voice almost desperate as she said, “Please. Please just leave me alone.”
Miles closed the space between them. “What is wrong, Lady Thornton?”
Clio swallowed hard. They stood facing each other, in silence, as the clock at the end of the corridor ticked off the seconds. Up close, he did not look detestable. Nor did his ears, chin, lips, eyes, hair, teeth, neck, chest—what she could see of it, at eye level—nor did his hands, hands which were moving up to cup her face, soft warm hands, hands caressing her cheek, hands tilting her head back, lips…
She pushed past him at a run. It was not the way her knees got tingly that made her rush from him. It was not the fact that his personality suddenly seemed entirely un-detestable that made her careen down the stairs, almost tripping, and fly through the front door of his house. It was the fact that she felt them coming on.
The hiccups.
And she did not know why. She searched her head as she ran, searched for any sign of violence, any desire to harm anyone, but could find none. Certainly she would never be averse to strangling Mariana, but that was a different impulse than the deep, scary violence that prompted the hiccups. Once outside the gates of Dearbourn Hall she slowed, but the hiccups came quickly, fast like they did when she had to work hard to suppress her rage. Her primary emotion was not rage, however, it was fear, fear that she no longer even felt the violence inside of her. Fear of what she might be capable of. Fear of herself.
She was walking blindly, clenching her fists into tight balls, moving with the crowds that filled the streets but not hearing them, not seeing them. The hiccups meant one thing. She wanted to hurt someone. And she did not even know it.
Just as she did not know the identity of the person who pushed her into the street in front of an onrushing coach. Her surprise paralyzed her and she stood, unable to move, looking at the horses rearing above her. For an instant she was aware of every detail of her surroundings as if they had all been frozen in amber—the perspiration of the horses flying like raindrops from their necks, a shabby looking boy running down the street in the opposite direction, the shouts of the people around her hanging in the air in individual syllables, the gold puppy leaping high into the air, a figure in one of the second floor windows of Dearbourn Hall observing, a familiar looking man with a mustache dressed in a fancy red doublet staring at her with a smile and then winking (winking!), a butterfly alighting from a flower eight feet away, a rivulet of water between the smooth gray stones of the street, an orange skidding past her feet, mud on her boots, mud on her boots, mud on her boots—and then, slam, everything started moving again and she was moving also, flying, and the horses had brushed past her and no one was shouting and the man across the way had vanished and the gold puppy was jumping up and trying to get into her arms but he couldn’t because someone was holding them at the shoulders and she looked up and it was the viscount and his lips were moving and what he was saying was, “Are you all right?”
Clio blinked, realized that her hiccups were gone, then nodded. “Did you see a man in red?” she asked.
Miles frowned. Of the questions he would have expected someone to ask after he had saved their life—are you all right, what happened, where am I, what can I ever do to repay you—“Did you see a man in red?” was very low on the list.
“Are you sure you are all right?” he asked again.
Clio nodded impatiently and pulled away from him. “I am fine. But I have to find that man.”
“I did not see anyone in red,” Miles said, but then, he had not exactly been paying perfect attention.
He had been glad if slightly surprised to see Clio Thornton in the hallway of his house, principally because he was on his way to call on her and her appearance would save him the trip. He was going to
Miles closed the space between them. “What is wrong, Lady Thornton?”
Clio swallowed hard. They stood facing each other, in silence, as the clock at the end of the corridor ticked off the seconds. Up close, he did not look detestable. Nor did his ears, chin, lips, eyes, hair, teeth, neck, chest—what she could see of it, at eye level—nor did his hands, hands which were moving up to cup her face, soft warm hands, hands caressing her cheek, hands tilting her head back, lips…
She pushed past him at a run. It was not the way her knees got tingly that made her rush from him. It was not the fact that his personality suddenly seemed entirely un-detestable that made her careen down the stairs, almost tripping, and fly through the front door of his house. It was the fact that she felt them coming on.
The hiccups.
And she did not know why. She searched her head as she ran, searched for any sign of violence, any desire to harm anyone, but could find none. Certainly she would never be averse to strangling Mariana, but that was a different impulse than the deep, scary violence that prompted the hiccups. Once outside the gates of Dearbourn Hall she slowed, but the hiccups came quickly, fast like they did when she had to work hard to suppress her rage. Her primary emotion was not rage, however, it was fear, fear that she no longer even felt the violence inside of her. Fear of what she might be capable of. Fear of herself.
She was walking blindly, clenching her fists into tight balls, moving with the crowds that filled the streets but not hearing them, not seeing them. The hiccups meant one thing. She wanted to hurt someone. And she did not even know it.
Just as she did not know the identity of the person who pushed her into the street in front of an onrushing coach. Her surprise paralyzed her and she stood, unable to move, looking at the horses rearing above her. For an instant she was aware of every detail of her surroundings as if they had all been frozen in amber—the perspiration of the horses flying like raindrops from their necks, a shabby looking boy running down the street in the opposite direction, the shouts of the people around her hanging in the air in individual syllables, the gold puppy leaping high into the air, a figure in one of the second floor windows of Dearbourn Hall observing, a familiar looking man with a mustache dressed in a fancy red doublet staring at her with a smile and then winking (winking!), a butterfly alighting from a flower eight feet away, a rivulet of water between the smooth gray stones of the street, an orange skidding past her feet, mud on her boots, mud on her boots, mud on her boots—and then, slam, everything started moving again and she was moving also, flying, and the horses had brushed past her and no one was shouting and the man across the way had vanished and the gold puppy was jumping up and trying to get into her arms but he couldn’t because someone was holding them at the shoulders and she looked up and it was the viscount and his lips were moving and what he was saying was, “Are you all right?”
Clio blinked, realized that her hiccups were gone, then nodded. “Did you see a man in red?” she asked.
Miles frowned. Of the questions he would have expected someone to ask after he had saved their life—are you all right, what happened, where am I, what can I ever do to repay you—“Did you see a man in red?” was very low on the list.
“Are you sure you are all right?” he asked again.
Clio nodded impatiently and pulled away from him. “I am fine. But I have to find that man.”
“I did not see anyone in red,” Miles said, but then, he had not exactly been paying perfect attention.
He had been glad if slightly surprised to see Clio Thornton in the hallway of his house, principally because he was on his way to call on her and her appearance would save him the trip. He was going to
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