Clary awoke to a cloudy-dusk light. A breeze, fresh with the scent of rain, wafted in from her open bedroom window. She reached out for Gabriel, but he wasn’t beside her—though the sheets were still warm, as if he’d just stepped away. His clothes were still pooled on the floor too, except for his trousers and shirt.
Sitting up, she wiped the blurriness from her eyes and slid to the edge of the bed. Strange parts of her body were sore, but she didn’t regret a moment she’d spent with him. Yawning, she stretched her arms over her head and smiled. Her first thought was to find him and do it all over again.
A sound drew her attention to the window. Shouting, angry voices. Altercations were rare in Bloomsbury Square, especially out in front of the row of houses for all to see.
Rushing toward her wardrobe, she grabbed a dressing gown and tied the belt at her waist as she made her way to the window.
Down on the street, Gabriel stood arguing with a little boy. He fisted his hand in the child’s shirt front as he shouted at him.
Pushing the curtain aside, she slid the window up, and ducked her head out. “Gabriel.”
He either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her call. Without bothering to find her boots, she started downstairs. Gabriel burst through the front door, pushing the boy along ahead of him. The child had a colorful vocabulary and seemed determined to expend every foul word he knew denouncing Gabriel’s rough handling.
“ ’E’ll ’ear o’ this, ye can bet a crown, and ’e’ll bury ye in the Thames, you bleedin’ rotter.”
Gabe released the child, and he stumbled forward, straightening his ragged old frock coat as if it were Bond Street’s finest.
“Well, I never.” Kit and Phee’s housekeeper stood near the stairwell, eyes gaping, a hand covering her mouth. “Miss Ruthven, this is most unusual.”
“Mrs. Simms, some tea in the drawing room, I think.” Clary caught the child’s eye. “And milk?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“And biscuits?” The boy shot her a crooked grin.
Gabriel stepped toward her and placed his hand on her arm, caressing up and down in a comforting gesture. “Let me deal with him. I don’t want you involved with this.”
Clary leaned to get another look at the boy. He was eyeing the trinkets on the hall table, making a stealthy grab for a porcelain box. She cleared her throat, and he settled the box back on the table without a backward glance.
“If the matter of this boy involves you, then it’s a matter that involves me,” she told Gabriel. “You said in the park that there’d be no going back.”
He wasn’t happy with her tenacity. She could see the flicker of irritation in his gaze, but he relented, slipping an arm around her back and clapping his other hand on the boy’s nape. He led them both into the drawing room and closed the door.
“Those biscuits comin’ soon?” Almost the moment the boy’s words were out, Mrs. Simms rolled a tea tray into the room, ducking back out as quickly as her legs would carry her.
Clary poured two cups of tea and lifted a pitcher of milk toward the boy.
“If you please, miss. Ever so kind, you are.” He settled his gangly frame on Kit and Phee’s lavender couch, flicking his grimy frock coattails out behind him.
She served him biscuits on a pretty blue-and-white plate and milk in a teacup, and he dipped his head in haughty thanks, as if he were a nobleman taking his afternoon repast.
“Which of you would like to tell me what’s going on?” Clary rested on a settee cushion and took a sip of tea.
“Brought a proposition to ’is nibs, and he took a huff, ’e did.” The boy shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth. Crumbs tumbled down his chest as he chewed. “Wouldn’t let me get a word in h’edgewise. Would ye, guv?”
“What proposition?” Clary asked both of them.
Gabriel, who’d been pacing around the room, finally took a seat beside her, tipping her cushion toward him with his bulk. A bit of milky tea sloshed onto her finger. When she winced, he gently took her cup from her hand and lifted her finger to his lips. “Does it burn?” He blew against her overwarm digit.
“I’m all right.” Except for the fact that she never liked being fussed over, yet somehow adored his tender ministrations. “Tell me about the proposition.”
The boy yanked a dirty square of folded paper from his coat. “Right ’ere. Plain as day. Never took the time to read a word, did ye, guv?”
Clary retrieved the note and began unfolding the edges. Gabe’s large hand came crashing down over hers, crumpling the paper. “It’s from the man I spoke to you about. I want nothing to do with him or this child, who’s one of his messengers.”
“Slander!” the boy shouted. “I work for meself and for whoever’s got a bob to send a message.”
Gabe leaned toward him. “I’ll give you half a bloody sovereign to forget this address. Forget you ever spoke to me. Forget your way back to my doorstep.”
The boy scooped up the remaining biscuits and shoved them in his trouser pocket. “Done,” he assured Gabe. “No message for Rigg, then?”
After digging in his pocket, Gabe flipped a gold coin in the air. The boy bounded forward and caught the shiny disc in his palm. After lifting the half sovereign to bite the edge, he cast Gabe a satisfied grin and shoved the bounty in his coat pocket. “Best be on me way,” he said.
Clary scooted forward to see the boy off.
“Let me.” Gabe placed a hand in her lap to stop her. At the threshold, she heard him call to the child. “I do have a message for Rigg. Tell him to burn in hell.”
Smoothing the paper out on her lap, she tried to make out the words. The ink had run on the sodden page.
“Did you ever hear the story about curiosity and a cat?” Gabe’s deep voice called to her from the doorway.
“He says he wishes to pay you to fight.”
“Of course he does.” He came into the room and closed the door behind him. “How much does he offer?”
“One hundred pounds.”
Gabe snorted. “And what’s my share to be? A few shillings?” He lowered himself to the settee beside her again, carefully this time, though she held no cup of tea. Stretching an arm out along the furnishing’s back, he lifted a hand to stroke her hair.
“Says here that the one hundred pounds is your share, in victory or defeat.” Clary placed a hand on his thigh and smiled when his muscles jumped under her touch. “Did he always pay you so much?”
“Never. At first he gave me nothing. Food, a cot to sleep on. I was paying off my mother’s debt for years. Then, when I began prize fighting, he’d give me just enough to pay for a decent meal, a bit of mischief. Never enough to save or better myself.” As he spoke, he gathered her unbound hair in his hand, slipping his fingers underneath to stroke the sensitive skin of her nape.
Clary’s body pebbled with gooseflesh, and heat pooled between thighs. He leaned closer to nuzzle her neck, cupped her cheek, and lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. She forgot the note, the child, everything but the tantalizing taste of him.
“How long before they’re home?” He slid a hand inside her dressing gown and cupped her breast in his palm.
“Hours.”
He smiled and kissed her again. Then he stood and reached for her hand. Clary led the way, and when they reached her bedroom and locked themselves inside, she pushed Gabe against the door and stood on her toes to kiss him. He groaned when she teased at his lips with her tongue, reaching around to grab her backside and lifting her against him.
Turning with her in his arms, he gently pushed her back against the door and reached down to part her dressing gown and settle her legs around his waist.
“Is it possible . . . like this?” she asked between kisses.
He was hot and hard between her thighs, and she wanted to try.
“Yes,” he said, breathing against her mouth, “but I want to take you to bed.” He settled her back on her feet.
Clary smiled, sidestepped past him, and dashed for the bed. “Ow!” Her bare foot came down on some obstruction beneath their pile of discarded clothes, and she hobbled to a chair near the fireplace.
Gabe rushed forward and knelt to take her foot in his hand. “There’s no cut, just redness.”
“What did I stumble on?”
He patted the piles of clothing—her black skirt and shirtwaist, his gray waistcoat and overcoat—and stalled as he shaped an object with his fingers. Pushing the garments aside, he lifted his coat, and a chess piece thudded to the carpet.
“A little knight.” Clary retrieved the glowing marble horse head from Gabe’s palm. The stone had substantial heft and had been carved with detail and care. “Where did you get this?”
Still down on his knees, he lifted two fingers to pinch the skin between his brows. “In the gutter. Where I came from.”
“Gabriel.” Clary reached for him, but he leaned away from her and got to his feet.
The horse head was a token, a reminder, jostling Gabe from a dream.
This joy, this luxurious bliss of Clary and contentment and thoughts of a future with her was a figment. A fantasy he’d let spin too far.
“When I found the piece,” he told her, “I thought I’d discovered treasure. That marble seemed fine and delicate, a piece of beauty when everything around me was ugly. I believed the trinket was the only piece of beauty and goodness I’d ever possess.” He cast her a stark gaze. Realization enveloped him like the bitter smoke of Rigg’s cheroot, snuffing out the foolish hopes he’d let kindle into an inferno. “I never dreamed of someone like you.”
“And now you’re stuck with me.” She smiled as if she believed what he’d told her in the park. That there was no going back. Apparently, she’d taken his words as a promise rather than a warning.
“I can’t give you what you deserve.” And he’d bring her misery. Pain. That little imp he’d found outside her door meant that Rigg knew exactly where to find her. Gabe had let his guard down and led the devil to her door. God, what had he done?
He stared at the chess piece in her hand, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.
When she stood and approached him, Gabe backed away.
“All I want is you,” she said in a tone of utter certainty. Her eyes shone with a love he longed to grasp, to hold on to.
“You don’t know me, Clary.” With a shaking finger he pointed at the chess piece clutched in her fingers. “I’m a guttersnipe who found a bit of beauty and wished to keep it for my own. I was selfish then, and I was selfish tonight.”
Selfish, thoughtless, reckless. He hadn’t changed a bit since the day he’d found the knight floating in flotsam. She was all he wanted, and he’d taken what she offered without any noble thought of doing what was right or protecting her.
“This was a mistake, Clary.” Nausea welled up. He hated hurting her. He wanted so desperately to keep her from all the dangerous parts of his past, but now he was the one causing the pain shadowing her eyes. Still, he had to make her see. “This can’t ever be between us.”
“You care for me. I know you do.” Panic threaded her tone. “I’ve only just found you. Don’t do this.” After drawing in a breath, she reached for him. “Gabriel, I love you.”
Her words lit him up inside with a warmth that spread to fill up every dark space. But she didn’t know the rest. And when she did, she’d take the words back. Sidestepping away from her touch, he confessed, “I lied to you, Clary. To your whole family.”
Swallowing back tears, she insisted, “I don’t care where you came from. Neither will they.” She pressed a fist to her chest. Gabe longed to go to her, to take back the pain he was causing. But he couldn’t. He’d only bring her more pain to replace whatever he soothed away.
“No man is perfect,” she said quietly, in the determined tone he loved. “Not even my father thought so. That’s why he wrote books telling men how to behave.”
Ah, yes, Leopold Ruthven. The shadow of that blasted man had loomed between them from the moment he’d met her.
“How well did you know your father?” Gabe strode to the window and looked out onto the darkening sky. “Did you know what he did with his leisure hours?”
“The last thing I care about is my father’s predilections.” She came up behind him, and he ached to turn and take her in his arms. To hold her and kiss her and love her again, to forget truths and lies and live only for this moment. “I overheard bits and pieces from Kit and Sophia’s discussions about him,” she said. “He kept women, I believe. A mistress, maybe more than one. And he had a fondness for Gaiety Girls.”
“He had a fondness for whores.” Bracing his hands on the window frame to keep from reaching for her, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry to speak that way to you.”
“I’m not a child, Gabriel. How do you know of his . . . interests?” The truth began to dawn on her, little by little. Her eyes widened, her kiss-stung mouth parted. “He came to Whitechapel.”
“Regularly.” Gabe faced her, leaning his backside against the sill, arms braced across his chest. “One of Rigg’s girls was a favorite. She loathed him. Complained about him. Blackmail isn’t hard when men wish to keep their sins a secret.”
“Blackmail?”
“You’re far too clever to think your father lifted me from the fighting pit to manage Ruthven’s out of kindness. Or some philanthropic impulse.” Gabe shook his head, a sad grin lifting the edges of his mouth. “He wasn’t like you. Good and charitable. He didn’t have your generous heart.”
His voice had gone as cold and empty as his soul. He couldn’t stay near her. If Rigg came for him and threatened to harm her—
She approached slowly, reaching for his half-buttoned shirt, clenching the fabric in her hands as if she had no intention of letting go.
“I don’t care,” she said tentatively, as if fearing he’d bolt. Tension radiated between them. Need and fear and a desire like he’d never felt. “Whether you blackmailed my father or lied your way into a job. You did what you needed to do to survive.” One step closer, and she moved between his spread thighs. Her floral scent made him dizzy. The warmth of her body made his mouth water. He knew how she tasted, knew how it felt to sink inside her sweetness. That was all he wanted. Nothing more. Just her.
“You’re a good man.” Clary lifted a hand and ran her fingers along the stubble framing his jaw.
Gabe nuzzled against her fingers, captured her hand, and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, licking her skin, memorizing the flavor and texture. “Everyone’s redeemable in your eyes, aren’t they? Your girls at Fisk Academy, the ragged little messenger boy, a man who used to find satisfaction in beating other men senseless.” With both hands cradling her head, he held her steady. “What if I’m not redeemable? What if you wake up a month from now, a year, a decade on and wonder what you’ve done to bind yourself to a man like me? What if I can’t give you what you deserve? What if I disappoint you?”
“I can’t tell the future. I’ve never visited a soothsayer or gazed into a crystal ball. I only know what I feel for you and what you feel for me.”
From the moment he’d met her, she’d lingered in his thoughts. Now she was prepared to give him more. All her passion and devotion. But he didn’t deserve any of it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
“I only want to be with you,” she said.
He wanted the same, but he had to let her go. Standing, he took her in his arms. She melted against him, pressing her cheek to his chest, where she’d be able to hear his heartbeat galloping. He pressed a kiss against her hair and stroked circles across her back. “You’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known.” The only woman he would ever want. And he cared for her enough to want more for her than he could give. “And you deserve better.”
It was agony to untangle himself from her and start toward the door. He paused only to retrieve his waistcoat, neckcloth, and overcoat. He collected the crumpled note from the messenger boy too. Let no part of him remain to remind her of a decision she would no doubt regret.
“Don’t do this, Gabriel.” She remained at the window, but she quivered, on the verge of movement. She reached for him, opening her hand, urging him to come back and take it.
He couldn’t. He kept on. Three more miserable steps to the threshold.
At the door, he stopped and gripped the handle so hard his knuckles burned. “I want you as I’ve never wanted anyone, Clary. But I care for you enough to spare you the misery I’d cause.”
Then he did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He left behind the woman he wanted as much as he wanted his next breath. And he knew instantly that she’d kept a part of him with her. His chest was hollow, burning, as if the devil’s fingers had raked inside and torn out his heart.
Clary stomped toward the door, but she couldn’t find the breath to call him back. Her throat hurt. Her whole body ached. In the center of her chest, the pain came in throbbing waves, as if someone was pulling her corset tighter, inch by agonizing inch. But her corset still lay on the floor, abandoned where it had fallen when Gabriel helped free her from its stifling embrace. That moment seemed days past rather than hours ago. How had so much happiness dissolved so quickly?
Striding toward the fireplace, she scooped up the chess piece, twisting the tiny horse head in her fingers. Such a finely carved trinket to be a harbinger of heartbreak. The moment he’d seen the knight, her joy had come crashing down around her. After smoothing her fingers over the smooth marble, she wound her arm back and flung the chess piece across the room.
When the trinket hit the window glass, a crack formed from its impact, fracture lines spreading out as the knight clattered to the wood floor below.
Her heart was fracturing too. The pain of it stole her breath.
After what they’d shared, she’d felt safe. Happy. Content as she’d never been. She could still taste his kiss. Her body still ached from their lovemaking. Gabriel.
Tears came streaming down her cheeks. She swiped them away on the arm of her dressing gown, but more came.
Would he come back to Ruthven’s tomorrow? Pretend what they’d shared hadn’t changed everything?
She couldn’t imagine a moment of pretending she didn’t love Gabriel Adamson, let alone a lifetime.