Chapter 23

The hours without monstrous rain were hardly sufficient for the roads to dry out completely. Hence the journey to London was

a bit rough, with Langdon’s carriage bouncing more than it would have on a dry path. Although it seemed not to affect in the

least the gentleman sitting across from her. Langdon barely moved as the coach swayed. While in contrast, on several occasions,

Marlowe found herself curling her hands over the edge of the bench seat upon which she sat, clutching it, holding on for dear

life, just as she’d held on to her balloon in the storm, just as she’d held on to Langdon last night when ecstasy engulfed

her. Just like she wanted to clutch him again.

The sun had just begun creeping over the horizon when they’d returned to their respective bedchambers with no one else the

wiser.

Marlowe had considered slipping into bed for a couple hours of sleep since most of her night had involved short increments of dozing off woven between wild frenzies of lovemaking. Mistresses weren’t made love to. Neither were whores.

However, she couldn’t help but believe that was what had passed between them each time they came together. She didn’t know

if she could claim to love him—love was an emotion she’d been determined to never feel because it made her too vulnerable.

Love had clouded her mother’s judgment, because surely she should have insisted upon some proof her husband was who and what

he’d claimed to be. On the other hand, why would she have ever suspected a lie?

Still, Marlowe hadn’t returned to bed, because they’d both agreed they needed to begin the journey as early as possible.

She was now wearing one of his sister’s traveling frocks, along with all the various accoutrements that went with it. She

desperately missed wearing only his shirt, enjoying all the freedoms that came with it. At the moment, her breathing was restricted;

she was wrapped in a cocoon. No, not a cocoon, but several. The undergarments, the outer garments, even the coach had her hemmed in, so she couldn’t move about

freely.

All she could do was watch him watching her, as if things needed to be said but were too dangerous to utter. Confessions that

would make the parting all the more challenging.

Strangely, she’d found it difficult to say farewell to his family. They’d joined them for breakfast. How the legs of the sideboard didn’t snap with the weight of all the food spread out over it was beyond her imagining. By the time they were fin ished eating, the coach had been readied and was waiting for them, the yards of cloth that made up the envelope secured to the roof of the coach. She imagined how brilliant, bright, and colorful they appeared traveling through the countryside.

If they had any hope at all of not being noticed when they reached her terrace home, they would need to arrive beneath the

cover of night. Like thieves. Which was how she felt. As though she’d stolen something precious—time with Langdon—and needed

to return it. However, that was an impossibility. All those minutes were now part of her memories, to be hoarded away.

Looking out the window, she noted the sky—with fluffy white clouds dotting it here and there—was a serene blue, completely

opposite to the tempest of emotions roiling through her. So tempted to accept his offer of becoming his mistress. So aware

that it would bring misery because at some point he would have to take a wife. Would he discuss the selections with her? Would

she discover who it was because of a notice in the Times ? Would they part ways? Or would he lead two very different lives? One with her? One with another? While she couldn’t remain

mistress to a married man, could she let him go?

“A ride in a balloon isn’t nearly as choppy as your convenience,” she said teasingly, striving to rid them of the somberness

that seemed to be traveling with them within the confines of the coach. “Presently I feel as though I’m bobbing along on the

crest of waves.”

“I could ask the driver to slow but he worries we’ll get mired in the mud if he goes at too leisurely a pace. I imagine he is as much an expert at driving this conveyance as you are at handling yours.”

At his acknowledgment of her skills, she cursed the corset for preventing her from inhaling deeply and thrusting out her chest

with pride. “I wish I could take you up someday. I always feel as though I’m made... of air.” She gave an awkward chuckle.

“It’s impossible to describe.”

“I don’t know if I’d like having you made of air. I like you solid. I like the way my hand curls around the side of your waist

or the nape of your neck. I like the silkiness of your hair running through my fingers. I like the weight of your breast in

my palm.”

How differently would any of that feel, for her, for him, if they were among the clouds? Would she continue to experience

the weightlessness she was accustomed to when caught in a stream of air? Or would he keep her anchored to the earth, even

when she was above it?

Now he was the one looking out the window and she knew it was because he’d conjured up images of what had transpired between

them last night. She’d halfway hoped that once they were beyond sight of anyone, he’d cross over and take her into his arms.

That they would do on this bench what they’d done in his bed.

She didn’t think the cut on her lip would split and bleed if she gave him a generous, come-hither smile, but she couldn’t be sure. Yet a hundred times she’d thought about testing it. She didn’t want to leave him without experiencing his kiss, and yet she had the uncomfortable sensation that his kiss, more than making love, would make it harder, nearly impossible, to leave him.

But the harsh reality was that she didn’t want to be his mistress. She feared what she wanted was to be his wife. His viscountess,

the mother of his children. His partner in all things.

It was full on night by the time they finally crossed into London. Marlowe could sense the miles they’d traveled increasing

and the ones to be traveled decreasing. Like sand through an hourglass, their time together was drifting away.

During the days and nights since they’d begun the journey, occasionally they’d stopped at a tavern or inn for a meal and a

change of horses. But they’d never taken rooms anywhere. Instead, they’d stayed on the road. Lighting lanterns to guide them

through the darkness when it had arrived.

Perhaps Langdon had determined it was the only way to ignore the desire rampaging through them.

She wouldn’t see him again after tonight. She couldn’t see him again after tonight. It would be too difficult. She suspected he was mulling over similar thoughts, because a few

times she’d noted him studying her lips to such an extent that she was relatively certain he could have perfectly sketched

them. With the tip of her tongue, she pushed at the inside corner of her mouth, where the gash was healing. She grimaced and

cursed at the discomfort. Was it ever not going to hurt when she applied pressure to it? Was she going to go the remainder

of her life without fully knowing his kiss?

“Does it still hurt?” he asked quietly, and she wondered if within the dim confines, he’d been able to see her testing it.

“I’m afraid so. I’m beginning to think it might have needed stitches.”

“You’ve seen my handiwork. It would have no doubt left a horrendous scar.”

“I’ll pay a visit to my physician tomorrow.”

“Scoot over.”

She did as he bade, then watched his shadowy form cross over to sit beside her. She shifted slightly to more squarely face

him, not at all surprised when his warm and slightly chafed palm cradled the side of her face that had escaped bruising. Without

any thought at all, she found herself leaning into it, a puppy seeking a petting.

Or a woman who had traded passion for security.

Although the path she was currently on wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted either.

It had taken a brush with death to teach her that lesson. When the hour of her demise had been upon her, snippets from her

life had passed before her in a slow unwinding. Very few had brought her satisfaction or joy. They’d left her feeling miserable

and alone, so very alone, and crying out to the heavens, Not yet!

Who would remember her when she was gone? Who would mourn? What evidence of her existence would remain when she was no longer

about to serve as a reminder?

She placed her hand over his, where it rested against her cheek, turned her head into it, and pressed the gentlest of kisses against his palm. She didn’t know exactly why she’d done it. Perhaps as a demonstration that a whisper of a kiss was better than no kiss at all.

He could hold himself in check. Their mouths could come together. They could go slowly, lightly, testing the waters, increasing

their zeal—

“Be my mistress, and I’ll pay off your father’s debt,” he said somberly, a mourner speaking at a wake. It felt like her heart

stopped for a second or two before carrying on with pumping blood through her body. She’d gone as cold as ice but now the

heat of embarrassment was flooding her. “All of your allowance will be yours to do with as you please.”

She wondered if he’d been pondering this notion during the entire journey, if he’d been considering what his life would entail

with her and what it would without her. The same sort of thoughts had been tumbling through her mind.

“But you won’t be exclusively mine, will you?” she asked, nearly losing the battle to keep her voice steady, to give no hint

to the turmoil swirling within her, a tempest with the strength to engulf ships and deliver them to the bottom of the sea.

“You’re a viscount who will one day become an earl. You have a duty to marry, to provide an heir. How many mornings will I

awaken to find you in my bed, in my arms? How many nights will I wait in vain for you to come to me? How long will you stay

in my company? How long before the only thing between us is fornication?”

“I won’t marry for a few more years.” He was taken aback by his tone threaded with desperation. He didn’t want to voice aloud that she could leave him then, find another protector, do as she pleased. He wasn’t certain he’d ever be ready for her to be with someone else.

But the disgrace that would arise if he were to marry her...

His parents had survived scandal, but it had taken a toll on them, their children.

The coach was slowing. They were in London proper now. She would be with him only a little while longer.

She hadn’t responded to his earlier statement, and he assumed it was because it didn’t matter. A few years together wasn’t

worth the heartbreak that would follow. Arrogant of him to think she would find the parting as hellish as he would.

The glow from streetlamps eased in and out of the conveyance, casting her in a different light each time. So many facets to

her. During the short time they’d been together, he’d been able to explore only a few of them, when he desperately wanted

to explore them all, every single aspect of her. He might possibly need a lifetime to study them all.

“We’re almost there,” she said.

Looking past her, he could see the residences. No shops, no taverns, no pubs. Only dwellings lined up, side by side. He would

soon be without her, the realization nearly unbearable.

As light as a whisper, he touched his lips to hers. The kiss was neither passionate nor fiery. He didn’t urge her to open her mouth to him. Yet, he didn’t know if any kiss had ever branded him more. With his thumb, he stroked her unmarred cheek, while his mouth lingered on hers.

He didn’t want to consider all the kisses they’d never share. All the nights, all the days. All the smiles and laughter that

would not be theirs.

Aware of the coach coming to a stop, he pulled back, his gaze holding hers. They were so near to a streetlamp that he could

see her clearly. Her eyes shone with a brightness. Not tears, surely.

Releasing his hold on her, he slipped his fingers beneath his neckcloth, located the chain that held the St. Christopher medallion,

and dragged it over his head. “For your future travels,” he said as he draped it around her neck.

He heard a tiny mewl, almost painful. She closed a hand around the disk. “I’ll treasure it.”

“Should you ever need me—”

“I won’t.”

Crossing over in front of her, he shoved open the door, leapt out, and handed her down. His footman was already at the top

of the short steps, handing off the balloon to her butler.

“Take care of yourself, Langdon,” she said flatly.

He watched her until she disappeared into her residence.