Her hair was arranged in the formal style appropriate for the occasion, the elaborate pinned construction of court dress.
Her gown was the deep green of old money, the corset cinched high and firm, the décolletage of the neckline presenting the architecture of a woman who had birthed a child recently and whose body bore the evidence of this in the full, milk-warm weight of her chest above the corset's edge.
She was glancing over her shoulder with the bright, anxious eyes of a woman who knew how many guests were in the next room and was calculating the margin.
"'But what if someone sees us, hero—'" Her voice low. The practiced diction of a trained performer applied to whispered panic. "'My husband is—'"
"'No one will see.'" Raven's hand slid to the small of her back. Descended. "'I'll make sure to fill you up faster.'"
