Chapter 18: The Reckoning
The carriage lurched around a corner, and Selina's shoulder brushed against Burke's sleeve. She pulled back instinctively, pressing herself into the velvet squabs, but there was nowhere to go. The hack was too small, the night too dark, and his presence filled every inch of air between them.
"We have what we came for," Burke said, his voice hoarse. He did not look at the ledger. His eyes remained fixed on her mouth, on the small cut where the rose thorn had caught her lip.
Selina clutched the ledger to her chest, its leather binding warm from her palms. "Yes. We should examine it properly. Decode the manifests."
"Selina."
The sound of her name, stripped of all formality, made her breath catch. He reached for the ledger, but his fingers found her wrist instead, circling it with devastating gentleness. His thumb traced the pulse point where her skin met the torn edge of her glove.
"You are bleeding," he said, the words barely above a whisper.
"I am well."
"You are not." His gaze dropped to the tear in her gown, where the sapphire silk had ripped away from the shoulder, exposing the pale curve of her collarbone. A thin scratch ran across it, beading with crimson. "You are covered in scratches and bruises, and your gown is ruined, and you sit there clutching that book as if it is the only thing in the world that matters."
"It is the only thing that matters."
He leaned closer. The carriage swayed, and his knee pressed against hers, solid and warm through the layers of fabric. "That is not true, and you know it."
Selina's throat tightened. "Burke—"
"The night is not over," he said, his voice dropping to a roughness that made her stomach clench. "I still have not kissed you properly. Not the way I want to. And I will not let a ledger stand between us."
His hand slid from her wrist, and he gently pried the book from her fingers, setting it on the seat beside him. She did not resist. She could not. His eyes held her captive, dark and burning, and the distance between them shrank to nothing.
The carriage jolted violently, and the world tilted. Selina pitched forward, caught in the momentum, and Burke's arms closed around her, pulling her against him as he fell back against the seat. She landed half across his chest, her breath driven from her lungs, her hands braced against the rough wool of his waistcoat.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The carriage swayed, steadied, and rattled on. But the space between them had collapsed entirely. Her hip pressed into his thigh. Her hair had come undone, loose curls spilling across his shoulder. His hand found the bare skin at her waist, where the torn gown gaped, and his palm was hot and calloused against her.
"Selina," he breathed, and the word was a prayer.
She should pull away. She should reach for the ledger, restore order, retreat into propriety. But his eyes were dark and hungry, and the cut on her lip throbbed with every heartbeat, and she could feel the rapid pulse in his chest beneath her palm.
She lifted her hand and traced the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He shuddered.
"You wanted to kiss me properly," she whispered.
"Desperately."
"Then do it."
He moved in the same breath. His hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head with a tenderness that contradicted the fire in his gaze. He tilted her face up, and his mouth met hers, soft at first, a question. She answered by pressing closer, parting her lips, and the kiss deepened into something raw and consuming.
The carriage rocked on through the dark streets, but Selina felt only the heat of his body, the strength of his arms, and the taste of him, like wine and winter and everything she had never known she craved.
His mouth slanted over hers with new urgency, the soft question answered and discarded. One hand tangled deeper in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other pressed flat against the bare curve of her waist, fingers splaying against her ribs. She gasped into his kiss, and he swallowed the sound, devouring it.
The world narrowed to the slick heat of his tongue against hers, the scrape of his teeth on her lower lip, the sharp pulse of pain where the cut reopened. He groaned, a low sound torn from his chest, and his hand slid upward, tracing the edge of her torn gown, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the ruined silk.
Selina arched into him, her fingers fisting in his waistcoat, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The carriage swayed, and she felt the hard length of him against her thigh, felt the shudder that ran through his body as she shifted her weight.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. "We should stop," he said, his voice ragged.
"Should we?" Her own voice was barely a whisper, her lips brushing his as she spoke.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. The dim moonlight through the carriage window caught the hunger in his gaze, and something else—a vulnerability that made her chest ache.
"I want you, Selina. Not in a carriage, not in haste, not with a stolen ledger beside us." His thumb traced her cheekbone, featherlight. "I want to take my time. To undress you by firelight. To learn every inch of you until you forget your own name."
She trembled, her breath catching. "That is a very improper thing to say, my lord."
"I am an improper man." He kissed the corner of her mouth, the cut on her lip, the curve of her jaw. "And I intend to prove it to you."
He claimed her lips again, and this time there was nothing soft in it. His mouth took hers with a possessive hunger that stole her breath, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her against him until she felt the rapid beat of his heart through the layers of wool and silk. She answered in kind, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down to her as if she could devour him whole.
The carriage jolted over a rut, and they broke apart, gasping. Selina's chest heaved, her hair a wild tumble of blonde curls, her lips swollen and glistening. Burke's eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, and he looked at her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that had begun to tilt.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice raw, his hand still pressed against the bare skin of her back. "Tell me, and I will."
She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "I do not want you to stop."
A sound escaped him, something between a groan and a laugh, and he kissed her again, softer this time, a lingering sweetness that made her melt into him. His hand moved up her spine, cradling her shoulders, tracing the torn edge of her gown. He pulled back, his fingers brushing the scratch on her collarbone, and his brow furrowed.
"I should have protected you better," he murmured. "From the thorns. From Greymont. From all of this."
She took his hand and pressed it to her lips, kissing his knuckles. "I am not so fragile as I look, my lord. And I chose this. I chose you."
The carriage slowed, the driver calling out to the horses. They had arrived at Carrow House. But neither moved to rise.