in his arm that did not admit of her weight. She felt sticky and disarrayed, stumbling on cobbles, but he caught her and she straightened automatically, posture drilled and corseted into reflex. She fumbled her carpet bag from the carriage before the footman shut the door.
Sebastien said, "When was the last time you ate?"
"This afternoon." She had to pause to remember. The sky was paling behind the roofs, though the sun had an hour or so 'til rising. Sebastien had left himself plenty of time.
"Yesterday afternoon," he corrected, and led her to the side-entry.
The mudroom was dim and still, the only light filtering through a narrow window beside the door. The small room smelled pleasantly of lemon wax and hothouse flowers. The footman set the orange cat down and stepped back outside the door, no doubt to assist the coachman in getting the horses unharnessed. It shut behind him with a click, and Sebastien, one-handed, shot the bolt. He cracked the inside door so the cat could enter the house—it did with all speed—and then he shut it again, sealing himself and Garrett in the narrow entry.
And then he was against her, his hands in her hair, tipping her head back to kiss her hard, his tongue at first cool and dry, drawing warmth and moisture from her mouth. She gasped and pressed against him, supporting herself on his shoulders until she got herself against the wall between the coats and scratching coathooks and leaned back. Then she fisted her kid-gloved hands in her skirts and hoisted them to her waist. Sebastien leaned against her, slipped between her thighs, made a small, inarticulate sound to find her as bare under her petticoats as any dance-hall can-can girl. "You should eat first," he said, and for answer she put her forearms over his shoulders and pushed down, trailing ruffles and flounces.
He was cold in her arms, his face cold as he pressed it to the heat of her thighs, his hands cold as he stroked her sweating skin. She drew a deep breath, bracing for the expected agony that would lead to pleasure beyond speech, and instead felt his shivery kiss, the insinuation of his tongue.
"Sebastien—"
He caught her wrists, dropped her skirts over his head and shoulders and held her until she tugged free and pressed a double fistful of gabardine to her mouth, muffling the sounds she couldn't help. And only then, while she was panting, slack, his steadying hands on her hips keeping her upright against the pounding surf of her pulse, did he kiss her mons softly and slide sideways, tongue the hollow of her thigh, part the flesh over the artery with an adroit nudge.
Garrett made another noise against the crumpled wool, this one of sharp duress, but Sebastien's hands gentled her, an abject apology, and then a moment later she lost herself in the narcotic rush of his kiss, a sweet asphyxiating pleasure that bore as much resemblance to their foreplay as champagne did to soda water. She arched like a figurehead, face turned, temple pressed to the wallpaper, and sobbed against her skirts.
When she recollected herself, Sebastien still knelt under her lifted dress like a pilgrim at a shrine, his handkerchief pressed to the scratch on her thigh. "Thank you," he said, peeling the cloth aside to see if the wound had sealed. He dabbed his lips with the same linen as he stood; she saw it by the faint movement of white cloth in the near-dark. She dropped her skirts and gave them a shake, but leaned on his arm harder than she liked until she found her balance.
He continued, "I am much restored. And now for you—"
He opened the door into the side parlor, where there was light. Someone stood by the far wall, holding a candle. Garrett shaded her eyes, caught the glint of flame on fair curls. "Sebastien?" A young man's voice, light and flexible, with an upper-class snap. "Is all well?"
"Very well," Sebastien said. "Jack, I should like you to meet Detective Crown Investigator Abigail Irene Garrett. Abby Irene, Jack Priest, my very dear friend."
More than that, Garrett thought, if Sebastien was giving him precedence in the introductions. Mr. Priest came forward, the candle in his left hand, and took Garrett's glove in his right. "Charmed," he said, and did not sound it. He was shockingly young—seventeen? Perhaps? No, he looked like a lad, but he carried himself with a man's confidence.