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He blinked. “Then how…?”

“Drawing room window.” Her cheeks flushed. “You were already riding away.” She pressed closer, and her scent encircled him. “I couldn’t let you go.”

He pulled her down onto his lap. His elbow thwacked the wheel’s rim and the hard seat dug into his thighs, but the moment her body touched his, the emptiness inside him filled with a warm light. It was akin to the feeling that sent him to the easel, a bright incitement to make life bigger, to bring something new and beautiful into being.

Her eyes were shining. “I think we’re each meant to take our own seat.”

“My love,” he said, “I don’t anticipate us doing what we’re meant to do very often.”

He kissed her. At some point in the lengthy process, his hat toppled, and at another point, he heard a scandalized gasp, and then a few titillated jeers. He lifted his head reluctantly. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. He treated them to a devil-may-care grin and gathered Muriel more fully against him, feet fumbling for the pedals. The wheels groaned and began to roll, and they left the gaping throng behind.

—

Muriel saw two options—slip off Kit’s legs, or strangle him to stay put, which couldn’t improve his already compromised steering.

They were listing across the street on a long diagonal, and a cab had to corner sharply around them, the driver cursing a blue streak.

“Stop!” Bizarrely, she was laughing. She confronted a very high likelihood of spilling onto the pavement, getting crushed under the wheels of an omnibus or trampled by horses, but the gory prospect couldn’t dim her incandescent joy.

She strangled him, arms winding tight around his neck. Her face pressed into his jacket, which smelled deliciously of his soap and his skin, and she was still laughing as she heard the approaching thunder of a larger carriage.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, and smothered her maniacal giggle in soft wool. “Stop, please. I’m begging you.”

“I’m trying,” Kit muttered. “Difficult to work the brake from this angle.”

She could feel them turning, and before long, the traffic sounds faded. They slowed enough that when they hit the curb, the jarring impact didn’t dislodge her. She extracted herself from the tangle of man and metal, brushing at her skirts as she staggered onto the sidewalk. She didn’t recognize the street, narrow and quiet and tree-lined.

Kit followed her onto the sidewalk, pulling off his gloves.

He took her hands, and she shivered at the contact. He possessed the world’s most electrifying palms. Suddenly, she couldn’t feel her feet. She had the sensation she was floating. It took acute mental effort to ground through her heels.

“I have questions,” she said.

“About Reverend Mother Cecelia?” A grin shaped his mouth. “So do I.” His eyes were gleaming like quicksilver. He liked to ruffle her, and she gave him a ruffled look, lest he discontinue the practice.

“Leave the woman her sacred mysteries,” she sniffed. “It’s nothing to do with nuns.”

Shyness stole over her. Her voice dipped. “You’re coming with me to New York.”

“Was that a question?” He sounded amused. His hands traveled up her forearms and gripped her elbows. “I am coming with you to New York.”

“What about your bicycle shop?”

“Sold to the Mutton Wheelers, with a few stipulations.”

“Your parents?”

“They’ll have three sons in the Americas. I don’t know if I’ll ever put it to them that way. But I’ll write newsy letters about Wall Street and Fifth Avenue.”

“Your Sisters?”

“They’ll visit.”

His arms came around her, and his lips found her throat. She tipped her head back, and her vision went pale blue with smoky London sky.

“Other questions?” His lips moved over her pulse.

She smoothed back his wild hair and slid her hands to his nape. “I love you.”