“Don’t you want him to understand you?”
“Dear God, no,” he said. “Why should he need to know my reasons for living my life as I do?”
“Maybe,” Tessa said, “he simply wants to know that there is a reason.”
“Does it matter?” Will asked softly, and with a swift motion he slipped her glove entirely off her hand. The chilly air of the room struck the bare skin of her fingers with a shock, and a shiver passed over Tessa’s entire body, as if she had found herself suddenly naked in the cold. “Do reasons matter when there’s nothing that can be done to change things?”
Tessa reached for an answer, and found none. She was shivering, almost too hard to speak.
“Are you cold?” Lacing his fingers with hers, Will took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. She was startled by the feverish heat of his skin. “Tess,” he said, his voice thick and soft with desire, and she leaned toward him, swaying like a tree whose branches were weighted by snow. Her whole body ached; she ached, as if there were a terrible hollow emptiness inside her. She was more conscious of Will than she had ever been of anything or anyone else in her life, of the faint shine of blue beneath his half-closed lids, of the shadow of light stubble across his jaw where he hadn’t shaved, of faint white scars that dotted the skin of his shoulders and throat—and more than anything else of his mouth, the crescent shape of it, the slight dent in the center of his bottom lip. When he leaned toward her and brushed his lips across hers, she reached for him as if she would otherwise drown.
For a moment their mouths pressed hotly together, Will’s free hand tangling in her hair. Tessa gasped when his arms went around her, her skirts snagging on the floor as he pulled her hard against him. She put her hands lightly around his neck; his skin was burning hot to the touch. Through the thin wet material of his shirt, she could feel the muscles of his shoulders, hard and smooth. His fingers found her jeweled hair clasp and pulled at it, and her hair spilled down around her shoulders, the comb rattling to the floor, and Tessa gave a little cry of surprise against his mouth. And then, without warning, he ripped his hands from her and pushed hard against her shoulders, shoving her away from him with such force that she nearly fell backward, and only stopped herself awkwardly, her hands braced on the floor behind her.
She sat with her hair hanging down around her like a tangled curtain, staring at him in amazement. Will was on his knees, his chest hitching up and down as if he had been running incredibly fast and far. He was pale, except for two fever splotches of red across his cheeks. “God in Heaven,” he whispered. “What was that?”
Tessa felt her cheeks turn scarlet. Wasn’t Will the one who was supposed to know exactly what that was, and wasn’t she the one who was supposed to have pushed him away?
“I can’t.” His hands were fists at his sides; she could see them trembling. “Tessa, I think you had better go.”
“Go?” Her mind whirled; she felt as if she had been in a warm, safe place and without warning had been cast out into a freezing, empty darkness. “I … I should not have been so forward. I’m sorry—”
A look of intense pain flashed across his face. “God. Tessa.” The words seemed dragged out of him. “Please. Just leave. I can’t have you here. It’s—not possible.”
“Will, please—”
“No.” He jerked his gaze away from hers, averting his face, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know tomorrow. Anything. Just leave me alone now.” His voice broke unevenly. “Tessa. I’m begging you. Do you understand? I’m begging you. Please, please leave.”
“Very well,” Tessa said, and saw with a mixture of amazement and pain that the lines of tension went out of his shoulders. Was it that much of a horror having her there, and that much of a relief that she was leaving? She rose to her feet, her dress damp and cold and heavy, her feet nearly slipping on the wet floor. Will didn’t move or look up, but stayed where he was on his knees, staring at the ground as Tessa made her way across the room and down the stairs, without looking back.
Some time later, her room half-lit with the wan glow of the London sunrise, Tessa lay on the bed, too exhausted to change out of Camille’s clothes—too exhausted, even, to sleep. It had been a day of firsts. The first time she had used her power at her own wish and discretion, and had felt good about it. The first time she had fired a pistol. And—the only first she had ever dreamed of, for years—her first kiss.
Tessa rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. For so many years she had wondered what her first kiss would be like—if he would be handsome, if he would love her, if he would be kind. She had never imagined that the kiss would be so brief and desperate and wild. Or that it would taste of holy water. Holy water and blood.
13
SOMETHING DARK
Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived
by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.
—François La Rochefoucauld, Maxims
Tessa woke the next day to Sophie lighting the lamp by her bedside. With a moan Tessa made a move to cover her aching eyes.
“Now, then, miss.” Sophie addressed Tessa with her usual briskness. “You’ve gone and slept the day away. It’s past eight o’clock in the evening, and Charlotte said to wake you.”