tongue over her beating pulse. Would it falter under his touch or would she remain cold and distant?
His lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle he carried, and he took another burning sip of the nastiest whiskey he had ever tasted. Two or three or five bottles today? Bly couldn’t remember. He was too young to have a love affair with the stuff like his father, who last Bly heard, had died after one sip too many alone in India.
Being back at Burton Hall, worse, in England, was dragging his soul into the depths and leaving him to drown, one painful day after the next. Soon, he would be submerged and there would be no more air. He would not fight, but sink to the bottom. That was the end he had been flirting with lately, wasn’t it? Bly wished for escape, but he’d settle for a bullet; anything to help him from spinning aimlessly across the world.
Leaving would be his only salvation. There could be no happy end if he remained. He knew this, recognized the urgency of it in his bones, yet he still took another step and pulled away from the room’s shadows, in pursuit of something he did not deserve, but desired nonetheless.
“Have you decided to make friends with Lucy?” he asked.
Clara vaulted back, tugging at her opened collar as she swung around to meet his indolent grin.
*
“I think,” Clara said, closing her eyes to steady herself, “that Lucy is sleeping.”
It was as if Mr. Ravensdale haunted the halls in search of her. One moment Clara had been daydreaming, wickedly unbuttoning her collar as her thoughts turned to his lips, and the next, he stood with her in the flesh. She should not allow herself to think such lewd thoughts. But she couldn’t help herself, either. Ever since last week when they fought over that crate, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her hand in his. Or how his ever-roaming body paused for her, stuck in some spell as they touched.
He wore that taunting smile she hated, and she was quick to notice the open bottle clutched in his hand. The smell of whiskey that seeped from his skin.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, but still it felt like a caress.
“Why aren’t you?” Her face heated from embarrassment as she fumbled with the remaining buttons of her collar. Or perhaps it was just the coal heat used to warm the glass conservatory attached to the grand home. She held her breath as his eyes seemed to darken. They called to her and her heart answered, beating faster and louder. When his hard stare continued, her skin tingled as if a cool breeze suddenly encircled her.
This wouldn’t do.
In an abrupt turn, Clara rushed to Lucy’s cage and listened to the great beast issuing forth large exhalations from behind bars. To think the animal had once stalked the jungles of India only to be caged up in England; well, it was quite sad really.
“I don’t sleep often,” Mr. Ravensdale spoke out from behind her.
She focused on the sleeping tiger, matching her exhales with Lucy’s until she had more control over herself. “Unfortunate.”
A disgruntled harrumph rattled her curiosity. Clara peered over her shoulder. His tall body reclined against the bars of Lucy’s cage a few paces away from her. He ruffled his hair and sighed, opening his mouth to speak, but only raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of whiskey instead.
It was then she noticed another smell about him, something sickly saccharine. It must have accounted for the weird light in his eyes, for he certainly seemed like a shell of the man who stormed about Burton Hall during the day. She had read about the hollowing effects of opium, of its rampant use and destruction of men in London. And here, before her eyes, she witnessed it lay claim on her employer, stifling his flame until it was but a wisp-thin smolder.
“Have you tried to sleep?” she asked.
“Have you?”
“I needed a walk first.”
“And I needed a drink,” he said with a weary laugh.
“Just a
His lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle he carried, and he took another burning sip of the nastiest whiskey he had ever tasted. Two or three or five bottles today? Bly couldn’t remember. He was too young to have a love affair with the stuff like his father, who last Bly heard, had died after one sip too many alone in India.
Being back at Burton Hall, worse, in England, was dragging his soul into the depths and leaving him to drown, one painful day after the next. Soon, he would be submerged and there would be no more air. He would not fight, but sink to the bottom. That was the end he had been flirting with lately, wasn’t it? Bly wished for escape, but he’d settle for a bullet; anything to help him from spinning aimlessly across the world.
Leaving would be his only salvation. There could be no happy end if he remained. He knew this, recognized the urgency of it in his bones, yet he still took another step and pulled away from the room’s shadows, in pursuit of something he did not deserve, but desired nonetheless.
“Have you decided to make friends with Lucy?” he asked.
Clara vaulted back, tugging at her opened collar as she swung around to meet his indolent grin.
*
“I think,” Clara said, closing her eyes to steady herself, “that Lucy is sleeping.”
It was as if Mr. Ravensdale haunted the halls in search of her. One moment Clara had been daydreaming, wickedly unbuttoning her collar as her thoughts turned to his lips, and the next, he stood with her in the flesh. She should not allow herself to think such lewd thoughts. But she couldn’t help herself, either. Ever since last week when they fought over that crate, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her hand in his. Or how his ever-roaming body paused for her, stuck in some spell as they touched.
He wore that taunting smile she hated, and she was quick to notice the open bottle clutched in his hand. The smell of whiskey that seeped from his skin.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, but still it felt like a caress.
“Why aren’t you?” Her face heated from embarrassment as she fumbled with the remaining buttons of her collar. Or perhaps it was just the coal heat used to warm the glass conservatory attached to the grand home. She held her breath as his eyes seemed to darken. They called to her and her heart answered, beating faster and louder. When his hard stare continued, her skin tingled as if a cool breeze suddenly encircled her.
This wouldn’t do.
In an abrupt turn, Clara rushed to Lucy’s cage and listened to the great beast issuing forth large exhalations from behind bars. To think the animal had once stalked the jungles of India only to be caged up in England; well, it was quite sad really.
“I don’t sleep often,” Mr. Ravensdale spoke out from behind her.
She focused on the sleeping tiger, matching her exhales with Lucy’s until she had more control over herself. “Unfortunate.”
A disgruntled harrumph rattled her curiosity. Clara peered over her shoulder. His tall body reclined against the bars of Lucy’s cage a few paces away from her. He ruffled his hair and sighed, opening his mouth to speak, but only raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of whiskey instead.
It was then she noticed another smell about him, something sickly saccharine. It must have accounted for the weird light in his eyes, for he certainly seemed like a shell of the man who stormed about Burton Hall during the day. She had read about the hollowing effects of opium, of its rampant use and destruction of men in London. And here, before her eyes, she witnessed it lay claim on her employer, stifling his flame until it was but a wisp-thin smolder.
“Have you tried to sleep?” she asked.
“Have you?”
“I needed a walk first.”
“And I needed a drink,” he said with a weary laugh.
“Just a
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