“Another package delivered secretly.”

Nan didn’t sound too pleased, possibly because the package was larger than the others, not easily hidden within the folds of her skirt.

Aslyn rolled out from beneath the covers, walked over and took the long, slender box from her maid. She carried it back to the bed, opened it. Nestled inside was a beautiful white lace parasol, the note accompanying it lengthier than any of the ones that had come before. Someone I hold in high regard once told me white goes with anything.

He held her in high regard, remembered her words. Clutching the note to her breast, she knew she shouldn’t be so pleased by the knowledge, and yet she was. Kip was wrong. Mick wasn’t using her; he had a care for her. She imagined how lovely it would be to begin each day with sentiments expressed by him.

Taking out the parasol, she held it aloft. “Where the devil does he do his late-­night shopping?” she wondered aloud.

“My lady, all of this is very improper. He’s improper, not the sort with whom you should have secret trysts.”

Not the sort with whom she should have public trysts, either. Then she saw the second note, one that had been hidden by the lacy contents of the box. The Trewlove Home, he’d written, along with an address. Her heart very nearly stopped, as her first thought had been that he was inviting her to tea at his mother’s. Quite suddenly, she realized he was referring to the orphanage, not his mother’s home. Silly girl, to be so disappointed.

“We need to dress for going to an orphanage today,” she told Nan. “We’re to be subtle in our leaving, as I don’t wish to upset the duchess.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“And we shall need to stop at a toy shop on the way.”

She brought a hoard of toys with her, and the orphans gathered around her like she was the Pied Piper. Lowering herself to the floor, giving no thought to the dirt that would infect her lilac skirts, she hugged each and every child who approached. Her laughter floated on the air, a wispy trill that rivaled that of the nightingale in beauty. Her smile wreathed her face, and he thought of the joy she’d show to her own children, the love she would shower over them. How fortunate those children would be.

Standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, he took her in as though he were a parched flower and she was both rain and sun offering life. It was obvious she saved her longest, tightest, warmest hug for Will. He found himself envious of a scrawny little urchin.

Finally, she lifted her gaze to him and gifted him with a lopsided, almost shy smile. It was a hard blow to the gut, a kick to the groin, a punch to the chest. No other woman affected him as she did. He should avoid her at all costs, but convincing himself to do that would be no easier than convincing the sun not to show itself at dawn. If she were near, he would always look for an excuse to close the distance between them.

“All right now, that’s enough,” he shouted, shoving himself away from the wall. “Thank Lady Aslyn and be off with you. No sense in suffocating her for her kindness.”

All the children scattered except for the thumb-­sucking lass who now clutched a rag doll and stared up at him. He glowered in return. “Off you go, Amy girl. I’ll give you a ride on my back later.”

Fortunately, it was enough to appease her and send her scampering away. Approaching Aslyn, he held out his hand. She placed hers in it and he drew her to her feet, fought the urge to draw her into his arms. Her ever vigilant maid was standing watch.

“They adore you,” Aslyn said. “How often do you come?”

“Every couple of weeks or so. We all rotate checking in, making sure it’s all as it should be.”

“It’s a magnificent residence. You pay a pretty penny for it.”

“We wanted to give the children something as close to a home as we could.”

“Because you grew up without one.”

“We didn’t grow up in anything fancy, but our mum’s love made it a home.”

“Of course it did. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

He almost offered to show her where he grew up, but she didn’t need to see or understand the exact harshness of his life. He’d moved beyond it. All that mattered was where he stood now.

“Mr. Trewlove?”

He glanced over at the matron. “Yes, Nancy.”

“The tea is set up on the terrace as you asked.”

“Thank you.” He turned back to Aslyn. “Would you care for some tea?”

That smile again, the one that would haunt him if his actions caused it to fade away. “Practicing for the day you’re invited into a nobleman’s parlor?”

It pleased him that she remembered. “No, simply an excuse to spend more time in your company.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and he wondered if he could make other areas of her turn pink with strategically placed kisses.

“Tea would be grand,” she said.

All the guilt she’d felt at coming here against the duchess’s wishes dissipated the moment she’d walked through the door and seen him waiting for her. His eyes had warmed with pleasure, his mouth had tipped up slightly at the corners. Joy had surged through her, and she’d known that she would willingly go against any of the duchess’s wishes in order to spend more time in his company.

Here was further proof that Mick had no interest in using her to elevate himself, because there was no one of any consequence to see them together. He was ever mindful of her reputation, carefully guarding it by keeping his distance when he should. The one time he’d overstepped the bounds they’d been alone, with no witnesses, and while the kiss may have been inappropriate, her reputation had remained intact. Sitting here with him on the terrace, sipping tea, she wished it was night, all the children abed, and they were alone to indulge their desires.

And she did desire him, but what future was there for them? Last night the duchess had once again made her position clear regarding those she saw as beneath her. But in five years, Aslyn’s trust would be handed over to her in full. She would move out of Hedley Hall, into her own residence. She would be on the shelf, no longer a woman men sought for marriage. She would have complete and full independence, absolute say in all the decisions affecting her life. Would Mick Trewlove wait five years for her?

She nearly laughed aloud at the absurd thought. He’d made no claims on her, professed no love, although he did offer sweet endearments. Still, it was likely he wouldn’t wait so long as a week for her, that she was to him what she had carried in her arms into the orphanage: merely a toy to be played with until broken or grown weary of, forgotten. He had once played with a duke’s widow. Why not an earl’s daughter?

“I’m not certain I like where those thoughts are taking you,” he said quietly, sending her morose musings scattering.

She focused her attention on him, his hand resting near a china teacup it would dwarf when he picked it up. “I’m sorry. My thoughts were drifting.”

“Not toward happy places if that tiny dent that formed between your eyebrows was any indication.”

She was flattered by how closely he watched her, how much attention he paid to her. “Are you ever invited to balls?”

“Hosted by the lords and ladies of London? No.”

“The duchess never hosts balls. If she did, I would invite you.”

“I would weather the censure and cuts for you.”

“Perhaps there would be none.”

“We exist in real life, Aslyn. Not in a fairy tale. There are no happily-­ever-­afters between a lady and a bastard.”

Then what am I doing here?

“Did Kipwick ever take you to Cremorne during the later hours when proper people aren’t about?”

His change in topic startled her, yet she welcomed it, not favoring the direction the conversation had been going.

“What makes you think I wanted to go during that time of night?”

His gaze demanded the truth, and she realized he was the sort of man with whom lies did not sit well. She suspected no one uttered falsehoods in his presence.

“The way you asked to stay the night I met you. I suspect if Fancy and I hadn’t been there, you’d have argued with him in hopes of convincing him to stay later.”

She shrugged. “I have a mild curiosity.”

“I have business there tonight. Care to join me?”

The duchess would definitely not approve of this. “I would have to sneak out—­”

“You seemed to handle that well enough the other night. I’ll have my carriage at the end of the drive at midnight. Just remember to bring a key.”

She met him. He’d known she would. She possessed an adventuresome spirit they couldn’t tame, and he was grateful for it. In his carriage, she’d sat opposite him, fairly bouncing on the squabs with her excitement. Now they’d disembarked and were preparing to walk into the gardens.

“What if I see some lords I know?” she asked.

“There will be some fancy swells about, but it’s unlikely they’ll recognize you. This time of night they’re not studying faces, they’re concentrating on bosoms.” There wasn’t enough light to see if she was blushing although he suspected she was.

“You like to shock me—­or at the very least try to do so.”

“Did I succeed?”

“I wouldn’t admit if you did.”

“Good girl. Keep the hood of your pelisse up and your hand on my arm. No one will bother you.” Except for me, possibly.

“Except for you possibly,” she said as though she’d read his mind.

“I will be on my best behavior.”

But he recognized that even his best wasn’t good enough for her. She deserved a man of pedigree. Not one who’d been conceived in error, deemed unworthy of life, and was unwanted.

She couldn’t say why she was willing to risk so much to see Cremorne at its darkest. Rumors abounded that activities had become so disgraceful late at night, the area drawing such incorrigibles, that the gardens’ very existence was in jeopardy. Some were calling for it to be shut down. Perhaps a chance to see a bit of history before it was gone was what drew her.

Whose leg was she striving to pull? While she wanted to see the wickedness people got up to, she welcomed any opportunity to spend time with Mick.

As they wandered into the gardens, she felt remarkably safe in his company. No one was going to bother him. He swaggered with a confidence and a predatory air that signaled he was not one to be challenged, wasn’t accustomed to losing.

She spotted two lords she recognized, one an earl, the other a viscount. While they were dressed in fine attire, they walked as though the earth had suddenly tilted on its axis and they couldn’t find their footing. Raised to understand that one’s carriage spoke volumes regarding one’s place in the world, she was suddenly intrigued to see how very true the axiom was. Neither man possessed the bearing of someone who would sit in the House of Lords. Several second, third, fourth sons wandered by. Having never even danced with them, she wasn’t concerned they might find her familiar.

All of the men and the few women who paraded by were loud and boisterous, laughing gaily.

“Let’s have something to drink,” Mick said.

She wasn’t at all thirsty, rather more curious about what she might find deeper into the gardens, but he hardly gave her a choice as he led her into a tavern-­like structure and ordered up two pints of ale. Immediately she was intrigued, having never tasted it before. With her first sip, of its own accord, her face skewed up. He laughed.

“It tastes better once you get to the bottom of the tankard.”

“Why would they put the best at the bottom?” And how had they managed it? What a trick that must be.

“They don’t, but by the time you get to it, everything tastes better, every aspect of life seems vastly improved.” He lifted the tankard to his lips and, mesmerized, she watched his throat muscles work. He must have drained half the contents when he finally moved it away from his mouth. She didn’t want to contemplate that she was actually jealous of the pewter because his lips had closed over it. “We’ll take it with us,” he said, leading her back outside.

She took another sip and another, striving to find the portion that would finally be tasty. The odd thing was that it made her body feel warm and snuggly, and eventually she didn’t care about the taste. She liked the way she felt after a sip.

Kipwick never would have offered her ale, never would have even thought to let her sample it. Ladies might drink a glass of wine or champagne, a spot of brandy perhaps, but they certainly didn’t indulge in something as crass as beer or ale.

“Don’t judge ale as a whole too harshly,” he said. “My sister has better offerings.”

The tavern owner. “What is the name of her tavern?”

“The Mermaid and Unicorn. Gillie’s always had a whimsical bent.”

“I’d like to meet her sometime.”

He studied her, his gaze intense. “I could arrange that.”

It would be another excuse to be in his company. How many was she willing to make? A thousand perhaps. Every aspect of him fascinated her. “I’d like that.”

Her guardians wouldn’t. It would no doubt involve sneaking out again. But she didn’t want to have another clandestine meeting with him. She wanted him to call on her properly.

“We’ll discuss it later,” he said.

With a nod, she turned her attention to her surroundings. It didn’t look that much different from when she’d been here before, at least at first glance. Yet the atmosphere was very distinctive. The ladies—­and she was being kind and generous to call them such—­wore revealing frocks. If one were to sneeze, her breasts would no doubt pop out from behind the cloth. Yet they seemed perfectly comfortable with being so exposed, and the men, based upon their ogles that made her skin crawl, seemed to enjoy the view immensely. She wouldn’t want them to look at her in the same leering manner.

On the stage where before a soprano had filled the night with love songs, now a gent sang a ribald tune with crude words that referred to mating. It didn’t sound romantic at all. As a matter of fact, she wondered why any woman would want to engage in such sport when it was made to appear so animalistic, so barbaric, so tawdry.

She saw a man and woman, deep within the shadows, her back against a tree, the man’s hips ­cavorting—­

Swinging around, she found her cheek pressed against Mick’s chest; his arms came around her in a protective embrace. “They are not doing what I think they’re doing.”

“Depends what you think they’re doing.”

When he set his mind to it, the man could be quite irritating. “I thought it happened in a bed.”

“It can happen anywhere—­a bed, a chair, the floor.”

“Horizontal. I thought it a horizontal endeavor.” Having never discussed so intimate an act with anyone, she couldn’t believe she said that to him.

“Horizontal, vertical, sitting, standing, kneeling . . . the positions are limited only by the imagination.”

And she suspected he’d imagined and engaged in them all. She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to contemplate him taking a woman against a tree like a barbarian.

“What did you think to find here, Aslyn?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Drunkenness mostly.”

“Well, there is certainly that. Sip your ale.”

He took a long swallow of his. It was such a masculine endeavor. It fascinated her to watch him. His hand fairly dwarfed the mug, would dwarf intimate portions of her if he were to ever touch them. Not that he would, not that she would allow him to take such liberties. She sipped her brew. He was correct. It did taste better the more one drank. Or perhaps it had killed her ability to taste, and nothing would ever taste right again.

She began to wonder what she’d do if Kip crossed paths with her here, for surely he would recognize her. “What if we run into Kipwick?”

“We won’t.”

His certainty surprised her. “Do you know where he is?”

“There are a few places where he might be.”

“Because they provide gambling?”

“Exactly.”

“Will you show them to me?”

“Absolutely not.”

He sounded so blasted final about it. The matter wasn’t even open for discussion. “Why not?”

“They aren’t gentlemen’s clubs. Men might get the wrong idea about why you are there, so I’d end up with bruised knuckles, and a few men would find themselves missing their teeth.”

The happiness that swept through her at an image of such violence was uncalled for. Obviously, ale changed one’s perspective, caused one to act out of character. A more horrifying thought occurred to her—­that it made one act in character. “You would defend my honor?”

He looked down on her, gave her a wolfish smile. “As long as you are on my arm.”

Which she’d known if she were honest with herself. It was the reason she’d accepted his offer to come here. For all his humorlessness and questionable origins, he was a gentleman at heart. But also a rogue and a scoundrel. Strange how the latter appealed to her when it absolutely should not. Perhaps she was not truly the lady she’d always assumed herself to be.

A man staggered toward them. Mick’s arm came around her back, his hand clamping on her waist, and he fairly lifted her out of the way and to the side as though she weighed as much as a billowy cloud. The gentleman stumbled to the ground, grunted and promptly began to snore. Three laughing men came over to haul him up. His chums, she supposed.

“Why do men overindulge?” she asked.

“It makes their cares go away.”

What cares did Kip have that he didn’t want? “Do you often get foxed?”

“Never. When you’re sober again, the troubles are still there and you have to face them with a blinding headache.”

“You’re a practical man.” He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. He wouldn’t have dragged himself out of the gutter if he didn’t accept reality.

His reality had been harsh, while hers had given her a false sense of the world. She’d been sheltered from all this. Men took swings at each other, cast up their accounts and stumbled around. Bawdily dressed women were kissed, touched in places they shouldn’t be, walked off snuggled against a man’s side. Children ran around, unaccompanied, thieves, she assumed, when she saw one being chased by a gentleman yelling, “Stop, thief!”

She was glad when Mick led her back to the carriage. Having finished off her ale and a second, she was feeling warm and lethargic. Settling in across from her, he somehow seemed larger. “What was your business here?”

He shrugged as the carriage bolted into the street. “He didn’t show.”

“Why would you meet someone there and not in your office?”

“Many reasons. Mostly to keep our meeting a secret.”

“Who was it?”

“If I tell you, then it’s no longer a secret.”

She found herself wondering if there had ever been anyone or if he’d made up the excuse in order to give himself a reason to bring her here. She wished the night would never end.

At Cremorne, there had been no one for him to meet, no business to attend to, but he’d feared she’d reject his offer if she knew that all he wanted was more time with her. He couldn’t bring her during the proper hours because they would be spotted by people she knew, word would get back to Hedley, and he had no doubt she would be forbidden from associating with him. Even meeting her at the park too often could cause gossip.

He shouldn’t enjoy her company so much, should ignore her, at least until his plan came to fruition. Then he could call on her properly, like a gentleman. But where she was concerned, he seemed to have little ability to deny himself. His entire life he’d put yearnings and desires on hiatus in favor of a greater goal, but he was not willing to sacrifice time spent with her. In the end, it could very well cost him everything, and yet he couldn’t seem to regret it.

She was unaccustomed to spirits. The ale had hit her hard. She now wore a whimsical smile, as usual one side of her mouth crooked, going up a little higher than the other. He wanted to kiss that higher corner, then the lower one, then her full mouth. He wanted to thrust his tongue between her lips; he wanted to thrust his cock into her heated core. He had no doubt she was a virgin, so she would be tight and he would stretch her—­

“She didn’t appear to be enjoying it,” she said quietly, a thread of sadness woven through her voice.

He blinked, abruptly brought from his fantasy back into reality. He stared at her. He’d been in need of distraction, but he hadn’t expected her to provide it with such a nonsensical statement, but then he realized she was referring to the dove against the tree.

“She wasn’t being paid to enjoy it.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Perhaps it was the bluntness of his words. “She was a strumpet, then.”

He shrugged. “That’s as good a term as any.”

She looked out one window, then the other. Glanced up at the ceiling. Released a long slow breath. “Is it not enjoyable for women?” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I asked that of you.”

“It’s the ale. It tends to loosen one’s tongue.” He grinned. “I like it when your tongue is loosened.”

“Oh.” Her gaze was focused so intently on him that he thought she might be boring into his soul. “Is your tongue loosened enough to provide the answer?”

Maybe hers was a bit too loosened. “I could demonstrate.”

“The remainder of my body would have to be loosened for that to happen. Is that why you gave me ale, hoping I would lose all my inhibitions and my moral compass so that you might take advantage?”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t bed you if you were foxed. There would be no enjoyment for either of us in a situation such as that.”

“So women can enjoy bedding?”

“If the gentleman is the considerate sort.”

“Are you?” Again her hand covered her mouth, her eyes widened. “The words seem to come out before I even realize what they’re going to be.”

The conversation could become very interesting if he handled it just right. “I am given to believe women find pleasure in my bed.”

“Will you go see someone after you deliver me home?”

He needed to. His body was aching with need, and yet he knew any encounter would be unsatisfactory. “No.”

She glanced down at her hands, knotted in her lap. “I’m feeling a bit light-­headed.”

He stiffened, straightened. “Are you going to be ill?”

“No. I just have all these thoughts that don’t want to stay where they belong.”

“You can tell them to me. I won’t tell a soul.” Tell me something about Kipwick that I can use, that will speed things along.

“It’s a confession of sorts.”

Even better. His gut tightened at the thought of her revealing her fantasies.

“I wanted to touch your beard, that first night, when we met.”

He almost laughed aloud. He’d been envisioning sins worthy of an afterlife spent burning in hell.

“I didn’t even think to do it while we were kissing the other night,” she said. “I was so absorbed by the kiss.”

“Surely you felt it around your mouth.”

She finally looked up at him. “I did a little. It was softer than I thought, but I was focused on other things. I wanted my fingers to touch it.”

Leaning forward, he pried her hands apart, took one of them in his. “I propose a trade. You can touch my beard, and I’ll kiss the tip of your nose.”

“My nose? You can’t be serious.”

“I adore it. And if I ever meet that obnoxious cousin of yours, I’m going to flatten his nose against his face.”

She laughed. “Well, then, I do hope you cross paths with the Earl of Eames someday.”

So did he. “Are you agreeable to the terms of the trade I proposed?”

Even in the shadows, he saw her nod. “Don’t do anything,” he ordered as he gently returned her hand to her lap. Quickly, he yanked off his gloves before loosening the buttons on hers and slowly tugging it off. In spite of his best intentions, he couldn’t stop himself from tracing a figure eight over the back of her hand. So smooth, like polished marble—­only warm, not cold. Warm and fetching. Turning her hand over, he glided three fingers along her palm. The same smoothness greeted him. He wanted that luxurious silkiness against more than his fingers, more than his beard. He wanted it everywhere.

With the back of her hand nestled in the palm of his, he slowly carried her hand to his jaw where her fingers flexed before combing through the coarse strands. The gentle touch nearly undid him. Keeping his hand over hers, he leaned in farther, filling his lungs with her fragrance as his lips landed lightly against the adorable imperfect tip of her nose.

She sighed. Whether from his touch of her or hers of him, he didn’t know, he didn’t care. There was bliss in the sound, joy and contentment, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced any of those sensations.

Because he was so near to other things he wanted, he tipped her face down slightly and planted a kiss on her brow, her temple near the corner of her eye, her cheek—­

“You’re taking liberties,” she whispered, cupping his jaw with her palm, stroking his skin with her fingers. Against his hand the delicate muscles and tendons of hers worked slowly, gently.

Drawing back, he held her gaze. “I am indeed. It seems where you are concerned, I’m not very disciplined.”

In the darkness, he heard her swallow. “The ale wants you to kiss me again.”

“Well, I would not wish to disappoint the ale.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

As their lips merged and their tongues were reintroduced, she was vaguely aware of his crossing over to her bench without staggering or falling in spite of the moving carriage. Her hand remained on his jaw while his continued to cover it as his free arm snaked around her back, drew her in nearer, nestling her partially against his side, partially against his sturdy chest. She wished the waistcoat and jacket were absent, as they’d been that night in his office, so the heat from his body had less fabric through which to travel. It still reached her, seeped through her clothes into her skin, but it wasn’t nearly as pleasant.

The kiss, however, was more than it had been before. Perhaps it was because she now knew what to expect of him, or perhaps it was because the ale had chased away all her inhibitions, doubts and guilt, but when he angled his head to take the kiss deeper, she adjusted hers so she could welcome him fully. His deep growl served as both reward and encouragement. He tightened his hold, and she wondered if it were possible for them to be absorbed into each other.

She had intended to remain strong, to resist his allure, but the gentleness with which he’d rained kisses over her face had been her undoing. Bringing her free hand up, she cradled his bearded face between both hands. His whiskers fascinated her. They were at once silky yet coarse. She longed to watch him trim his beard, shave around it. It should have made him look scruffy and common. Instead, it made him appear forceful, dangerous. A man to be reckoned with.

All the dire warnings the duchess had given her were for naught. A woman could be alone with a man without sacrificing her reputation and self-­respect. A woman could ask for a kiss without being made to feel as though she deserved nothing better than wandering the streets.

Being in his arms elevated her. It was wrong, on so many levels, in so many ways, and yet she couldn’t seem to regret it.

He dragged his mouth from hers, took it on a slow journey along her chin, her jaw, her throat. “Dear God, Aslyn, I would have you here in the coach if you but whisper yes.”

“A kiss. Only a kiss.” Her response came from a seemingly great distance, and she wasn’t altogether certain it was the answer the ale desired, but the lady groomed inside her would let no other pass between her lips.

“Then I shall be content with that.”

Disappointment warred with relief. His mouth returned to hers, hungrily, eagerly, and this time the kiss seemed to reach all the way down to her toes. They curled within her boots. She wanted to kick off the heavy leather coverings and run her stockinged feet along his calves, wanted his bare hand to close around the arch of her foot, squeeze it.

Instead, he took the kiss deeper until it obliterated all thought, ignited a blaze of frenzied yearnings that fairly consumed her. How could the mere press of lips, the waltzing of tongues create a myriad of sensations in every part of her body? Heat swirled, nerve endings tingled, limbs went lethargic even as they seemed energized. She wound her arms around his neck, scraped her fingers up into his hair, relished the silken strands curling around them.

Moving aside her pelisse, he cupped his hand around her waist, glided it up her side, held it there for three heartbeats before moving it along her ribs—­

Up. To cradle her breast, squeeze lightly.

She should have been appalled, should have shoved him away. Instead, with a moan, she continued to explore his mouth as though on the morrow she would have to recount every exquisite detail. He brushed his thumb across her nipple, and it responded with a sweet, painful tightening, straining for another stroke.

When it came, she nearly wept. When his mouth left hers, she nearly cried out.

She was disoriented, so it took her a moment to realize they were no longer moving. Breathing heavily, she stared at him, the glow from the nearby streetlamp chasing away enough of the shadows that she could see him relatively clearly. Not the precise details, not the colors, but the hunger. His desire for her was evident in his expression, as though he suffered greatly.

“I fear I’ve worked you up into a lather. I suppose you’ll go to a brothel now.” She hated the notion of another woman touching him, of another being able to touch him in ways that a lady of her station could not, must not, would not.

“No.” His voice was raw as though he’d had to drag the word up from the depths of his soul.

“I lied. It wasn’t the ale that wanted you to kiss me.”

He flashed a grin. “I know.”

Sobering, he cradled her face, stroked his thumb over her high cheekbone. “Never in my life have I longed to be legitimate more so than I do at this very moment.”

His words devastated her. Leaning in, she took his mouth, sweetly, tenderly. “The circumstances of your birth shouldn’t matter.”

“Yet they do. I can’t take tea with you in a nobleman’s parlor nor waltz with you in his ballroom. I can’t escort you to the theater or be seen walking you through the park too often.” He shook his head. “Even once more and tongues will wag. But I want to see you again. Have dinner with me tomorrow night at the hotel. Currently the few guests we have are not nobility. They are simply people passing through. Even if they see you they won’t know who you are. Your presence there will never be found out. There’s something I want to share with you.”

She could think of many things she’d like him to share with her: his mouth, his hands, his broad chest, the hollow at his shoulder where she was relatively certain her head would fit perfectly. Before her thoughts could careen to portions of his body located below his waist, she cut them off and focused on what he was asking, implying, suggesting: a tryst at his hotel. Another illicit evening spent with him. She knew what her answer should be: No. Absolutely not. It simply isn’t done.

But where he was concerned, she’d already done a great deal that simply wasn’t done. She’d lied, sneaked about, spent time in his company without benefit of a chaperone.

So her answer was not what it should have been, but clearly was what she wanted it to be. “I’ll find a way to sneak out.”

He stroked his fingers along the edge of her face, along her hairline. “Splendid.”

“Until tomorrow then.”

“I shall count the minutes.”

As would she. Each and every one until she was again in his arms.