The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,63

to lift her. Nevertheless, he managed to plop her beside him on the bench with only a small thump, and by the time she stopped sputtering and giggling, they were away. “Phew. You reek of ale.”

“I thought you liked ale.”

“I do.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her soundly on the lips. She made a small sound of surprise and her hands came up, as if to push him away. Instead, they settled on his chest and relaxed there, and she returned his kiss with sweet enthusiasm. Beneath the malty ale she tasted delicious, familiar. But it was better than last time, infinitely so, and what he’d intended as a single embrace unravelled into a long string of kisses.

Deep.

Hypnotic.

Luxurious.

Kisses that threatened to blot out the world.

Time passed, in some arbitrary fashion. He became aware of it only very gradually as a cessation of movement, as an unexpected stillness. With some surprise, he realized the carriage had stopped. More specifically, they were in the lane behind his house in Bloomsbury.

“What’s wrong?” murmured Mary. Her voice was languorous, remote.

“We’re—” He cleared his rusty throat. “We’re at my house.”

“Oh.” She tensed, then swiftly untwined her limbs from his. There was an awkward pause, which they broke simultaneously:

“I ought to go.”

“Won’t you come in?”

Her eyes widened, and he realized how it must sound. “For a cup of tea. Or a chat. Or – I mean, I didn’t have anything in mind. In particular. I only meant, there’s no reason for you to go.”

She passed one hand over her hair, looked down at her boy’s rags. “I don’t think I possibly could.”

“George isn’t home,” he said eagerly. “It’s only me.”

She leaned over to the window and sized up the house. “You must have servants.”

He looked surprised. “Of course. But they don’t talk.”

She looked amused. “Much you know. Servants always talk.”

“Does it matter what they say?”

“I—” She seemed unable to explain.

James thought he understood. “I know: you’re still a young lady, despite the costume. But you’re also half-cut, and I absolutely refuse to take you back to a rough lodging-house in this state.”

“I’m not that drunk,” she said indignantly.

“Well, I hope you’re not utterly foxed; that wouldn’t be very complimentary to me. But you’ll stay until you’re sober.” He couldn’t help grinning. Her surprise was so very readable, when normally he struggled to guess what she thought.

It was a curious experience, bringing Mary home. He found himself excessively aware of the daily surroundings he had generally ceased to notice: the rattle of his key in the lock, the stiff springiness of the doormat beneath his boots, the way his voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall. James stood aside to let her enter but she hung back, looking about the garden with a frank curiosity he found impossibly endearing.

The house was fragrant with beeswax polish and baking. Mrs Vine, the family’s housekeeper of some thirty years, stepped into the hall. “I’ve been expecting you these last two hours, Mr James,” she said, examining his face with critical eyes. “Though you don’t look so worn-out as I expected.”

He smiled. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me all week.”

She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Go and tidy yourself, for heaven’s sake. The scones aren’t getting any warmer.” Her gaze shifted to something behind him and, while her features didn’t move, her voice turned formal and courteous. “Shall I lay a place for this young man in the kitchen?”

With a calm he didn’t feel, he said, “Actually, Miss Quinn will take tea with me.” He sensed, rather than saw, Mary tense behind him. “Mrs Vine will show you where you can, er, wash your hands.”

Not a muscle moved in Mrs Vine’s face. She merely nodded and said, in that same neutral voice, “Please follow me, Miss Quinn.”

James watched them down the hall. Mrs Vine sailed ahead, tall and regal, while Mary followed three steps behind, quieter than he’d ever seen her. He wasn’t at all certain he’d done the right thing in bringing her here. What on earth was happening to him? A kiss or two was one thing; what had passed between them in the carriage quite another. She had no right to overturn his world so easily, and perhaps not even realize she’d done so. And here he was, inviting her into his private domain. It wasn’t wise to allow her so much insight into his life when he scarcely knew anything beyond her name. But it was much too late for such caution