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thimble."
                  Kissing my throat, his teeth grazed my skin.  His hands traced my shoulders and ran down my arms.  I put my hands on his chest; felt the muscle there, the broad expanse, the caps of his shoulders.
                  "You'll have to ask."  I stopped talking.  I had no interest in mentioning the Mayor.
                  He didn't respond.  Not in words.  He reached up, both hands, loosening the pins in my hair until it tumbled around my shoulders.  He traced the fall of my gold curls along my throat, traced his fingers down to the collar of my dress.  I tried to still my trembling, afraid I'd scare him away. 
                  Matthew was a cad, a scoundrel.  He'd stepped out with so many girls over the years and not only girls in town but also girls who came to Nevada because of the silver mines, because of the easy money.
                  With me, he was a gentleman.  He took my arm.  He helped me in and out of wagons.  He called for me at my father's house. 
                  He knew more than I did.
                  I was ready to learn.
                  My dress fell open under his hands.  He touched the skin along my collarbone, traced it with fingers and then with tongue.  He kissed the edge of my jaw, his hands tracing again and again along my jaw, dropping lower each time, caressing my breasts through my dress, then slipping his fingers inside the unbuttoned front.
                  I kissed his hair, ran my fingers through his curls, outlined the muscles in his arms, his broad shoulders, the nape of his neck, where the curls covered skin untanned by the sun.  I licked at his throat, his ears, his mouth, let my head fall back when his kisses trailed down to the vee of buttons on my dress, shivered under his hands.
                  And shivered as his hands went away.  My head was still tilted back, my eyes half closed, my breath uneven.  My hands clasped his shoulders, keeping me from falling back against the davenport. 
                  It was his decision to make.  I had wanted him all these years, even when I sent him away, knowing the only way he'd ever come back to me was if I didn't chase him.  I wanted him now. 
                  I let him make the choice. 
                  His fingers were gentle on the neckline of my dress.  It took me a minute to realize he was refashioning the buttons, and doing it poorly.
                  I let my head roll forward gradually, my eyes opening so I could smile into his eyes.  When he met my gaze, he smiled.
                  "They're easier to unbutton," he said.
                  "Would you like me to do it?  I've had some experience."  My tone was lighter than I'd have thought I could manage.
                  "I'll get it," he said.  "If you're not in a hurry.  I like touching you."
                  You didn't have to stop .
                  He did stop, though.  The soiled doves in the back streets, they'd known Matthew.  And someday, he'd tell me.  Today had been long and confusing.  He was probably right to stop.
                  When he pulled away from me, leaving my bodice crookedly buttoned and my breath still coming hard, I felt embarrassed, uncertain what to do with my hands or eyes now that neither were focused on him.
                  Until the question came back.  I found myself on my feet, having not planned to stand or pace halfway across the hotel room.
                  "Chloe?"
                  "What was Violet doing here, Matthew?"  I hated the shrill sound of my voice, hated that I had to ask him this, now.
                  Hated, actually, that he laughed.  "She came because she's Violet, you're not wrong there."
                  I