‘Tom, please don’t –’

‘While she walks this Earth, there will be no other woman for me.’ His voice was soft and low. ‘I can’t let her leave this house without telling her how much I want her.’

‘It’s not as simple as wanting.’

‘It is, if you want it to be.’ He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. ‘Do you want me, Lou?’

Every one of her senses came alive; the sensation of him watching her, waiting for a reaction, the smell of his woody cologne, his closeness causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. There was nothing, nothing, she had ever wanted more than Thomas Mandeville, and there was nothing more overwhelming than the desire burning inside her. She took hold of Tom’s hand and kissed each bloodied knuckle. No man had ever loved her enough to fight for her.

Tom cupped her face, and she leant into his palm. His lips met hers, his kiss beautiful, tender.

When they parted, Lou was breathless. ‘You once told me that you would rather love passionately for an hour than benignly for a life time,’ she said. ‘I want that hour.’

‘It’s yours.’ Tom’s second kiss was deeper, and she responded eagerly. They kissed like two starving people, hungry only for each other. His passion was all consuming. She helped him remove her dress, his lips exploring her shoulders and neck.

‘The other night you said a man would have to be mad to love you,’ he murmured. ‘I must be quite insane.’ He brushed his lips lightly over the bruises on her neck. ‘I will never, never, let anybody hurt you again.’

A sensation shot through Lou’s body. Every inch of skin was suddenly charged. After all the waiting, now that the moment was here, she didn’t want to wait a second longer. She helped him tear off her corset and gasped as finally, gloriously, Tom’s lips found her breasts.

35

Christmas Day 1913

For the first time in weeks, Lou slept soundly. When she woke, it was still night. She lay perfectly still, the weight of Tom’s arm across her waist, the rise and fall of his chest beside her. She let her breathing fall in time with his, sharing the air that he breathed. Twisting carefully to avoid disturbing him, she looked at his face in the light from the fire, at his closed eyes, his hair on the pillow beside hers. Tom slept peacefully. The sleep of the just; the sleep of the oblivious. For him, they had a future. For him, they had all the time in the world.

The clock on the mantelshelf said four o’clock. Gently, Lou pushed Tom’s arm away, she waited for him to settle before slipping from the bed. She stood before his washstand and looked at his private, intimate possessions: hairbrushes, razor, shaving soap, bottle of cologne. She picked up the book he had abandoned when she’d disturbed him.