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CHAPTER SIX

Lavinia curled into Dom’s side and rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing designs over his chest. “We should go to sleep. We’ll have to be up in a few hours.”

Her body ached in the most satisfying manner, a low pulse thrumming in her core from when he’d been inside her, then when he’d put his mouth between her legs to lick her to another climax.

For science, of course.

Dominic groaned and tossed his other arm over his eyes. “Why? We don’t need breakfast.”

She flicked his nipple, and he recoiled with a feigned shriek. “Don’t be silly. The train leaves at ten. I’m sure we can get you a ticket at the station.”

He dropped his arm but kept his gaze trained on the ceiling. “Lavinia, I… I hadn’t planned on going to Paris tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She chuckled, though her chest tightened. “Of course. You must have business here to finish before we go?—”

“No, I mean…” He rolled to face her, his expression tight. “I thought you’d stay here, in England.”

Her stomach plummeted. “I can’t study medicine here.”

He caught her hands between his and brought them to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “Darling, what would I do in France? I don’t even speak the language.”

“I could teach you.” She hated how desperate she sounded, how eager to convince him to want her enough to experience the slightest discomfort. “You could help me study.”

“I’d be of no help,” he murmured, his lips pulling into the carefree smirk he wore so easily. “I would just wait around all day for you to return.”

She pulled her hands away and sat up. “But that’s what you’d expect of me, isn’t it? If I were to be a society wife?”

“No, Lavinia.” He rolled awkwardly to sitting, wincing when he leaned on his injured ankle but recovering quickly. “That’s—it’s not the same thing.”

With those words, the flare of hope in her chest died in a puff of smoke. “No, it’s not,” she managed as she scrambled off the bed and grabbed her nightdress from the floor.

Dominic followed her, reached to catch her hand, but she pulled it away and tugged the garment over her head. Where was her dressing gown?—

“Lavinia, stop, you misunderstand me—” His eyes were wild, frantic, but her ribcage ached with too profound a disappointment to be concerned for his well being.

“I understand perfectly well.” She found her dressing gown in a heap beside the bed and wrestled with setting the sleeves over her arms, buttoning it tight at her chest, as if the delicate fabric could protect her. “You want to keep me here?—”

He stood in front of her and held out his hands as she packed up her medical bag with shaking fingers. “Please, please don’t go. I love you. I meant what I said?—”

“If you truly loved me, you’d understand why I have to go.” She snapped the bag shut and lifted her chin. “And you’d want to be by my side.”

He shook his head. “I—I need to think about this.”

Her lungs must be collapsing, or she was experiencing some other cataclysmic organ failure, because her insides were raw, bleeding and scraped out. But she held her head high. “My train leaves at ten from York.” I hope you’ll be on it.

His expression was black as he gave a grim nod. “I’ll speak to you in the morning, then.”

She left the carbolic acid on his bedside, lest he forget she could hurt him too.