Mary gaped up at him

Drat it all, but he always knew just what to say to disarm her. Every word that came out of his mouth was fashioned to send her body into spasms of want.

Though . . . what cause had he to be frustrated? He’d made his intentions toward her painfully clear. All week long he had avoided her. Or worse—ignored her. Tonight, though, for some reason, he seemed unable to leave her be. A silly hope, to have imagined he was escorting her outside for a kiss. She would not make the same mistake twice.

She forced her gaze beyond his shoulders, to the bright lights of the ball, waiting just beyond the front door. The music inside had shifted from the sweeping waltz they’d just shared into something lively. Her chance to dance with another partner and ask more questions was slipping from her hands. She considered barreling around him, returning to the fray.

But as if he could read her mind, those handsome lips shifted to a smirk. “I don’t think so. Time for bed now.”

Good heavens, he even managed to make that sound suggestive. Either that or her mind was flying there itself, urged on by his maddening words and easy smiles. He was a danger to the sanity and sanctity of women everywhere.

The Cardwell coach pulled up to the steps. With a small huff of irritation, she turned away from the hand he offered—as if he could play the gentleman now, ha!—and yanked open the coach door. Ignoring his offer of assistance, she climbed up in a profusion of skirts and silk. She imagined he would shut the door and instruct the driver to take her straight home. Instead, he surprised her by climbing in and settling on the seat across from her.

“You are coming, too?” she asked bitterly.

“I don’t trust you to see yourself all the way home,” came his infuriatingly mild reply. He rapped on the roof and then they were off, spinning through the evening, gaslights flashing by the glass windows in a muddied smear of light.

A moment of silence passed, a gasp of time during which Mary tried—in vain—to compose herself. How could she have been so foolish as to imagine he’d only wanted to dance with her? To walk with her in the moonlight and perhaps kiss her again? Those handsome blue eyes had knocked her sideways, destroyed her ability to think strategically. He had done it to distract her, and then waltzed her right off the dance floor before she knew which end was up.

She fixed her eyes on the ceiling of the coach, the door’s fine-grained woodwork, gleaming in the occasional flash of light from the street.

Anywhere but him.

“You are trembling,” he observed.

Mary’s gaze jerked toward him, though it was dangerous to give her eyes such permission. He was brooding across the seat, one leg stretched out in front of him, brushing against her skirts. “I assure you,” she retorted, “it is not from fear.”

“Naive of you, I’d say, given the danger you stirred up tonight, asking questions of everyone in sight.”

“I am not in danger,” she snapped. “Good heavens, must you natter on about it so? I only asked a few questions of a few people. It isn’t as if I stood drunkenly on the punch table and shouted, ‘Does anyone here want to kill Queen Victoria?’”

He stared at her for an undecipherable moment, then patted the seat next to him. “If you aren’t afraid, you must be cold then. Come and sit next to me. I know how to keep you warm.”

“I am not cold.” In fact, she was incensed. She stripped off her gloves, hoping it might help cool the flush spreading beneath her skin. “I am trembling because I am angry, you dolt. With you.”

There was a moment of silence. She thought, perhaps, he was laughing at her. But in the sudden flash of an outside gaslight, she caught the tension in his jaw. He didn’t look to be enjoying himself, precisely. “Why are you angry?” he asked, more softly now.

“You have no right to treat me this way.”

There was a beat of hesitation, as if he was considering his answer. “Perhaps it isn’t a God-given right,” he said, “as much as concern that makes me take such an imprudent interest in your hide.” His voice thickened. “But there is no denying I feel responsible for you.”

Once again, his words spun circles in her ears. She didn’t want to believe he felt anything for her but annoyance, but when he said things like that . . . and looked at her like this . . .

She could nearly believe he meant it. That she meant something to him, beyond a thorn in his side. But good heavens, could the man not decide his intentions? One moment he was cold toward her, the next he was too hot. Wasn’t a changeable nature supposed to be a woman’s purview? It was growing exhausting trying to guess his moods.

“Then you are fickle,” she retorted, shaking her head clear of those dangerous thoughts and hopes, “as well as foolish.”

“I am not the one taking foolish risks. And if you insist on cavorting about town without a chaperone, chasing all manner of ruffians, I will have no choice but to tell Lady Ashington about your adventures.”

Mary gasped out loud. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Fear kicked aside the potent combination of anger and attraction he’d kindled, the danger of such a threat all too real. “Have you forgotten about my sister’s condition? She feels too responsible for my circumstances now, thanks to your insufferable behavior at the literary salon. She could not withstand the strain of such a surprise.”

He spread his hands. “That would be on your head. Not mine.”

Though it was the truth, his argument stung. She had done all she could to hide the circumstances of this newest adventure from Eleanor, but even as she let herself out of the silent, sleeping house, she had known there was some risk of discovery. She felt remorse in taking such a risk with her sister’s health, but she didn’t know what else to do. She was trying to help everyone, and lives were at stake on both sides of the equation. If only he showed some sign of taking the threats to the queen’s life seriously, things might be different. But as long as he ignored the looming danger, how could she choose another path?

“She must not find out,” Mary breathed. “Promise me, West. That you won’t tell her.”

“If it came down to a matter of ensuring your safety, I would have to.” He pulled a hand through his hair, though he scarcely needed the help to look any more rakish. “Besides, have you considered that someone else might tell her of your evening’s adventure?” he added. “That she might read about you once again in the gossip rags? Everyone saw us dancing. The gossip must even now be flying about the ballroom.”

She looked down at her hands. Drat it all. He was right. She hadn’t thought about that possibility when she’d permitted him to tug her on to the dance floor. The man made every sane thought in her head go straight to mush.

Good heavens, could this web of deceit get any thicker?

She looked up, anger splicing her shame. “You are insufferable,” she shot across the few inches that separated them. Why, oh why, had she consented to a dance with him? He had probably known what he was doing from the start, plotting a public downfall, using it to press his advantage. “Incorrigible.” Her mind flew to a simpler word, one that even someone as thick as he could understand. “Selfish.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Indecent?” she retorted. “Irredeemable?”

“No, I believe ‘cowardly’ was the term used tonight.”

She nodded. “Craven. Pusillanimous.”

“I know how much you like to read, but I’ve had a few years at university myself. I studied architecture for a time, under Phillip Hardwick, so you should know that tossing around such large words isn’t going to impress me.”

His smirk plucked at her anger. So, too, did the reminder that he was not as stupid as she liked to imagine. Phillip Hardwick was one of London’s most distinguished architects, and the thought that this man had once aspired to something more useful than to seduce scores of women sent anger coursing through her. “Well, large stones aren’t going to impress me!”

“So you admit they are large.”

Her eyes narrowed. Drat the man, he even managed to boast like a scoundrel. His ego was as enormous as his . . . well . . . his stones.

“You are the most egotistical man!” she panted. “Supercilious!”

“You forgot ‘large’,” he taunted.

She glared at him through the spinning shadows inside the coach. “Not so large.” A lie, that. Because she had felt him well enough when he’d pressed his body against hers tonight. And heaven help her, she’d felt an answering curiosity, swirling inside her. “In fact, I think diminutive might be a better word choice. Miniscule. Infinitesimal.”

“Have easy with such premature judgments.” White teeth flashed in the darkness. “You can’t really know how large they are until you hold them in your hands.”

“I wouldn’t . . . that is, a lady would never . . .” Her protest trailed off, and her cheeks flamed with unwelcome heat. Truly, she didn’t know what a lady might or might not do. He’d no doubt had plenty in his bed through the years. “You, sir,” she choked out, “are no gentleman.”

“Haven’t claimed to be, as far as I know,” he said, even as the coach pulled to a stop, signaling their arrival at Grosvenor Square. “Most ladies prefer a bit of a rogue, truthfully.” He glanced out the window, his brow furrowing. “Here you are. No. 29 Grosvenor Square. Safe and sound.”

Mary hesitated. She might be safe, but she was hardly sound, given that part of her wanted to stay right here in the coach. Fuming at herself now as much as him, she shook herself from her scoundrel-induced stupor and reached a hand toward the door latch, only to find it suddenly trapped beneath his gloved hand.

Her pulse startled, like a bird flushed from heather. She glared at him. “Was there something else you wanted? Would you like to call me Miss Rat now, instead of Mouse?”

“God no,” he choked. A curious shudder ran through him, and her hand absorbed it, though what it meant, she had no clue.

“Then perhaps you might like to come inside and start shouting in the stairwell? Hatch a plan to send my sister into early labor? I assure you, there is no need to pursue additional measures to ensure my compliance. I will not interfere again. The threats you’ve made are quite sufficient to muzzle any further nocturnal activities I might be considering.”

“Nocturnal activities, hmmm?” He rose from his seat, nearly predatory over her, his hand still pinning hers to the door. “Where must that innocent mind be dwelling, to come up with such a specific phrase?”

“Must you always turn a simple conversation into innuendo?” she snapped, though she did not try to tug her hand free. “My mind is not dwelling on anything but irritation, I assure you. And the driver—”

“Will neither move nor speculate as to the cause of our delay.”

She stiffened. “Because he is familiar with your reputation?”

“Because I supplement his salary, and he knows to be discreet.” Gently, he tugged her hand away from the door latch. She let him. Settled back onto her seat. Watched—without protest—as he pulled down the shade over the little glass window. Confusion scattered her wits. Apparently West wasn’t quite ready for her to go in yet either. The thought made her fingers curl over the silk gloves bunched in her hand.

He moved closer, his head bent down. She could smell the fresh soap and cinnamon scent of rum wafting off his skin, the faint, acrid scent of smoke, not at all unpleasant, clinging to his clothes. The melding fragrances were no less potent than the twisted promise in his words. She sank back against the velvet seat. “Why would you wish me to stay another moment? You’ve delivered your threats. Hastened me home, nearly trussed and bound. I can’t imagine what else you feel we must discuss.”

“Trussed and bound.” He shook his handsome head. “Honestly, Miss Channing, you have a flair for carnal theatrics.” He settled on his knees in front of her, his head now level with her own. “Can you not even admit you feel it?” He tugged the gloves out of her clutched fingers. Placed them on the seat beside her. “This odd alchemy between us?”

Mary’s eyes drifted toward her discarded gloves, feeling the loss of that armor keenly of a sudden. Her heart was spinning on a broken axis. She had no experience in such things, possessed no standard against which to measure the depth of this folly. He described it as alchemy, but she suspected it came closer to sorcery. And as prettily as the words were delivered, as much as it made her skin flush warm, it was a claim she couldn’t—mustn’t—believe. “Hardly odd,” she scoffed, lifting her eyes to meet his own, “from a man who’s had half the eligible women in London.”

“Surely no more than a quarter of them.” His words might be infuriating, but something about the timbre of his voice was making her stomach turn in an endless loop of want. He chuckled. “Though, I’ve admittedly had some of the ineligible ones, too.”

Drat it all, did he have to remind her? She understood she was sitting in a darkened coach with an insufferable rake. Understood, too, she was here by choice, not duress. She did not need the reminder of her foolishness. “Yes, I’ve heard of your substantial amount of experience in the field of alchemy,” she said bitterly.

In response, he began to strip the glove from his right hand, loosening the fingers and then sliding it off in a smooth, practiced motion. Mary watched through the darkness, her breath trapped in her throat. Dear heavens, he even undressed like a scoundrel, every move destined to send women in paroxysms of want. She watched as the leather slid free and he dropped the fine kidskin onto the floor of the coach. “Perhaps,” he said, almost lazily, “that substantial experience is how I know this chemistry between us is so odd.”

The night thickened, the air in the coach stirring with small eddies of possibility. “I should think,” she breathed, her eyes drifting to the tempting, bare gleam of his hand, “that ‘odd’ is too simple of a word.” Especially given that her own emotions tilted more in the portentous direction.

He removed his other glove and then his hands were laid bare—though for what reason, she couldn’t yet guess. Not for any safe, proper purpose, of that she was sure. She thought of how his hand had dipped into her bodice that night in the library. What if he meant to do that again?

What if she wanted him to do that again?

But no . . . his fingers were only shifting to dance over her silk-covered knee, the pressure and warmth of his touch shocking, even through all the layers.

“If not odd, perhaps you might choose another word then.” His lips shifted into a particularly wicked smile. “Incongruous might be more pleasing to your vocabulary. Anomalous.” His fingers swirled against her skirts, a silken, rhythmic promise. “No matter what else you may think of me, you must believe me when I say this sort of pull between two people, this rubbing along together . . .” He hesitated, as if sorting through the words to apply. “It does not happen every day.”

She refused to believe it, even as she prayed he wouldn’t stop. She’d read any number of novels, lost herself in the story on more occasions than she could count. She knew better than most that villains would say nearly anything to have their way with a heroine. “It feels more like we are rubbing in opposite directions a good deal of the time,” she breathed, though she could not summon the good sense to pull away from his touch.

“Sometimes, the right friction creates the most delicious kind of pleasure.” His other hand curled against her opposite calf, shifting her legs apart so he could lean closer, kneeling in front of her. Her skin prickled with awareness.

This. This was the proximity her body was craving.

His grin shifted to something wicked at her lack of protest, his handsome mouth hovering only inches from her own now. “And you must trust me when I say, Mary, that I know exactly where to rub.”

The faint hint of whisky on his breath proved her undoing. She imagined if she pressed her tongue to the corner of his mouth, she would taste the spirit there. In the faint light drifting in from around the edges of the window shade, she stared at the sinful swoop of his upper lip, nearly flush with her own. The feelings he had so expertly evoked that night behind the library curtains welled up beneath her skin, nearly pushed her forward. “I . . . I should probably leave,” she breathed.

“The coach door is not locked,” he murmured softly. “You may leave whenever you wish.” His touch against her knee lightened. “And you probably ought to leave, before you do something you will regret.”

Mary swallowed. He made it sound as if the choice was hers.

As he crouched in front of her, his bare hands against her silk-draped skin, she realized that perhaps it was her choice. What would it cost, really? A moment in his arms? The entire city already believed her the worst sort of wanton. The entirety of Mayfair had seen the gossip rags, and moreover, had probably seen her leave tonight with the most infamous scoundrel in London tonight. What harm would come of kissing him again, when the world believed she’d done worse?

That knowledge, more than anything, propelled her to imprudence.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, fumbling inexpertly at the mechanics of it, trying to remember the few pieces she had learned that night in the library and again during that fleeting moment in the cathedral. He did taste of whisky, and lemonade as well, and the flavors propelled her onward.

Pleasure spiraled in her abdomen, a centrifugal desire, centering low. His hands came up to cup the back of her head, loosening the few pins she’d ineptly placed there, and her hair gave up its narrow hold on propriety, tumbling down around her shoulders.

He offered a small groan of approval against her mouth. His fingers tightened against her scalp, shifting her head, changing the angle of how they met. And just like that, her initial blunder of a kiss shifted to something that nearly made the seat vibrate beneath her.

“Oh,” she breathed, her lips parting. An invitation. Naively offered, perhaps, but gladly taken by the rogue who currently held her in his expert hands.

His tongue began to move in lazy circles against her own, languorous sweeps inside her mouth. The feel of his thumbs cradling her face loosened a sigh of pleasure from somewhere deep inside her, a place she couldn’t name or touch. His mouth played against her own, testing, the hot, warm sweep of his tongue melting inside her.

Her fingers fisted in his jacket, hauling him closer. Obligingly, his hands swept up and then down her bare arms, raising gooseflesh in their wake, and leaving behind a trail of trembling want. His fingers came down to twine into her own, and then he lifted her hands high above her head, pinning them lightly against the velvet backing of the seat, causing her breasts to rise high above her corset and brush against the wool of his evening jacket.

And then he was licking his way down her neck, branding each inch of skin with small pinches of teeth. Oh, but the man knew what he was doing. Her head lolled back against the soft seat back, the heat in her womb blooming into more of an explosion. Alchemy, he’d called it.

More like arson, a flame set to ready tinder.

She wished she could resent him for making her want this—want him—so very much, but that would require logic and reason, and those necessary pieces of thought had quite flown out of the coach window at the moment.

His touch became teasing. Though one hand kept her wrists lifted high, his other hand drifted down the swell of her breast to dip beneath her neckline. “Oh,” she gasped as his hand found the magic of her nipple, rolling the needful skin between his fingers. “Yes, there.”

His mouth came back to hers, diving in for a hot, wet, wicked kiss. Now her own hands moved, pulling from his slight grip, lowering about his neck, threading through the sinful softness of the hair at his nape. There was a familiarity here, a hint of memory. They’d done this before, behind the curtains that portentous night. It was nearly a relief to realize this was what she had been missing these heady, frustrating few weeks.

But there was newness, too. A rush of air tickled her silk stockings. She felt the slide of her skirts as he inched them upward toward her knees, the silk and crinolines fisted in one hand, even as the other hand played expertly against her breast.

His fingers danced—truly, there was no other word for it—against the quivering skin of her thighs, advancing, retreating, evoking a repartee of want and hope, promising more and yet warning her to wait. All the while he kissed her, wreaking havoc on every sense she had, and some she hadn’t known she possessed.

West slowed his ascent, though every sense he possessed told him to reach his destination faster. Good Christ, what was he doing? He’d only intended to have a little taste of her lips.

Remind himself of her innocence, of all the reasons they shouldn’t do this.

But the moment her lips had met his, his restraint went to shite.

Even now, as he gently broke away from their kiss, searching her face for clues as to how to apologize for such boorish behavior, his thoughts retained the blurred consistency of a fever dream. The taste of her lingered on the tongue like the sweetest of drugs, and in spite of his stern admonishment to make his mouth behave, he couldn’t help but let his hands linger on the soft rise of her thigh resting beneath his fingers.

She didn’t tell him “no”.

He swallowed, almost wishing she would. If there was a reality to be found here, it was hazy, a muddied understanding that, however far she was willing to take this, he would not, could not, go as far as he wanted. But he couldn’t quite resist sliding a finger along the ribbon that held up her garter, the knowledge of what the bit of frippery guarded making his fingers tremble. A world of temptation in that ribbon.

And a world of temptation in this woman.

“Odd”, he’d called this thing stretching between them. He’d meant it. He could think of no other word that so adequately described the feelings she evoked in him, this sensation of wanting something so desperately, and yet not knowing where he was heading, or what he was doing. She’d called him fickle and foolish, and perhaps he was both those things.

But it was telling, perhaps, how steadfast he was in those sentiments.

No matter how hard he pushed her away, no matter how forcefully he drove himself in the opposite direction, he kept circling back to her.

He was an experienced rake. He’d welcomed women more worldly than this one into his bed, and made sure each one left happy. He was not supposed to tremble at the thought of untying a simple silk ribbon, or lowering a wisp of stocking. And yet, here he was, his fingers shaking as the ribbon slid free of its loops, a whisper of silk and sin. As he hooked his fingers about the top of her stocking, he met her gaze. She was staring down at him, eyes wide, her hair a dark curtain of rain about her shoulders and her sweet swell of chest rising and falling in encouragement.

Perhaps . . . perhaps there was something to be done here. Something beyond a mumbled, false apology. Something that would keep her innocence—and his sanity—intact, but still thrum the cords of pleasure he could feel vibrating beneath her skin.

He slowly began to inch the silk stocking down her leg, all the while watching her face for signs to guide this journey. A small puff of a sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her hands curled against the velvet seat.

He hesitated as the stocking rounded her knee. What did that sigh mean? He felt out of his depth with uncertainty, wanting her with a ferocity that would have made those who thought they knew him fall down in spasms of laughter. How fast and hard the mighty fall.

If she told him “no” again—which was a word he knew well could fall so easily from those lips—he would stop. Leave them both wanting and unsatisfied, though he knew he had the power to bring at least one of them to completion this night.

But no . . . she was shifting against the velvet seat.

Slipping out of her shoes. Lifting her leg, ever so slightly.

Granting him an undreamed of permission.

A groan of approval slid out of him as he took the advantage she offered. He slid the silk lower, over the sweet, rounded curve of her calf, past a trim ankle. And then he turned his attention to the other side, repeating the process, moving by scant inches, until at last her legs were beautifully bared for him. He sank back on his heels, his heart a bloody hammer against his ribs. She had the loveliest legs, begging for the sort of attention he knew how to give.

He turned himself over to the pleasure of providing it. Pressed his mouth against the sweet curve of skin. Inhaled the lemon essence of her, sharply innocent and yet the most seductive fragrance possible. He kissed his way up the length of her leg, lingering on every curve, every hollow. And all the while, his thoughts wrapped greedily around the sound of her pants and moans, filing them away for later dissection and enjoyment.

He nipped along the tender skin of her thighs, pushing the wire cage of her crinoline aside with a frustrated hand. Damned modern things, blocking a man’s way to a woman’s pleasure. His fingers slipped through the opening in her drawers. Brushed her damp curls, searching for her core. When he found it, relief and lust threatened to swamp him. She was slick with promise. At last, he could read her, though he doubted she realized she was now an open book. She wanted this. Wanted him.

His fingers found the place that made her hips lift, pleading, toward his hand. The very heart of a woman, the doorway to her desire. He slipped a finger inside her. Felt her quim tighten deliciously. Ah, God, but he wanted this woman. Wanted to see her undressed, flushed with pleasure beneath him, her eyes wide with the wonder he could show her. But all they had was this stolen moment, crinolines and coach seats and nighttime shadows. He would make it count, for her. He could do nothing else.

He took a moment to learn her. Focused on her small, breathy sighs, the way her body twisted toward his fingers. The sounds she made nearly made him spill in his trousers, but this was about her pleasure, not his, and so he forced his mind away from the demands of his own body. She helped him along, her gasps of pleasure like a symphony to his ears. She was twisting beneath him now, her hands roped through his hair, that telltale pressure against his scalp like a guidebook to her spiraling pleasure. He paid attention to that miraculous touch against his hair. Adjusted his approach. Added a second finger to her inner exploration, curling his fingers into the heart of her. There. He could tell by the way she drew in a sharp breath.

He’d found her, sorted her out.

Her breaths became pants, and her hands fisted to the point of near-pain against his scalp. He was relentless, driving her toward the cliff he knew awaited her, luring her over the point of hesitation, until he could feel her, trembling on the edge. He placed his thumb against her swollen nub. Pressed it there, insisting.

“Let go, Mary,” he breathed, begging her to take the chance.

She slid over the abyss, her body rigid, the discovery of her own potential for pleasure a desperate cry on her lips. Her body convulsed about his needy fingers, the breath whooshing out of her. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight. And then she was settling back to earth, her eyes closed, her quim rippling about his fingers.

He tried to remember if he’d ever delivered a woman’s pleasure with no expectation or possibility of finding his own. Couldn’t think of a time.

The sight of her, tousled and languid, tempted him to dive back in and convince her of the need for another go. But instead, he slowly collected himself. Pulled her skirts back down. Smoothed a hand down her leg. He couldn’t do much about the stockings.

Re-dressing a woman was a skill he’d never needed to learn.

He collected the filmy silk underthings from the floorboards, along with her gloves. Placed the items on her lap. Rocked back on his heels and waited for her to say something. Anything.

Her eyes fluttered open. “That was . . . ah . . . quite climactic.”

He chuckled at her choice of word. “Are such things not discussed in those books you are always reading?” he teased. “You can do that endlessly. As many times and as often as you wish. Men, usually, need a bit of time between goes.”

Though, he suspected that for him, that time would be remarkably short, if she was the reward waiting at the end of his recovery.

He slipped her shoe back onto her bare feet, trying to sever the lustful nature of his thoughts. It didn’t work. He was wound tighter than a clock tower, and relief was not to be found in this coach tonight. He dared to meet her eyes. Felt bowled over by the way she looked, her hair falling over her shoulders, her skin dewy in the meager light. He’d done that to her. He’d done that with her. And God help him, he wanted to do more.

Instead, he pushed away from where he was kneeling. She’d crawled under his skin, somehow. Made him lose his wits every time she walked into a room. Oh, but the things he could show her, if given half a chance. But no matter how delightful this interlude, no matter how passion flared so readily between them, she didn’t want him as a husband. Had made it abundantly clear. So he stood up as well as he could in the body of the cramped coach. Straightened his jacket and turned the latch on the coach door.

Climbed outside into the streetlight and offered her his hand. She stared down at it, her mouth slightly open, her lips still swollen from his kiss.

“Come now, let’s get you inside quickly now,” he prompted. “Before your sister discovers you are gone.”

That, finally, shook her out of her hesitation. She placed one bare hand in his, her gloves and stockings clutched in the other, and climbed out in a froth of wrinkled skirts and mussed hair.

They walked up the steps in silence. “Do you have a key?” he asked as they came to the front door.

“Yes. I lifted it from Mrs. Greaves’s key ring during afternoon tea.” She opened the front door, and her gaze met his over her shoulder. “I . . . well . . . that is . . .” She worried her lip in her teeth. “I suppose this is good night, then?”

He nodded stiffly. “Good night, Miss Channing. Sleep well.”

As the door closed and he heard the sound of the key in the lock, he leaned his forehead against the door, trying to wrestle his emotions under control. He’d long imagined they would be a combustible mix when they finally found a way to do more than spar, and tonight had proven his suspicions true. What were they doing, pursuing this strange, dangerous folly?

She’d been correct when she’d pointed out that more often than not they rubbed in opposite directions. He felt like a foolish young man again, panting after that untouchable nun in the vestibule of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. Not even two weeks ago, this woman had refused his more honorable overtures. He could ask her to marry him again, but he suspected he would know her answer.

No. A thousand times, no.

Hell, she’d nearly refused his request tonight for a simple, uncomplicated dance. And could he blame her? She thought him a rake. He’d all but proven it tonight, kissing her in such a manner when he ought to be running in the complete opposite direction. He would be the first to admit he would make a terrible husband. And that meant this simmering thing stretching between them could go no further, could end nowhere but these front steps—for her own safety, as much as his own sanity.

There was no other choice.

He himself was as much a danger to her as the damned assassins.