globe and inspected it. After a few minutes she pointed a finger at a black speck in the middle of an expanse of sea. "That must be it. That's where she's from."
Nick was barely listening, having only gone there, obviously because he didn't trust his father in a darkened room with Mrs. Kent. He swayed and puffed on his cigar, while Brandon leaned over the globe and moved her finger off the mark.
"That's not even a place. It's a tear in the paper cover, or a squashed fruit fly."
"It is a place, Mr. Wilder. And the Princess Ella is from it."
"What's it called then?"
Her eyes glittered. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. "Sinder. The Isle of Sinder."
Incredulous, he chuckled. "Sinder?"
"That's right." She tilted her chin up a tad and spelled it proudly, "C...i...n...n...d...e...r...e"
"Oh, Cinndere," he exclaimed, striking his head with one hand. "Why didn't you say? I know the place well."
There went her tongue again, slipping over her moistened lip. Making him want to kiss it.
"We'd better get you home, Mrs. Kent," he muttered, unable to look away from her mouth.
Somewhere behind them, Nick said, "I'll take her in great-grandmama's carriage."
"I'm going home as I came," she replied crisply. "Alone in a hansom cab."
Oh no, she wasn't. He'd made other arrangements for this slippery, sly, fibbing creature. As they walked back into the hall, he sent the footman for her coat. His great-grandmama said her goodbyes and then, to Brandon's relief, insisted on Nick's arm to help her back to the drawing room. His son didn't dare refuse.
"I believe the cab is here for you, Mrs. Kent." Brandon helped her into her coat.
"Thank you."
They walked outside. Thin, warm rain drizzled on his head as he held the carriage door open and set down the little step for her foot. She didn't have time to see what she was entering. The woman was in haste to get away, but he leapt up behind her, no coat, no hat, no warning to anyone. He sat beside her and closed the door before she could even exhale a curse.
And they were off.
Ten in the Evening
November 30th
"I didn't eat my dessert. I saved my appetite for you."
He was persistent, she had to give him that. "This is your carriage!"
"Yes."
"Brandon Wilder," she shook her head, "what are we doing and why?"
"Here we are, alone again and it's another opportunity not to be wasted. You want me as much as I want you. We are two consenting adults, unattached. How many more reasons do you require, Dru?"
"How do you know I want you?" Had it been so plain? Had she given herself away? She must be losing her icy touch.
"The way you lick your lips," he replied thoughtfully, his eyes smiling at her, shining every time they passed a streetlamp.
"Is that all? You think every woman who licks her lips wants to be seduced by you?"
"No." He put his hand on her knee. "I think you want to seduce me."
"You've got a nerve."
"I have and you bother it. Like a toothache." He stroked her knee and his hand was heavy, warm through her black taffeta.
"I'm sorry to cause you any pain."
"Then do something about it."
She stared straight ahead and watched the cobbled street flickering by, lashed by amber streaks of light from the gas lamps. If he left England she may never return again. Her desire for him—when she considered the points he listed— made every sense and yet, at the same time, none. Drusilla considered herself a woman of some intelligence and logic, but there was no wisdom in falling for a man like Brandon Wilder. Since she left his hotel suite she'd convinced herself it was only a sexual encounter, casual and simple.
Tonight, when she saw him standing in his grandmother's drawing room, it took her a while to catch her breath and temporarily the strength was knocked out of her. Like being slapped hard by a sudden gust of wind and rain as she turned a street corner.
He'd cleaned up, of course, since their first meeting, and in fine evening clothes few men could
Nick was barely listening, having only gone there, obviously because he didn't trust his father in a darkened room with Mrs. Kent. He swayed and puffed on his cigar, while Brandon leaned over the globe and moved her finger off the mark.
"That's not even a place. It's a tear in the paper cover, or a squashed fruit fly."
"It is a place, Mr. Wilder. And the Princess Ella is from it."
"What's it called then?"
Her eyes glittered. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. "Sinder. The Isle of Sinder."
Incredulous, he chuckled. "Sinder?"
"That's right." She tilted her chin up a tad and spelled it proudly, "C...i...n...n...d...e...r...e"
"Oh, Cinndere," he exclaimed, striking his head with one hand. "Why didn't you say? I know the place well."
There went her tongue again, slipping over her moistened lip. Making him want to kiss it.
"We'd better get you home, Mrs. Kent," he muttered, unable to look away from her mouth.
Somewhere behind them, Nick said, "I'll take her in great-grandmama's carriage."
"I'm going home as I came," she replied crisply. "Alone in a hansom cab."
Oh no, she wasn't. He'd made other arrangements for this slippery, sly, fibbing creature. As they walked back into the hall, he sent the footman for her coat. His great-grandmama said her goodbyes and then, to Brandon's relief, insisted on Nick's arm to help her back to the drawing room. His son didn't dare refuse.
"I believe the cab is here for you, Mrs. Kent." Brandon helped her into her coat.
"Thank you."
They walked outside. Thin, warm rain drizzled on his head as he held the carriage door open and set down the little step for her foot. She didn't have time to see what she was entering. The woman was in haste to get away, but he leapt up behind her, no coat, no hat, no warning to anyone. He sat beside her and closed the door before she could even exhale a curse.
And they were off.
Ten in the Evening
November 30th
"I didn't eat my dessert. I saved my appetite for you."
He was persistent, she had to give him that. "This is your carriage!"
"Yes."
"Brandon Wilder," she shook her head, "what are we doing and why?"
"Here we are, alone again and it's another opportunity not to be wasted. You want me as much as I want you. We are two consenting adults, unattached. How many more reasons do you require, Dru?"
"How do you know I want you?" Had it been so plain? Had she given herself away? She must be losing her icy touch.
"The way you lick your lips," he replied thoughtfully, his eyes smiling at her, shining every time they passed a streetlamp.
"Is that all? You think every woman who licks her lips wants to be seduced by you?"
"No." He put his hand on her knee. "I think you want to seduce me."
"You've got a nerve."
"I have and you bother it. Like a toothache." He stroked her knee and his hand was heavy, warm through her black taffeta.
"I'm sorry to cause you any pain."
"Then do something about it."
She stared straight ahead and watched the cobbled street flickering by, lashed by amber streaks of light from the gas lamps. If he left England she may never return again. Her desire for him—when she considered the points he listed— made every sense and yet, at the same time, none. Drusilla considered herself a woman of some intelligence and logic, but there was no wisdom in falling for a man like Brandon Wilder. Since she left his hotel suite she'd convinced herself it was only a sexual encounter, casual and simple.
Tonight, when she saw him standing in his grandmother's drawing room, it took her a while to catch her breath and temporarily the strength was knocked out of her. Like being slapped hard by a sudden gust of wind and rain as she turned a street corner.
He'd cleaned up, of course, since their first meeting, and in fine evening clothes few men could
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