* * *
Kevin knew by the time they had walked to the end of the bridge that she would not have him tonight. So he did not propose that they continue this on a comfortable bed at the hotel, much as he wanted to.
He kissed her, then put her in a carriage and walked back alone. In less than a minute he was cursing himself for being so damned decent.
He should have followed his inclinations and taken her there on the bridge. She all but begged him to. No one in this city would have cared, should anyone notice. But no, he had to be an English gentleman about it. Lifting her skirts and her leg on a bridge would not be respectful. Not appropriate. Not how it’s done with a decent woman.
Hell if he knew if that was even true. For all he knew, decent women gave themselves all over London in parks and on bridges. It wasn’t as if he had tried to find out.
He walked on, taking a long, circular path, so that he gained some control on his body and mind. He summoned his well-known anger at how she was a nuisance. An interference. A stubborn woman who was nothing but trouble for him. Yet he also kept hearing her, and smelling her, and feeling her. He imagined her naked and accepting and desperate for more than he had dared tonight. It didn’t help that she had been so passionate. Of course she was. Wanting her had been designed to be a special hell for him, so why not make the fires burn especially hot?
They certainly burned now. It took him almost an hour to escape the spell she had cast. He approached the hotel, looking up to the long windows behind her terrace, wondering if she still yearned for completion the way he did. No lamps burned in that suite, from what he could tell. The indomitable Miss Jameson had gone to bed.
One of them might as well get a good night’s sleep. He certainly wouldn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
Rosamund looked over the feathers spread out on a table in a back chamber of Monsieur Benoit’s shop. Some of them had been dyed, and she was wondering if the ladies of London would want such brightly colored ostrich plumes come autumn and winter.
Monsieur Benoit, being a smart merchant, kept drifting by. Each time he did, he deposited some other interesting notion on the table. Old, wiry, and wizened, he smiled at her whenever their eyes met. She could tell he anticipated that her desires would overcome her hesitation.
She had found this shop by going to one of the dressmakers that Minerva had recommended and asking where such wares could be purchased. The modiste did not speak English, but they had communicated well enough. Five minutes later, she met Monsieur Benoit who, it turned out, supplied some of the most esteemed milliners in Paris. He also spoke English.
That proved fortunate, because she was on her own today. Kevin left the hotel early, leaving a note saying he had appointments and would call for her at four o’clock to attend the dinner with Monsieur Forestier. She had been relieved that she did not have to face him right away, let alone spend hours with him. She doubted they could keep company that long and pretend last night had not happened.
She still accommodated it in her mind, even while she eyed those plumes. What had she been thinking? There had been no thought to it, only feelings and pleasure. That was what her inner voice said, the inconvenient one that spoke simple truths and did not attempt to make excuses or spin lies.
She had been too long alone, she decided. It had been years with no hands on her except her own. She had been vulnerable to Kevin’s seduction due to being parched and desperate for rain. Not so vulnerable. There have been others before him who you would not have.
It seemed especially bad to have done that when she was going to see Charles soon. After all this time of being good, of saving herself, to have been so wanton just before their reunion seemed disgraceful. And yet you did not think of Charles at all while on that bridge. The guilt only came on the ride back to the hotel.
She forced her thoughts back to the table. She set aside three colored plums. She reached over and fingered a lovely line of trim made up of tiny seed pearls. It would look wonderful on either a hat or a headpiece. She added it to the pile of trims she had already chosen.
Monsieur Benoit approached her again, ambling through from the front chamber carrying a flat box.
“I will take these, Monsieur.”
“They are pretty, yes? Here, see what I have. It arrived yesterday. I normally do not sell fabric, but—” He made a little shrug.
The box contained a length of green silk. She fingered it, amazed at its tight weave and subtle sheen. It was possibly the finest gros de Naples she had ever seen. “What is the cost?”
He mentioned a price. She almost laughed. She could never sell a hat for enough to justify such a price.
He smiled along with her. His eyes sparkled. “For you, half that. Because you are tres belle. Perhaps you make a hat for yourself with some of it and wear it when you are again in Paris and visit my little shop.”
“If I discover more shops as fine as yours, I will be sure to return.”
“Ah. Then I must tell you of some others. The ones who have fine fabrics, perhaps. Not as fine as this, of course.” He gestured to his silk.
“Of course.”
She left Monsieur Benoit with a little list, and his assurance he would deliver her purchases to the hotel. She made her way to the garden of the Palais-Royal and found a bench on which to sit.
She opened
