//CLARA//

Casimir’s lips were on my neck, soft and lazy against my skin.

We were still tangled together, sweaty and panting, limbs twisted in the sheets. I didn’t bother to cover myself. My breasts were bare to the cool air, the only light coming from the dying gas lamp and the waning moon bleeding through the drapes.

"You climbed the terrace wall again," I said. "I told you that was a death wish."

"I did." His voice was a muffled vibration against my throat, sending a fresh shiver down my spine.

"I couldn’t wait for the house to settle. The staff in this place are like ghosts, and I have no patience for hauntings."

Ghosts. I almost laughed.

The entire mansion was buzzing like a kicked hive, servants scurrying through corridors with luggage and silk. In a few hours, this circus would decamp for Newport. Aunt Cornelia was already downstairs orchestrating chaos.

Casimir scaling the walls was the least insane thing happening. And us...in my bed...of course.

"You reckless fool. It was too dark."

"The moon was sufficient."

"It’s a three-story drop. If you’d slipped, you’d be a permanent fixture in the cobblestones before the sun even rose."

He lifted his head, a wicked glint in his stormy eyes.

"Then you would have had to explain to Aunt Cornelia why her nephew was a splatter on the garden path. She’d never get the blood out of the hydrangeas."

I laughed despite myself, shoving his shoulder. "She would have blamed me for the gravity."

"She blames you for everything."

His mouth found mine again and I let myself sink into him. Servants had been shuffling in the corridors since midnight. Hattie would be knocking soon, but for now, the world ended at the four corners of this bed.

I traced a line down the hard center of his chest, my curiosity finally getting the better of me.

"You know... you still haven’t told me. How many women were there before me? Long before."

Casimir groaned, dropping his head into the crook of my neck as if trying to hide from the question.

"Does it really matter? The past is a graveyard, Clara."

"Yes, it matters. Humoring my every whim is part of the aftercare."

He was quiet for a moment. "I stopped counting after ten."

"After ten?" I pulled back, my heart doing a little jealous kick. "That many?"

"That few," he mumbled smoothly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Do they have names, or just numbers?"

"I don’t remember most of them. I sowed my wild oats. That’s it."

"No grand tragedies? No pining?"

He seemed to think, his gaze drifting to the canopy.

"There was one, though."

Something tightened in my chest, an ugly poke of jealousy. I didn’t like that he had a mental filing cabinet where a specific face was still tucked away.

"One? Singular?" My gaze narrowed. "What’s her name?"

"Yes. Her name was Cecelia."

The way the name rolled off his tongue made my blood simmer.

"Why didn’t you marry her, then?" I asked, my tone dripping with a faux-sweetness that was pure venom.

I leaned back against the pillows, crossing my arms over my bare chest as if to withdraw the access he’d just had.

"If she was so memorable, why isn’t she the one occupying your bed right now?"

He shrugged, completely unfazed. "I couldn’t. Her husband had just died."

My brain stalled. "What the fuck, Casimir?"

"You asked."

"So while the poor man was still warm in his grave, you were already—" I mimicked his earlier rumble. "—sowing your wild oats?"

"During the funeral, actually."

My nose crinkled. "That’s even worse."

"It is not. He was an old bastard who had seen better days, and she’d been sold to him when she was barely out of the schoolroom." He took my hand, lacing our fingers. "We lost contact when I received the letter about your parents’ death."

"What do my parents have to do with your funeral flings?"

He lifted my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a sudden, sobering intensity.

"Everything. Because after that, you became my responsibility. Everything else... it just stopped mattering."

I went silent. The jealousy was still there, but it was being crowded out. I’d been his responsibility long before I was his obsession.

A different thought surfaced. "Do you not worry about illness?"

He frowned, trying to keep up. "You mean the social disease?"

"Yes. That."

"No, little bird. I used French letters. With all of them."

I blinked. "French letters? What the hell is a French letter?"

"A sheath. Something that protects me. I put it on myself."

"Even with Cecelia?"

"Always. I don’t take chances with my health, Clara."

My brain did a violent backflip. French letters. Oh, god.

That already existed in this age? First, my toothbrush was made of Snow’s hair. Now this. And no, I did not want to know what French letters are made of. Tansy tea was bad enough. At least I knew what was in it.

"Just like...condoms?" I blurted out.

Casimir frowned, the word clearly foreign to him. "Condoms?"

"Yes," I said quickly, realizing my slip. "Something similar. A medical term."

"And where the hell would you know about medical terms for sheaths?"

I smiled sweetly, leaning in until our noses brushed.

"Casimir, you know how my curiosity gets me. I know things a proper lady should not. I read a very... educational pamphlet."

He didn’t argue. He knew better. Besides, he’d been the one to claim my virtue, so he wasn’t about to question my innocence now.

"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "We have a busy day ahead."

"We have time."

I swung a leg over his hips, positioning myself over the insistent, pulsing ridge of his erection. His hands found my waist, instinctively guiding me. His fingers digging into my skin without even realizing it.

"Clara... we really do not have time," he breathed, though his hips were already arching up to meet me.

"We make time."

Before he could protest, I lowered myself onto him, taking his cock in one slow, tantalizing, motion. He groaned, his head falling back against the pillow, his hands gripping my hips hard, though careful to avoid the side he’d already marked. I didn’t care about the bruises. I wanted to feel him till tomorrow.

I set the pace. I rode him like I owned him, watching his face shatter. His eyes went black, his chest heaving as I rolled my hips, grinding down until he was buried to the hilt.

His hands slid up my sides, palms grazing over my ribs until he reached my breasts. He cupped them, his thumbs swiping over my nipples, rolling the hard peaks until I was gasping for air.

They tightened under his touch. He sat up and closed his mouth around one nipple. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking over the tip, and I moaned. He switched to the other breast with the same fervent attention, his teeth grazing at the pebbled flesh.

His fingers fisted in my hair, pulling my head back, arching my spine. The position pushed my chest toward him, and he took advantage, his mouth still working on both breasts, while his other hand found my clit.

His thumb circled roughly, rolling hard against the swollen bud, and I cursed out his name, my rhythm faltering. He smirked up at me, and I dug my nails into his shoulder.

"Do not stop," I ordered.

He did not.

The dual assault drove me toward the edge. My hips grinding down faster onto his cock, taking him deeper. The room filled with the sounds of our bodies, the wet slap of skin and tangled moans.

I came first with a strangled cry, my cunt clenched around him, gripping his cock. He followed moments later, thrusting up into me as he spilled himself inside with a muffled groan against my shoulder.

We collapsed together, breathless. I stayed impaled on him, my forehead on his shoulder.

"We really... don’t have time," I wheezed.

He laughed. "I told you."

I kissed his jaw. "Why do you have to feel so good? It’s inconvenient."

"And why do you have to be so irresistible? It’s expensive."

I smiled, stretching like a cat. "I’m pretty. You pay the pretty tax, Casimir."

He grunted. "That, I cannot argue."

He caught my chin and kissed me again, his tongue sliding against mine like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. His hand cupped my breast again, thumb grazing my nipple idly, and I arched into him.

For a moment, I thought he might stay. Then he pulled back, slowly withdrawing himself from inside me.

"The sun will be up soon," he murmured.

I whimpered at the loss. "I know."

He slipped out of bed, and I watched him dress in the pale light, the muscles of his back flexing as he pulled his shirt over his head. He looked like something from a painting—all sharp lines and shadowed hollows.

God, why did someone have to be made so achingly perfect? And why did I have to be the one stupid enough to fall for him?

Fall for him?

Who the hell said that?