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Mercy resolutelydid notthink of Raphael all the next day.
She awoke to find he’d vanished like the night mist off the Thames when the sun burned it away. If not for the whisper of heat and the musk of his aftershave haunting his side of the bed, one might have thought last night nothing but a fever dream.
She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow he’d so unceremoniously abandoned. Intimate muscles ached and protested in a way that was both wicked and dispiriting.
He was gone.
Of course, he would be. She’d expected it. Accepted it. And refused to feel any sort of ridiculous melancholy about it.
Except...had he even kissed her goodbye? Did she sleep through it?
Or had he simply slithered away like a wary thief in the shadows, grateful to be spared any inconvenient or emotional farewells?
Not that he’d have had to suffer such nonsense.
They’d both understood that they were lovers for one night only.
And, Holy Moses, did they ever make the most of their evening.
She’d had him three times in three different ways, though he’d sent her rocketing into the stars a total of five.
Dear God, but was he insatiable. She’d had to beg for respite, and onlythendid he wrap his large, warm body around her and lull her to sleep with his even breaths stirring her hair.
She refused to be sentimental about it, dammit. She wasn’t one of those ridiculous women who took to their beds when neglected by a man.
It was only that...she’d felt like a treasure lying wrapped in his embrace. Something coveted and rare.
It’d been rather lovely.
Different.
It wasn’t that sheneededto feel that way, of course. She’d come to terms with the fact that she was a thorn in the collective side of the world at large.
Forever too much or not enough.
It was just that, the sensation of fitting so perfectly against his hips, her head resting in the deep groove of his chest. The way the tempo of their hearts seemed to harmonize with the effortless synchronization of their breath.
For the moment in between waking and the oblivion of sleep, she’d felt like a part of him.
Rather thanapartfrom the world.
Perhaps because she was untried in the ways of intimacy. Affection wasn’t something their family encouraged. Or even condoned.
That had to be it.
Raphael’s disappearance wasn’t the architect of this strange sense of attachment and loss. This empty sort of yearning that hollowed out the space behind her breast.
It was simply that she was untried and unaccustomed to such an arrangement, and needed to amend her reaction to it, lest she become some simpering ninny and do something atrocious.
Like cry over Raphael Sauvageau.
How many tears had fallen for the rake? Likely enough to fill the Atlantic.
Hers wouldnotbe added to the tide.
She had work to do. A murderer to find. And no mere man would get in the way of her mission. All she had to do was be unwavering in her relinquishment of him. Not allow him to permeate her other incredibly weighty thoughts and important tasks.
He would, no doubt, attend the masquerade that evening, but it was best she avoid him as he’d made it clear in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want her there.