The Countess Conspiracy

He made his way home, scarcely tolerating the men who brushed elbows with him on the cars. The traffic seemed abominably slow today; he found himself glancing at his watch, over and over.

He didn’t bother going through the front door. He let himself in through a side gate, jogged down the brick path, past the shrubbery, heading straight to her greenhouse.

I’ve missed you, her note had said. And he’d missed her, too.

Most of her experiments were now housed at King’s College, in a massive greenhouse that she ran. This one, sitting behind their home, held only a few curiosities that she played with in her spare time. Those, and a host of memories.

She was standing in place holding a pair of calipers, measuring the leaf of an orchid. She didn’t look up at his entrance. She didn’t even blink as he came up behind her.

But when he slid his hands around her waist, her eyes shivered shut and she leaned back against him, and her instrument fell to the table.

“I missed you.” Her hands joined his.

“I missed you, too.” He kissed her ear. “Next time, I’m coming with you.”

The skin of her neck was soft, delicate. She sighed when he nibbled at it.

“Next time,” she said, “they’ll want to talk to you, too. After all, you are the…”

He tasted the edge of her collarbone, and she let out a little sigh.

“The coauthor,” she said, “of…”

His hands slid up her stomach.

“Mmm,” she said. “Sebastian.”

“My most lovely Violet,” he said. “When I come with you to Vienna, you will not be thinking of me as your coauthor. You’ll think of me as the man who made you too hoarse to speak the next morning.”

“Oh,” she said with a smile. “I suppose we should see if that’s possible. Shall we practice now?” She turned her head to him.

“Practice implies that there are imperfections.” He found the edge of her jaw, tilted her head up. “That we must find some way to improve.” Her lips were soft against his; she let out a ragged breath as he kissed her. “And you,” he whispered, “you are already perfect.”