Free London Calling by Anna Elliott Page B

it is you’ve managed to find me twice, in the space of two days?”
    “The first time truly was an accident‌—‌just a bizarre twist of fate. If your friend Philippe had not decided to try his luck at robbing our carriage, I never would have seen you last night. But tonight—” Susanna stopped and took a breath, putting a hand on James’s shoulder, her eyes searching James’s face. “I will tell you how it was I managed to find you. But James, you must tell me first‌—‌are you angry that I have found you? Are you sorry that I did come here tonight?”
    They were so close that she could see the small flecks of gold about the irises of James’s eyes, the faint white line of an old scar that ran up his temple and under his hair. His gaze was open, unguarded for once, and he smiled, just slightly, at the question. “If you have to ask that”‌—‌he leaned forward, his lips brushing once more against hers‌—‌“I must be doing this all wrong.”
    He kissed her slowly, this time, his touch gentle, tender. Susanna could feel the edge of tension in him, still, the fine tremor that ran through his muscles. But he kissed her lightly, sweetly. It was she who nipped lightly against his lips, wringing a half-groan from him before he set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away.
    His voice was husky, his breathing unsteady. “I think,” he said. “That we ought to continue this discussion downstairs.”
    “Downstairs?” Susanna repeated. “Why?”
    “Because,” James said a little grimly, “If I have to spend one more moment with you in my bedroom while remembering that I am supposed to be a gentleman, I may lose my grip on reason entirely.”
    Susanna laughed, but James swung himself up from the bed and took up the candle, propelling her out of the room. They passed along the hall outside, and then down a flight of stairs, and in the candle’s flickering glow, Susanna caught glimpses of elegantly papered and plastered walls and gilt-framed paintings.
    “The servants—” she began.
    “I have none,” James said. “Only a man and woman who come during the day to cook for me and clean. But none who sleep in the house. Servants tend to notice things‌—‌and they talk. And I could not risk anyone wondering why M. de Castres spends so many of his nights wandering the London streets.”
    They reached a paneled oak door downstairs, which James opened to reveal what looked to be the library, its walls lined with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books.
    James followed Susanna’s gaze around the room and smiled briefly. “I rented this house from an impecunious earl’s son. The collection is his‌—‌though, as he assured me himself, he does not read. He commissioned his agent to buy sets of books that would make the best showing on his shelves.”
    James sobered, though, as he led Susanna to an upholstered sofa beside the hearth, then used the candle to light the twin lamps that stood on side tables.
    “Susanna—” he cleared his throat as he took his place beside her on the sofa, linking his hand with hers and then looking down at their joined fingers. “God knows I am glad to see you. But I meant what I said last night. Not that I . . . ‌that I would wish for you to leave, at least not for myself. But for you—” He stopped speaking and looked at her, and Susanna saw a shadow of something bleak cross his gaze. “I am not at all sure that I should not wish something else entirely for you. Another life‌—‌a safer life, with a better, safer man—”
    Susanna put a hand across his mouth, stopping him. “I do not want a better, safer man. I want you, James‌—‌you and no other. So long as you still want me?”
    Her voice turned the words into a question‌—‌and for answer, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her inner wrist, making her shiver.
    “God help me, I do.” James raised his head, tracing the curve of her jaw with the tips of his fingers. He