He wiped it clean, verified the clouds were still out in force—and then began kissing her again.
At some point, he simply lost his mind. Her hands had begun to roam and his had, too, cupping her br**sts—which fit, so nicely rounded, in his palm. A kiss was one thing; running his thumb along the neckline of her gown, undoing buttons halfway down her bosom, sliding it down and then leaning over and nibbling…that was another thing entirely. A lovely, delicious, wonderful thing. She tasted faintly sweet.
Maybe that was his imagination. Maybe he only thought so because she was making the most captivating noises, little moans in the back of her throat halfway to purrs. He let his other hand drift down, cupping the juncture of her thighs over her skirts.
She made no noise of protest, not when he pushed harder, not when he pressed the ball of his hand against her, rubbing in a slow circle. He took his time about it, easing off and then coming back harder, pulling away and then returning, until she was almost as desperate as he was, until her hips were pressing against his hand, until she came apart against him. He felt her orgasm shudder through her, her limbs trembling. It was an almost electric sensation for him, too, watching her eyes flutter shut, watching her give herself up to him.
Her breath slowed after. She opened her eyes, looked up at him.
“Half the evening, do you think?” He gave her a long, slow smile.
That was when he realized that darkness had fallen while they’d been kissing. From the window, he could see a few beginning flurries falling to the ground, scarcely visible in the lamplight from the street below. He had no idea how long they’d been engaged in such pleasantries.
“Rose?” he said. “Are you…?” But he didn’t know what to say beyond that. Are you in love with me? seemed too soon. The other words he burned to say—touch me here, do that to me—were too brazen. She was still dazed, unsure of herself, and slightly unsteady on her feet.
She still hadn’t said anything.
“Right, then.” He touched his thumb to her forehead, sliding it down the bridge of her nose. “Well. That settles that.”
“Settles what?” They were the first words she’d spoken in God knew how long. He couldn’t decipher the tone of her voice.
“We need more astronomical events,” he said. “Because I am not waiting until the year 2004 to do this again.”
Chapter Six
HE KNEW IT WAS A MISTAKE as soon as the words were out of his mouth. As soon as he heard himself and realized that it sounded like an invitation to tryst with him, rather than an offer to spend her life with him. She straightened, pulling away from him.
“Rose.” He reached for her.
She brushed his hand away. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
“Rose. I’m sorry. It was a joke.”
“I know it was a joke.” Her voice shook. “Of course it was a joke. It’s always a joke to you.”
She grabbed her cloak from the floor, found her gloves in the growing darkness.
“Rose.”
Had he not been able to decipher her voice before? He’d not been listening hard enough. Now, now that he’d opened his mouth a moment too soon and spoken just a little too much… Now, he could hear the hurt in her tone.
“Rose. Sweetheart. I never meant to hurt you. You know that. You must know that.”
She pulled on her gloves. “I know that. Stephen, I…” Her voice dropped. “You must know how I feel about you. But I don’t think you understand. This isn’t easy for me, and you aren’t making it any easier. I want to trust you. I am trying to trust you. I even trust your intentions.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t trust your results.”
“Rose.”
She shook her head. “It’s late. I promised my sister I’d be home just after four, and who knows now what time it is. I have to go.”
“Rose.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed. “For bringing me here and arranging for a telescope.”
“At least let me accompany you—”
“I think you’ve spent enough time with me at the moment. Please, Stephen. I told myself I wouldn’t—and look at me. I need to think.”
He rocked back, feeling as if he’d been punched. But he bit back his sharp reply. He’d hurt her first, after all. He’d talk to her when the sting of his ill-timed words had died down, when he was feeling more like himself—less vulnerable and more in control.
She swung down the ladder. He could scarcely see her descending into the gloom.
“Be careful,” he called after her in a low voice.
She didn’t say anything in response, not for a long while. But he heard her reach the top of the turret. She didn’t move for a long time. He wondered if she was looking up at him, if she could see him in the gathering darkness. He wondered what she was thinking.
“I should have been careful hours ago,” she said. “It’s rather late for that.”
THE HOUSE WAS NOT DARK when Rose returned; the lamps on the bottom floor were all lit. Rose could see a silhouette moving against the front window.
She thought back uneasily to the last toll of the clock. It was now…who knew how long after six?
The door was not locked. Her stomach hurt as she turned the handle, but it swung open on easy hinges and she walked into the light.
“Now.” Patricia’s voice was hoarse and ragged.
It took Rose a moment, standing there blinking in the blinding light, to understand that her sister was not talking to her. Patricia sat on the sofa in a robe. Her hands were on her knees; she grimaced as she spoke, her whole body tensing.
Doctor Chillingsworth sat on a chair before her, looking at a watch.
Rose could see the tension in her sister’s face, the grit of her teeth, the faint sheen of sweat at her temples. Rose stood in place, unsure of what she was observing.
The doctor, however, raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Really, Mrs. Wells,” he said reprovingly. “Do you really think that you can falsify a contraction and convince me?”
Patricia’s hands gripped her knees. “Falsify? I wouldn’t lie about such a thing.”
Chillingsworth met this with a wave of his hand. “Exaggerate, then. The too-prominent grinding of teeth, the low noise in your throat—Mrs. Wells, you are a doctor’s wife. It does not behoove you to behave in this fashion.” Chillingsworth stood. “There is no cervical dilation; the, ah, contractions, as you call them, do not seem particularly intense. And the baby still has not turned. You’ve at least three weeks remaining by my estimation. This is false labor once again, Mrs. Wells. Try to sleep, and do make an effort not to bother me with trivialities until it is truly your time.”