No love is without seduction in its highest sense." --VICTORIA WOODHULL AND TENNESSEE CLAFLIN, Woodhull & Claflin's Weekly By unspoken accord, they didn't talk during the hansom ride from the opera house to Hadrian's. They sat facing each other on the cracked leather seats, the only physical contact the occasional brushing of knees when the coach hit a rough patch of road. But not speaking, not touching, only served to build the anticipation. By the time they halted at his flat, Callie felt as fragile as an egg left too long to boil and just as likely to crack. The hansom halted, the driver calling out their fare. Reaching into his pocket, Hadrian looked across the darkened carriage to her. In the semidarkness, their eyes met. "You're sure?" She managed a steady if slightly breathless reply. "Yes, I'm sure." They stepped down into the street swirling with clouds of yellowish gray vapor, a proper London fog. Crossing to Hadrian's shop, the mist weighing the folds of her caped cloak, Callie felt equal parts terrified and elated.
