Or two.
One, two, three…
Let go of him, you fool.
With another sniffle, she released her hold on him and stepped away, feeling both bereft and embarrassed by her display of emotion.
“Thank you,” she repeated, for it was necessary, and words, in this instance, were insufficient. “I suppose we should both get our rest, then.”
“We should,” he agreed, tucking his handkerchief back into the pocket of his waistcoat with a nod.
She thought of his cravat which she had discovered the morning after he had slept in her bed. Likely, she ought to return it to him, and yet, she found herself strangely reluctant to relinquish the scrap of starched linen, pitifully wrinkled by its presence beneath her pillow.
And the number of times you have extracted it and held it to your nose for a hint of his scent.
“I bid you good evening, Mr. Sutton,” she said, hating the words, hating putting an end to their time together, and yet knowing she must.
For her own self-preservation, if nothing else.
“Call me Rafe,” he said, that rogue’s smile of his firmly back in place. “Good evening, Persephone.”
With a bow, he was gone.
And she stood in her room alone, arms hugging her waist, wondering why she had never felt her loneliness in such acute fashion until now.
CHAPTER 6
Rafe woke in the wee hours of the morning in a strange bed, unable to sleep.
Thinking of her.
The governess.
Persephone.
She was one staircase and thirty-seven steps away from him. Not that he had been counting…
Oh, Christ. Who was he fooling?
He had counted. Of bloody course he had. Both on his way there the previous evening and on his return to the guest chamber Lady Octavia had assigned him.
On a snort, Rafe threw back the bedclothes, rising from the bed. And fancy that, a guest chamber. It sounded like something some spoiled lordling would inhabit. Suttons were not meant to live in Mayfair and observe proprieties and mingle with ladies and lords, earls and viscounts, and dukes and marchionesses.
Suttons had been born to the stink and the sadness of the rookeries, and that was where they were meant to remain. At least, that was what Rafe had always believed. Until Jasper had married Lady Octavia and settled his family here. In fucking Mayfair!
He poured cold water into a basin and splashed his face, performing his morning ablutions. The reaction Persephone had given to the
news he had exacted vengeance upon Viscount Gregson for what he had done to her had been surprising. He had not anticipated tears, gratitude, or such a physical response. And curse him if he could not still imagine her body pressed to his, her arms around his neck, the sweet scent of her invading his senses. Summer, sunshine, flowers, glorious, beautiful life…Persephone.
Damn it, perhaps living at his brother’s town house to help ease the burden of moving between The Sinner’s Palace and the second Sinner’s Palace had been a terrible idea. In fact, he knew it had been. Because temptation was here.
And temptation’s name was Miss Persephone Wren.
Temptation had sunset hair, eyes that were warm and brown with hints of cinnamon and gold, and breasts he could not help but to imagine burying his face—or cock—between, and she was tall. They were nearly the same height.
A long Meg.
A delectable one.