“You should watch yourself around those Right Bank boys. I think you just about scared the life out of Matthew.” St. Patrick grinned down at Vivian, running fingers through her curls. She lay across his lap, stretched out on the chaise in her private sitting room.
Vivian laughed, reaching up to tap his chin. “You wouldn’t like me half as much then.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.” He cupped her face in his hands, searching vivid green eyes. “You never told me why you left.”
“Well if you’d been there, I might not have.” Vivian sat up, leaning into the curve of the chaise and sticking her feet in his lap. He started to rub her left foot, her eyes slipped closed.
“Look at us. You, from a wealthy family, two angels and yet here you are, the most renowned courtesan on the Left Bank.”
“And you,” she said, opening her eyes with a smile. “Born in a whorehouse, two demons at birth, educated on the street, and yet you’ve ended up on the Right Bank. In the Elim, of all places, as personal surgeon to the rich and famous. As long as you carve their faces into prettier versions, they don’t care what you’ve got behind your eyes.”
“How would you know?”
Bright and pleased, Vivian’s laugh washed through the room as she twirled a golden strand of hair. “I listen when you talk. Even when it’s about completely boring things.”
St. Patrick took her hand, kissing her fingertips. Her smile widened and she tilted her head to the side. Setting her hand down, he picked up her foot, resuming the massage. She closed her eyes with a sigh, relaxed, at peace. He watched her, considering.
“How long have we known each other, Miss Vivian Lee?”
Her eyes popped open, mouth making a perfect O. “My full name. Am I in trouble?”
“Would you believe that it’s been five years?” Moving up her calf, caressing the smooth skin, he pinched her knee. She jerked with a laugh, twisting away.
“Never,” she gasped, giggling.
He slid back to her feet, picking up the right and beginning to massage it. Vivian’s laughter fell away, leaving behind a more serious expression. She picked at the edge of her negligee, the lace casting faint shadows across her skin. “Has it been so long?”
A new tone entered the room, stealing in to sit between them.
St. Patrick hesitated, began.
“The first night I saw you was at Madam Lillian’s, in the gold parlor, the one with that awful stuffed bear she’d covered in gold leaf.” Vivian laughed, poking him with her foot.
“I arrived and she’d told me about some new girl, fresh meat from across the river. ‘Sweet as two fallen angels.’ But I wasn’t interested in breaking in someone new.
“Then you walked in, sucking all the air from the room. I felt it leave my chest as if you’d drawn it right from my lips. You wore a dress the color of new blood and you looked around the room like a lioness stalking prey. I don’t even know how you got into a dress that tight.”
“Sewn in.”
“Really?” St. Patrick ran his hand up her leg, watching her lips hitch as he hesitated over her knee.
Vivian nodded, a little smile on her face at his memory. “I loved that dress.”
“I don’t know if the Madam had told you who to pick or if you’d singled him out on your own, but you sauntered up to the richest man in the room. Everyone watched you, hoping the seams of your dress would bust. Do you remember what you did then?”
“I told him if he wanted to kiss me, he needed to stand up.”
“You did! And he jumped. You grabbed his tie and kissed him. He turned redder than your dress. I was surprised he didn’t have a heart attack. And do you know what I was thinking, that whole time?”
Vivian watched him. He couldn’t tell if she were enjoying his story or dreading his words.
“What?”
“‘I wish she’d picked me.’” St. Patrick traced a blood vessel beneath her skin, up her knee and inner thigh.
Her lip wobbled as he shook his head, not meeting her eyes. The silence in the room lengthened.
“You could have approached me. If I recall you ended your evening in the company of several accommodating young ladies. What is this about, dearest? You aren’t the sentimental sort.” She touched his arm, her fingers digging into the thin cotton of his shirt.
The threat of tears came up from her chest, she traced the edge of his jaw. He turned to her, pressing her hand with his. Tears streaked her cheeks, glistening, and her fair skin had turned splotchy. Reaching out, he touched her mouth, following the line of her smile.
“You look terrible when you cry.”
Vivian removed her feet from his lap, folding her legs beneath her to sit up on her knees. Her face a mask of shock, horror. “It’s when you say things like that, St. Patrick, that makes me want to move home, marry some fastidious man, and have squalling brats.”
St. Patrick pulled her onto his lap, reaching for the satin ribbons that held her negligee together. “Gods forbid.”