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Jack moaned as Phryne pressed her thumbs into the muscle on either side of his spine. She could feel the remaining knots depart as she worked her way down, then back up and out toward his shoulder blades.
“Don’t stop,” he mumbled when she paused.
She chuckled, then continued as asked.
He was lying face down on the bed, head turned to the side with eyes closed, and she took a moment just to admire his profile. He really was gorgeous—even more so when unfettered, as he was now, by societal rules and restraints. Though he wasn’t one to kowtow to such things indiscriminately, in general, he paid them a great deal more heed than did she. And it was delightful, she’d discovered, to see Jack’s self-termed liberal-mindedness raise its hand. It had raised it, gloriously and with effulgence, not twenty minutes ago, and as she gazed at him now, it was with profound appreciation. Post-coitus, Phryne decided, was a very good look for Jack.
After a while, she slid off of him and to her side, bringing the embroidered silk of her dressing gown with her. His eyes blinked slowly open, but seeing her settled, they fluttered slowly back to shut.
She adored seeing him like this: so relaxed, so fully and delectably loose—as though he’d suffer her gladly to bend him as she pleased, but trusted that it wouldn’t please her to bend him too far. And it wouldn’t, would it? She wouldn’t pull him past his constitutional bounds, any more than he would her.
Right?
But there was a part of her—a small but increasingly vocal part—that wasn’t entirely sure. And when she allowed that part to speak, it scared the others half to death. She took in a breath, held it, then let it out raggedly. He’d danced with her earlier—whirling her in his arms as her father had done her mother, all while knowing the significance, to Phryne, of such a move. She frowned a little as she stared at his face. It was just as serene now as it had been then.
“Jack?”
“Mmm.”
“What is this, exactly?”
His ribs hitched slightly as her query tugged him back from slumber’s edge. “What is what?” he asked, forcing his eyes open again.
“This,” she repeated. “What we’re doing together.”
“Sleeping?” he supplied.
She gave him a look. “And next week? Next month?” She paused. “Next year? What will we be doing then?”
His brows pulled together as he began to grasp her meaning. “Are you asking me my intentions?”
“Not precisely.” She paused again, then drew another breath. “Well, … yes. I don’t know; perhaps.”
His eyes now fully open, he looked at her closely, then rotated to face her. “I am not a foolish man,” he said.
“But you are a serious one.”
The air thickened with the silence that followed, which stretched through several beats. “I am that.” He took in a breath now, too, as if debating whether to have out or hold back. At length, he continued, but more poignantly. “And O what a bright old song it is.”
She stared at him quizzically, then as her mind found the reference, with surprise. “A serious man and, I’d thought, a Shakespeare man. But unless I’m much mistaken, that wasn’t the bard….”
“My literary interests are not so confined, Miss Fisher.”
“Apparently not.” She hadn’t forgotten the solemnity of the discussion, but she could not help but tease: “Odd, however, that our present such interests should match so precisely?” She raised a brow, and he smiled facetiously. It was a smile that, from him, had always arrested her; a rare window into passions simmering in the deep.
He gave a tiny roll of his shoulder—like a shrug, but more elegant. “I saw the book by your bed and decided to read it myself.”
“You hadn’t read it before?”
“Once,” he said, “a long time ago—too long ago to remember much of it.”
“And did you enjoy it this time?”
“I did.”
Phryne looked skeptical. “It does not want for critics,” she warned, almost in challenge. “‘Implausible’ and ‘tedious’ are terms not infrequently used.”
“A fair review in part, but not, I think, of the whole.” She waited for him to explain. “It’s true, some of the passages do more to fill pages than provoke thoughts,” he added. “But that can’t be said of all of them. Many are quite beautiful—quite poetic in their way.”
“Like the line you just quoted?” He nodded. They had taken a detour, but the turns had led them right back to center; she swallowed. “I believe your quote was incomplete,” she said quietly. “And the part you left out… was about love.”
His gaze was unflinching as he answered, “It was.” His face was full of something she couldn’t interpret, and the fear from which she’d been running came into full view. “I won’t conceal from you that I love you,” he said. “The attempt would be fruitless, and in any case, I suspect you’re already aware—I’ve done a pitiful job of keeping it covert.” He smiled self-deprecatingly, then grew serious once again. “But I won’t propose to you, Phryne. I won’t ask you the question you shudder most to hear. Was that your concern?” he asked gently.
A tear crept over her lower lid and raced down her cheek. He swept away the track, brushing his thumb across it softly.
“Yes.”
He nodded again. “I’ll never ask you to set aside your convictions. They’re what drew me to you in the first place.” He moved his hand from her cheek to her hip, resting warmly upon its curve. “But I will ask of you one thing.”
“What?” she murmured, her lungs in her throat.
“Your heart.”
The organ in question was now on the verge of overflowing, and only with difficulty did she keep the sea from spilling forth. Leaning forward, she touched her lips tenderly to his before pulling back. “Her heart is given him,” she said, “with all its love and truth.”
He smiled slowly, as though delayed by disbelief, but her meaning was clear. And understanding as much, he brought her in for another kiss.