An Unseen Attraction (Sins of the Cities, #1)

by K.J. Charles

Mr. Green smiled at him, that quick smile of his. Clem loved that smile. It was always a two-part movement: his lips widened for a second, then twitched tight, as if he were blowing a kiss. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

And I know it’s no more than a pale shadow of what birds are—” “It’s a bright shadow,” Clem said with fierce intensity, and Rowley’s throat closed.

“I wish I had your fingers,” Clem said on a breath. “As your own?” Rowley asked. “Or”—he gave a bright glance up—“for your benefit? Because you are absolutely welcome to the latter.” Clem wasn’t quite sure what that meant for a second, and then all became clear. “Oh!” “Not that my fingers are terribly appealing at work,” Rowley added, as calm as if Clem weren’t blushing dark.

“Slowly is very nearly my name,” Rowley assured him.

“You’re the son of an earl?”

Clem had to take several seconds to orient himself on the Strand before he set off on foot. He was upset, but also, the air was getting thicker. November became colder and wetter by the day, people kept their fires burning longer, and the air was starting to curdle. Woodsmoke and coal and factory fumes, roiling like thunderclouds over the city, ready to mix with the miasmatic exhalations of the river and turn the usual wintry fog into something hellish.

He wanted to say, I do have someone else; he wished he could. But they’d only known each other eight months, been lovers for a fortnight, and when he’d blurted out I love you, Rowley hadn’t said anything. Which was sensible, of course. Clem didn’t know if men of their type could expect I love you very often, or to have it mean much if it came.

The whitewash had been new when he moved in but it was already greasy-dusty with soot and smuts, risen from the fire or carried in by fog, marring the smooth surface. Nothing ever lasted.

“It’s all of three o’clock, mate,” the urchin said. “Though if that’s three in the a’ternoon or three in the morning, dunnask me.