasure.”

His fingers feathered over her lips. The light touch against her sensitive flesh was a kind of agony, a barely there caress. “Should I ask for your mouth? Your lips moving against mine, the slide and retreat of your tongue.”

Cold pushed against them and though her cheeks stung with it, the rest of her was aflame.

“Should I ask for your touch? Your fingers, light, delicate, tripping over my skin.” His eyes, wreathed in ice and fire, mesmerised in their intensity. His words beguiled her, conjuring images out of the ether, half-formed fancies that shimmered and swayed, dancing in the ice and the flame. Wetting suddenly dry lips, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his as he seduced her with his words, with light touches, with himself.

“Or should I do this, Elizabeth?” Hand sliding down her chest, he pushed the thin barrier of lace from her breasts. Cold wormed its way between them and she gasped, her nipples tightening in reaction. He cupped her flesh, and the contrast between the cold of the air and the heat of his hand echoed sharply on her skin.

“Shall I circle your nipples? Shall I stroke you?” Clever fingers traced the puckered flesh, streaks of sensation radiating from his touch. His lips quirked, and everything inside her froze at the wickedness in that small expression. “Elizabeth, shall I make you scream?”

Grabbing his wrist, she tried to direct his movement, but he resisted with a faint smile. As punishment, his fingers stilled, resting lightly against her and not at all what she needed. No, she needed him to trace her, to tease her, but no matter how she pleaded, how she moved, he resisted, that faint smile still flirting with his lips.

Finally, finally, he relented, trapping her nipple between his fingers and pulling gently at the distended flesh. Pleasure, mixed with a touch of pain, streaked through her.

“Elizabeth. You’re not screaming.” That damned smile on his face, he waited a moment, maybe two.

Then he bent his head, encasing her nipple in wet warmth.

How could she scream, when he stole her very breath? Clenching the soft strands of his hair, she held him to her as his teeth gently grasped her nipple, his hand covering her breast, pushing and pulling as he suckled. Her world was him, this world of ice and fire that contained only they two and the magic he plied with lips and tongue.

With a final lick he released her breast, trailing kisses up her neck as he pulled the lace back to cover her, only to have his fingers worry the lace against her tender nipples. Her hands knotted in his hair.

Eyes glittering with controlled desire, he leaned from her, his hands still on her breasts. “Or maybe my wants are too lascivious for such a simple thing as gratitude. Maybe we should sit together, like this, and nothing further.” And with those words, his hands abandoned her completely.

No, no, what was he doing? Frantically, she tried to force him back to her, but his only response was a languid smile.

“We could count the beat of your heart against my chest, the steady rhythm lulling us into peace. You could rest your head on my shoulder, and I could play my hands down your back and we could simply exist together, you and I. We wouldn’t feel the whip of the cold around us, not when we had the other, and we’d stay as we were, locked together with your breath mingling with mine and the frost in the air.”

Mesmerised, she was barely aware of anything but him. All she could do was drown in his words.

Abruptly, his eyes darkened. “Or I could just do this.”

Urgent hands tugged at her drawers, opening her to him. An impatient stroke, another, and then he pushed inside her. Gasping, she ground on his hand as he thrust, her fingers digging into his shoulders. His thumb grazed her clitoris and she did scream, burning as she moved against him, her hands clenching.

With a low growl, he removed his hand and she wanted to hit him, pummel him, how dare he do this to her…but then he was against her, hard and hot, and then he was inside her.

Time froze. Deep, he was so deep inside her, and she loved the feel of him, the feel of them. The bare skin of her thighs against the rasp of his trousers. Her barely clothed breasts against the fine material of his shirt. His fingers digging into her hips, her hands clutched in his hair. The moment lasted forever, and a second, and she wanted always to be like this. With him.

“Elizabeth.” His lips whispered along her cheek. “Ride me.”

Fire raced through her at his words, at the sensation they created. Tentatively, she lifted and slid back down. Hand steady on the small of her back, he guided her, muttering a curse when she caught the rhythm. Rising, falling, rising, falling. Soon it wasn’t enough. Soon, she needed more.

“James?” His name was faint, barely a breath.

His answer a strangled groan, he covered her mouth with his and then his fingers brushed where they were joined. She screamed into him, the touch enough to send her over the edge, to drown her in rapture. Climax raced through her and blindness fell, all dark except the brightness of the pleasure inside her, pleasure wreathed in ice and flame.

The last tendrils of sensation held her captive as she slumped against him. Gentle hands stroked her back. As reality returned, so did the world around them…and the fact he was still hard within her.

Trailing her lips across his cheek, she lifted herself only to return in a slow caress, giving him what he needed. He stifled a groan, his eyes closing and then he was thrusting inside her, striving for his own pleasure. Hard fingers dug into her hips as he held her captive and she revelled in it. A groan, a curse and then he stiffened, spilling inside her, his hand tightening in her hair.

All was silence between them, broken only by the harsh sound of their breath. His. Hers. Slowly they regained breath. Slowly the cold returned and the beat of their hearts synchronised to one.

Later, after they had left the balcony, after they had settled in his bed, Elizabeth replayed their conversation as James slept. She thought of his reaction, of hers. She thought on his father, his legacy, and James’s obvious love of another country. She thought of all that could have been said, and hadn’t.

But this time…this time she wouldn’t question. Just this once, she wouldn’t push.