drink?” she dared.
His glazed-over eyes narrowed. “Clever girl.”
Despite his irritating and often childish manner, Mr. Ravensdale was a kind man, which Clara had learned by watching his constant struggle to restore Burton Hall theses past weeks to help support his tenants, even if they were as cruel and nasty as the village. So to be confronted by this specter of her employer, of a man defeated and well into his cups, lodged a knot of dread in her throat.
She swallowed it back and clasped her hands behind her, fighting a desperate want to touch him, to comfort him. She drifted across the flagstone path to the ailing orange tree. With a flick of a yellowed, withered leaf, she peered out from beneath and waited for some admission or taunt. He remained silent.
His stare sent a warm rush of feelings through her body. She flashed a small smile and pulled away from the tree, walking further down the path of the conservatory. That would be best. That would be proper.
“Who brings a bloody tiger to England?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through her collected curiosity.
Clara stopped her retreat. She held her head high as she turned, casting her own studying stare. “I believe you did, sir.”
The unknown between them—their own individual mysteries—poured out into the quiet conservatory, heating up the temperate air, filling up her lungs and head until her confessions waited on the edge of her lips. In that small moment, she wished to confess all her wrongs, to not be as lonely in this world as Mr. Ravensdale appeared this evening.
“It’s killing her,” he whispered.
In the filtered light of the conservatory, the muscles of his throat rippled with each swallow as he took another draining drink. With a few quick steps, she closed the distance propriety demanded, and traded it for the closeness they both needed.
“No,” she answered simply.
“You can’t lock a beast up and expect it to survive, Clara.”
Her hand shot up to her throat at the mention of her name. “There are…” her words died away, his voice still caressing her ears. “There are zoos built for such purposes.”
“A zoo,” he said with an ugly chuckle. “It’s a damn circus.” He tapped his fingers along the neck of the bottle until it sounded as if he would crush it beneath the strength of his hand.
Clara reached out and stilled his hand with hers. He was burning to the touch, his pulse faint. He looked up from beneath hooded lids, strong emotion playing below the surface of his pensive eyes.
“If a beast has the will to survive, it will find a way,” she whispered, matching his stare measure for measure.
“Do you believe so?” Mr. Ravensdale removed his hand from hers, and pushed off from the bars of the cage to face her. The scent of whiskey clouded her head. She was drunk from his nearness. She tried to shake it off, but feared she was too late. He had already affected her.
“Yes.” A thrill ripple down her spine as he placed his thumb at the base of her throat.
“You’ve a freckle here,” he said, her heart drumming under his touch. He wrapped his fingers around the base of her throat, his middle finger tracing the line of her collarbone. Mr. Shaw had done the same, but this felt different, free of threat.
He removed his gaze from her neck, meeting her anxious eyes. “How do you know I won’t bite?” he asked, uncurling his fingers. His hands slipped beneath the fabric of her dress collar to pull at the fine chain of her necklace beneath.
“I trust you,” she whispered. Clara snapped her hand around his and squeezed, forcing his eyes back to hers. Oddly, she did.
Clara reeled from his closeness as he walked his fingers up the line of her neck and reached for her chin, redirecting her averted gaze to his, moving the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. She swayed into his touch, helpless.
“You shouldn’t.” He leaned closer, the warmth of his body encircling hers with a dangerous
His glazed-over eyes narrowed. “Clever girl.”
Despite his irritating and often childish manner, Mr. Ravensdale was a kind man, which Clara had learned by watching his constant struggle to restore Burton Hall theses past weeks to help support his tenants, even if they were as cruel and nasty as the village. So to be confronted by this specter of her employer, of a man defeated and well into his cups, lodged a knot of dread in her throat.
She swallowed it back and clasped her hands behind her, fighting a desperate want to touch him, to comfort him. She drifted across the flagstone path to the ailing orange tree. With a flick of a yellowed, withered leaf, she peered out from beneath and waited for some admission or taunt. He remained silent.
His stare sent a warm rush of feelings through her body. She flashed a small smile and pulled away from the tree, walking further down the path of the conservatory. That would be best. That would be proper.
“Who brings a bloody tiger to England?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through her collected curiosity.
Clara stopped her retreat. She held her head high as she turned, casting her own studying stare. “I believe you did, sir.”
The unknown between them—their own individual mysteries—poured out into the quiet conservatory, heating up the temperate air, filling up her lungs and head until her confessions waited on the edge of her lips. In that small moment, she wished to confess all her wrongs, to not be as lonely in this world as Mr. Ravensdale appeared this evening.
“It’s killing her,” he whispered.
In the filtered light of the conservatory, the muscles of his throat rippled with each swallow as he took another draining drink. With a few quick steps, she closed the distance propriety demanded, and traded it for the closeness they both needed.
“No,” she answered simply.
“You can’t lock a beast up and expect it to survive, Clara.”
Her hand shot up to her throat at the mention of her name. “There are…” her words died away, his voice still caressing her ears. “There are zoos built for such purposes.”
“A zoo,” he said with an ugly chuckle. “It’s a damn circus.” He tapped his fingers along the neck of the bottle until it sounded as if he would crush it beneath the strength of his hand.
Clara reached out and stilled his hand with hers. He was burning to the touch, his pulse faint. He looked up from beneath hooded lids, strong emotion playing below the surface of his pensive eyes.
“If a beast has the will to survive, it will find a way,” she whispered, matching his stare measure for measure.
“Do you believe so?” Mr. Ravensdale removed his hand from hers, and pushed off from the bars of the cage to face her. The scent of whiskey clouded her head. She was drunk from his nearness. She tried to shake it off, but feared she was too late. He had already affected her.
“Yes.” A thrill ripple down her spine as he placed his thumb at the base of her throat.
“You’ve a freckle here,” he said, her heart drumming under his touch. He wrapped his fingers around the base of her throat, his middle finger tracing the line of her collarbone. Mr. Shaw had done the same, but this felt different, free of threat.
He removed his gaze from her neck, meeting her anxious eyes. “How do you know I won’t bite?” he asked, uncurling his fingers. His hands slipped beneath the fabric of her dress collar to pull at the fine chain of her necklace beneath.
“I trust you,” she whispered. Clara snapped her hand around his and squeezed, forcing his eyes back to hers. Oddly, she did.
Clara reeled from his closeness as he walked his fingers up the line of her neck and reached for her chin, redirecting her averted gaze to his, moving the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. She swayed into his touch, helpless.
“You shouldn’t.” He leaned closer, the warmth of his body encircling hers with a dangerous
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