her, on top of the covers. Neither did he need to tangle his fingers in the silky tresses escaping from her bandeau. But he did those things too.
“What else do you need?” he asked. “Shall I fetch your nightcap?”
“You think my nightcap is silly.”
“I think it is adorable.”
He leaned over her, brushed his knuckles over her petal-soft cheek, and willed himself to get up. This was becoming torture. He had to pull away. He could not move.
“You never even kissed me,” she said.
Leave the bed now, he yelled at himself. Get out now. But for once he was too slow.
She lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his.
The pure soft sweetness of her slid right through him, burning through his chest and emptying his head with the potency of a thousand brandies. His hand found its way behind her neck, sliding into her thick, soft hair, cradling her head so he could have more. Their lips moved together, exploring, opening, and when he tasted her with his tongue, she made a small sound in her throat that shot straight to his groin. She arched up into him, and he tasted her again. Deeper. More. And she—so generous and warm—welcomed him. She tasted like brandy and woman and hope and flowers, and he could not think how she might taste like flowers or why that might be a good thing, but she did and it was. He could melt into her, into her generous warmth, surrender to the thud of his heart and the urging of his cock, melt into her and have her melt into him, and all their heartache would melt away too.
He dragged his lips from hers, gently pushed her back onto the pillows. She smiled up at him and it took all his strength to keep his distance.
“There,” he said. “Now we kissed.”
“That was lovely.”
“You’re drunk. You think everything’s lovely.”
“Even your scruff is lovely.”
Her palm rubbed his cheek and he resisted the urge to lean into her again. He lowered her hand, tucked it by her side. In the candlelight, he could not tell the current color of her eyes, but it didn’t matter because her eyes made up their color as they went along, and that was only one of the delightful things about her to discover.
He needed her to fall asleep so he could escape this madness.
“Close your eyes,” he said. She did. He stroked her hair back from her face, stroked her forehead, stroked her cheek. He longed to stroke every part of her. “Breathe in now,” he said. “And breathe out. And in, and out.”
She obeyed and then she was asleep.
Thank God. Now he could escape.
But not yet. That would not be right. She was upset, and he was sure it was wrong to leave someone who was upset. And it was the first time she was drunk, and she might be frightened, if she woke alone to a spinning room. So he should stay a little longer. Until he was sure she was calm. Until the feel of her lips had left his. Until his urge to weep had passed.
Cassandra awoke. There was almost no light in the room. She had a touch of nausea, a touch of headache. Her bed was warmer than usual. She was not alone. She was too sleepy to be frightened, and it was Joshua anyway. The weight over her waist was his arm. The heated wall at her back was his chest. She listened to him breathe: He was sleeping. She had kissed him. His lips had been warm too, and surprisingly soft. He had touched his tongue to hers. She should have been disgusted but instead a raw pleasure had shot straight down her center and all she had wanted was more. And the things she had said! She must never drink again. But he had not judged her. She did not move. She did not want to disturb him, or face him. Besides, it felt so lovely, to be wrapped up in this man. She closed her eyes and enjoyed it.
When she woke again, he was gone.
Chapter 11
The next afternoon, Mr. Cosway, who bore the cumbersome title of Secretary In Charge of Everything That Happens In London, showed Cassandra to the empty office that Joshua used when he was at the dockside warehouse. Dominating the small room was a desk crowded with dossiers and yard-long rolls of paper, as well as a globe and items of equipment she could not begin to name.