Forever and a Day. Delilah Marvelle

“Yes, the buttons. They’re silver, aren’t they?”

       “I suppose they are. What of it?”

       “It means you’re likely to be robbed of them.”

       He fingered one of the buttons. “But they’re attached to my waistcoat.”

       “Not for long they aren’t. Let me show you how it’s done over on my street.” She yanked her full skirt up to the knee, exposing the leather holster attached to her thigh, and slid a small blade out before letting her skirts drop again.

       He stepped back, his eyes jumping toward the blade. “What are you doing?”

       “Trust me.” She grabbed his waist and dragged him back over toward herself. “I only want the buttons.”

       He grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting the blade hard and off to the side, away from himself. “All I ask is that you keep it pointed away from me.”

       “Oh, cease your brayin’.” She jerked her wrist from his grasp, ignoring the sting. Firmly holding the top silver button away from the embroidered fabric of his waistcoat, she slashed the threads beneath it, catching the button with her other hand.

       He searched her face, the resistance in his body waning as the edge of his full mouth quirked. “I like you.”

       “Oh, do you, now?” she tossed up at him. “Let’s just see how long that lasts. Very few men like a woman with a quick tongue.”

       Holding her gaze, his large hands curved around her waist, causing her to stiffen. He leaned in close, despite the blade in her hand pointing toward him, and asked softly and adoringly, “Mrs. Milton, are you really married? Or are you pretending to be? Because I find you endearing. Tongue, mind and all.” He paused and added, “I also find you to be incredibly attractive. Incredibly.”

       The man had apparently lost the last of his mind and his ability to censor his own thoughts. She lowered her gaze, the heat of those lingering hands making her stomach tingle. “I’m not married anymore,” she admitted, her throat tightening at the thought of Raymond. “I was, when I was younger, but he died.”

       “Ah.” His hands drifted away from her hips. “Did you love him?”

       She edged back and half nodded. “Yes. Very much.”

       “I’m sorry for your loss.”

       She half nodded again. “Thank you.”

       He was quiet for a long moment. “Were you and he ever in Paris? Is that where I may know you from?”

       She glanced up at him. Her and Raymond in Paris? Oh, now she’d heard it all. Raymond hated the French about as much as he hated the mayor and his politics. Whilst she? She only knew about Paris from Raymond. About all the gardens the Parisians had, the rows of palaces that once belonged to kings, the way they cobbled their streets and even had churches that were almost as old as God himself. “Raymond had been in Paris on business in his younger years when he still had money. As for me, I’ve never once lived a breath outside of New York. I was born here, and though I’m tryin’ to move west, I’ll most likely die here and be buried with a wooden marker that’ll rot away and make everyone forget I was born a redhead.”

       He averted his gaze. “You are far too young to be speaking in such gray tones.”

       “Where I live, gray is about the only color one sees. But one gets used to it, especially if it’s all they know.” She focused once again on his waistcoat. “Now hold still.”

       She leaned in, working the blade against the threads behind each button. She quickly detached all the buttons, catching them in her palm one by one, until his waistcoat hung open, exposing the whitest and brightest linen shirt she’d ever glimpsed. It was as if it had been snatched right off the tailor’s bench.

       She released him, shoving all six buttons into the stitched pocket just beneath her left arm. “There.”

       Gathering her calico skirts back up, she slid the blade securely back into the holster and let her skirts drop. She paused, sensing he was staring. Having been surrounded by men since she was nine, shortly after the death of her mum, she’d lost all sense of modesty around those who were used to seeing limbs being bared and rarely stared. But this man made her aware of just how important modesty was. It kept a girl out of trouble when it counted most.

       She awkwardly glanced toward him. “You didn’t have to look.”

       “I couldn’t very well help it.” His jaw tightened as he met her gaze. “Do you lift your skirts for all the boys?”

       She pursed her lips, attempting not to be entirely insulted. “Only the ones I intend to gut. So I suggest you mind your tongue.”

       “Don’t you worry. I intend to mind my tongue and my eyes.” He glanced away, jerking his now-open waistcoat against his linen shirt and abdomen. “I must say, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”

       She paused. “The prodi-what?”

       “Prodigal,” he provided.

       “And what is that supposed to mean?”

       “Wasteful. Prodigal means wasteful.”

       “Oh, does it, now? Well, I never heard of the word.”

       “And whose fault is that? Not mine, to be sure. Buy yourself a dictionary, my dear.”

       She glared at him for being so rude. “If I could afford one, I would. Though I really wouldn’t be surprised if you just made that word up in some pathetic attempt to impress me.”

       He raked a gaze down the length of her and smirked. “I can think of a dozen other ways to go about impressing you, Mrs. Milton, and making up words doesn’t readily come to mind.”

       She squinted. “You mean it really is a word?”

       “Yes, of course it is a word.”

       “Huh.” She eyed him. “I’m confused.”

       “About what? The word?”

       “No.” She waved toward him. “How is it you remember prodi-whatever but can’t remember much else?”

       He paused. “That I don’t know.” He shrugged, averting his gaze. “I just remember words, that is all. I see them. I hear them. I cannot readily explain why, but I do. And as I said, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”

       She lowered her chin. “Before your tears flood this room and the city, I ought to point out that a silver button can be pawned for as much as seventy-five cents apiece over at the local junk dealer. Over four dollars was dangling off your chest for the world to see. Never give anyone a reason to fleece you, I say, or they will.” Stepping back, she eyed his appearance again. “You still aren’t rough enough. You shouldn’t have shaved.”

       She bit her lip and glanced around, wondering what she could do without altogether ripping the seams of his outfit apart. She supposed she could soil it, but with what?

       She paused. Coffee. How fitting.

       Glancing toward Dr. Carter’s desk, she plucked up the porcelain cup of coffee he’d left on the desk and dipped her finger into it to ensure it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t. “I don’t think Dr. Carter will mind. Hold still. Here’s a toast to what should have been.” Turning back to him, she flung the entire contents of the dark, gritty liquid onto the front of his linen shirt and open waistcoat.

       He sucked in a breath and jumped back, his hands popping up into the air. He frantically swiped at his wet, stained clothing and glared at her, his dark hair falling from its neat, brushed state. “Damn you thrice into the pits of hell, woman.” He gestured rigidly toward himself, his face taut and his eyes ablaze. “Why did you think it necessary to ruin a perfectly fine linen shirt?”