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Edward runs a hand across his eyes, sighs deeply.

“Are there others like Blake’s? Yes, probably. Have I used your shop as inspiration? Yes, of course I have. But I do not explicitly mention you. That shop could belong to anyone.”

Dora chokes down a bitter laugh. “And yet, it does not.”

Edward steps forward, expression pleading.

“I promised I would help you, don’t you remember? I am convinced this is the only way of doing that. This paper will secure my acceptance into the Society which means I could then employ you to sketch for me. You would be free of your uncle, the shop. The independence you crave would be yours.”

“But I don’t need your help!” she cries. “Have I not proved that? Lady Latimer’s faith in me, the clients she has already sent my way. I don’t need you, Edward, I never did!”

“You’re right,” he says. “I see that now. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t be sure of your success, and I thou—” He cuts off, runs a hand through his hair. “You must discover the truth from your uncle, once and for all. About his trading, your parents—”

Dora gasps, puts her hands over her ears, and Edward’s voice rises in frustration. “You can’t ignore it for ever! You must confront him, Dora, you must.”

It is too much. Too much. Has Edward not seen her try to stamp down her emotions these past few days? Can he not see she is not yet ready to face them? With a groan Dora violently shakes her head, and it is only when she does so that she realizes she is crying.

“No,” she bites out. “I won’t hear this. I can’t hear it!”

It is as though a dam has burst in her chest. The rain pounds loudly against the windows and Dora lowers her hands, clenches them into fists at her sides. She turns around, looks everywhere but at nothing, and Edward is saying her name over and over and then he is crossing the room to reach her and she does not know what to do.

“You used me,” she chokes. “You’ve used me from the beginning.”

This brings him up short.

“No. No, Dora, I did not, at least not in the way you think—”

“You and Mr. Ashmole, you’ve been working together, haven’t you? Laughing at me behind my back, all this time!”

She knows she is being irrational, that they have done no such thing, but the old anger has risen and the words will not stop, seem determined to run themselves over her tongue like knives.

“No! Dammit, no, never, never!” and Edward reaches for her, clamps her upper arms in his hands, holding her fast. “How can you even think such a thing? After everything we have been through together! Dora, what I feel for you—”

She tries to pull away. “What you feel for me is nothing more than—”

And then, then he is kissing her.

The shock of his mouth on hers brings her up short. As Edward’s lips brush against hers she lets her own part, she tastes ale on his tongue, and then she feels herself sinking into him, the hurt and anger shifting into something else. He smells of leather, of soap, and that heady mix does something to her, sends tantalizing tingles to nerve endings she does not even know she has. The hem of his shirt teases her wrist and Dora puts a hand up underneath it, runs her palm against the plane of his flat stomach, caressing the smooth skin, fascinated by the way he shivers under her touch. Moving upward her nail grazes his nipple and he sucks in his breath, kisses her harder, and she kisses him back, losing herself in the intoxicating feel of him.

“Dora, I...”

“Shh,” she whispers against him for she needs this—to be touched, to forget for just a little while—and she bunches the shirt in her hands, takes it up over his head, and when he is free of it he clasps her tightly to him, kisses her once more.

Edward’s arm circles her waist, the other cups her cheek. Dora’s hands are trapped against his chest. With nothing else to do with them she begins to stroke his skin again, lets her fingers trail upward and then, then, the texture of the skin changes. She stops. Edward’s lips still on hers.

He does not say anything when she leans away from him to look.

A scar, deep and furrowed, spans the bottom right of his collarbone. Dora hears Edward’s breath catch in his throat as she gently maps it with the pad of her fingertip.

And in that spun darkness—with the rain cleansing London’s streets clean—she kisses the puckered skin of his breast, asks him how it came to be, and he tells her, tells her it all, as night begins to chase away the dusk.

Chapter Forty-Four

Edward wakes to find Dora gone.

He stretches in the bed, feels—for the first time he can ever remember—happy. Edward luxuriates in the possibility of this for a moment, smiling deeply into the downy pillow.

Outside he can hear the sounds of the city going about its dawn business, the call of hawkers over the high wind. He listens to the roll of carriage wheels, the wet sluice of their trajectory though puddles left from the rain, but then Dora’s absence wends a niggle in his stomach and he sits up, frowning into the dull morning light.