Perhaps it was habit, but she glanced behind her to ensure she hadn’t been followed. He always seemed to follow her. Or worse, this morning he had delivered a simple missive and so easily shattered her day. He threatened her life and those she loved.
He had, mere moments ago, had the nerve to place his hand on the small of her back and lean in for a kiss while the rest of London milled about.
Mr. Roger Haskett was a royal arse, and unfortunately her stage manager.
Tilly climbed up to her knees and leaned one hand on the ground as she reached behind his head with the other.
“I’ve not met someone like this before,” she whispered. Maybe more to herself than to the man who bowed his head indecently close to her bust as she pressed the handkerchief against the cut at the back of his head.
“First time for everything,” he grumbled.
His voice vibrated against her skin, sending a dangerous shiver down her spine. Welsh, if she heard correctly. And that made him all the more interesting.
The stranger had thick, black hair brushed back, with not a piece out of place. And his cravat was perfectly tied, his face just as flawlessly clean-shaven.
So, he was like that.
“I apologize,” she said, at last, removing her handkerchief from his wound.
But the stranger surprised her and clamped his hand over hers. She gasped, her body instantly tensing, her heart racing in her throat.
His eyes widened, and he released his touch. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It needs pressure, is all,” he explained. “I have it, so you can let go.”
She withdrew her hand and moved away, hissing as she felt the glass pierce her white glove and embed itself near her wrist. Tilly sat back on her heels, laughing to herself as the panic subsided.
“What a pair we are.”
She gazed down at her glove as red dotted the fine fabric, quickly spreading into an unsightly blob.
“Zounds!” The stranger quickly fumbled at his cravat and pulled at the knot until the crisp fabric slipped free, revealing the base of his throat. “Hold your arm up,” he instructed.
It wasn’t the first man’s throat she had seen in her life, yet she couldn’t look away. She blinked hard, inhaling through her nose as she tried to steady her nerves.
“Miss? Hold up your arm to help with the bleeding.”
“Right. Right,” she mumbled, laughing at herself. She had only had two glasses of champagne, but she felt a bit woozy. When had she eaten last? It had been a long day of rehearsal at the theater.
He motioned for her arm. “May I?”
“May you…” she repeated. Tilly couldn’t concentrate, too focused on his mouth just then. And how he had a hint of a dimple on his left check, even as he blustered at her. It was altogether confounding, even though he was so surly.
“I am going to remove your glove and the piece of glass from your arm, then tie this length of fabric around the cut to stem the bleeding. The wound appears deep.”
Tilly was about to glance down, suddenly sick to her stomach.
“It helps if you don’t look. Are you unwell?”
He reached for her arm and turned it, laying it softly over the length of his thigh. His firm thigh. He was quite tall, this stranger. And his mouth was… kissable. Oh, and her stomach didn’t like the sight of blood.
She shut her eyes and inhaled again slowly. If she tossed up her accounts all over this stranger, she would be mortified.
A very handsome stranger she couldn’t keep her thoughts away from.
His fingers scraped against her skin as he gently slid her glove down the length of her arm, stopping short where the glass had pierced her. How perfectly intimate.
How scandalous to have his fingers caressing her bare skin here at Vauxhall Gardens, alone and in the dark.
No, no scandal.
She swallowed her silly fantasy of him removing the entire glove and dropping a kiss in her palm, though that would be perfectly romantic. This was not the time to let the champagne go to her head. Tilly could muster up some composure.
“You’re sighing.”
“Hmm?”
“You are sighing. Please refrain as I try to remove this piece of glass.”
Tilly winced, instantly understanding. “You can’t remove a piece of glass if I sigh?”
His head was tucked close to hers. She could smell the lemon and sage notes of his cologne and feel the heat of his body against hers.
“I am not a surgeon by profession, and the lighting here is terrible. I don’t wish to make this worse.”
“We could have fetched help.”
He grunted, and she laughed.
“Right, no sighing. I will refrain from breathing as well, yes? Wouldn’t want to trouble you too much—”
