When she entered the drawing room, Charlie thought the dim lighting was playing tricks with his vision. Or that he was hallucinating.

But there were sufficient candles to highlight the shimmer of her hair and the glimmer in her eyes, and he hadn’t drunk enough to be seeing things that did not exist. That, and his body’s instant reaction, told him that the beautiful woman across the chamber was indeed Esme Astell.

She wore a gown of pale blue that revealed a shadowed cleft between her breasts and clung to her hips and thighs as she moved. A string of diamonds glittered around her throat and golden tresses tumbled down her neck from an arrangement that was at once elegant and playful. Her lips were rouged, her eyes lined delicately with kohl, and her arms entirely bare save for a single strand of diamonds clasped around her upper arm.

Every man in the room was staring at her, and several of the women.

He had learned swiftly that the house was not a brothel, rather a private party hosted by a gentleman with political aspirations seeking to please potential allies.

Charlie’s father had long considered public office, and he himself knew enough about how municipal politics functioned to be able to bluff his way through several conversations so far. But most of the men here tonight—and the women hired to serve them—seemed more interested in enjoying slightly risqué humor than in discussing politics.

Charlie had only one pressing need. His quarry had already gone upstairs with a woman, carrying the dog beneath his arm like a satchel.

By his behavior, it was clear Eustace Smythe-Eggers didn’t care about that dog. Charlie had no idea why he wanted it. But that didn’t matter. Now he just needed to get upstairs too, and he had spent the past half hour trying to imagine how he could accomplish it without taking a woman with him.

The solution stood across the room. That he was half furious with her and half insanely aroused was to be expected.

The madam was speaking softly at her shoulder, and Esme’s lips curved into a slow smile. She said something to Mrs. Eagan, and the madam’s gaze swept the drawing room then halted on him. The madam nodded at him.

An invitation.

He stood, crossed the room, and could feel the envious eyes of a half dozen men on him.

Up close the perfumer was even more beautiful than ever, the candlelight making her eyes violet, and making the twinkle in them obvious. Decorated like a high-priced harlot, she was still the same Esme.

“Mr. Brittle,” the madam purred. “May I present to you Miss Glorioso?”

“Good evening, Miss Glorioso.” He bowed.

“Sir.” Esme curtsied.

He offered his arm. She did not place her hand upon it; instead she curled her fingers snugly around his elbow and batted her lashes—but only once. A diamond comb glittered in her upswept tresses.

He drew her into the foyer.

“Lovely weather this evening,” she said as they passed a couple descending the stairs. “I thought it might rain, but it has held off.”

“Mm.”

“What a delightfully designed stairway this is to curve so roundly,” she said. “I do enjoy whimsical architecture, don’t you, Mr. Brittle?”

“Mm hmm.” They ascended the landing and went into the corridor.

“I read today in the—”

He pulled her into an open room and shut the door.

“Don’t shout,” she whispered quickly, backing up a step. “Everyone will hear.”

“I have no intention of shouting.”

“You don’t?” Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, the pulse in her throat beating rapidly just above the diamond choker.

She was stunning.

“Of course not,” he said. “And while I am not happy you are here, I don’t want to hear how it happened. Not now. Now I’ve got to find that dog.” He opened the door. Her hand on his arm was like a sudden brand, the heat of it going directly to his groin.

“You cannot go alone.”

“I can. I will. Remain here.”

“If anyone sees you they will wonder why you are prowling around the corridors. I should go with you.”

“Esme.”

“Miss Glorioso,” she corrected. Her lips twitched. “Isn’t that the most hilarious name? I told them I was Priscilla but I think it was not glamorous enough for these jewels. They are paste, of course. You know this is not a regular broth—”

“Esme.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need that dog. And I need to get you out of here before any one of the wolves downstairs decides you’ll be dinner tonight.”

“Agreed. Entirely. But together we will find the dog quicker, and you won’t be thrown out as a Peeping Tom. Come on.” She brushed past him, fulfilling a favorite fantasy and sending all the blood in his body rushing into his cock. Pulling the door wide, she looked over her shoulder and pressed a single finger to her lips.

Perfect lips.

Lips that tasted like a man’s fantasies.

Lips he wanted everywhere on him.

Discipline.

Control.

He dredged up every ounce of willpower that he had nurtured aboard ship to save his neck countless times when he had wanted to shout and scream that he was not supposed to be there, that it was all a hellish mistake, that he’d done nothing—nothing—in his life to deserve this.

But to his knowledge Esme had done nothing in her life to instantly assume a man would raise his voice to her.

He watched as she moved to the next door, the gown rippling over her buttocks like water as she moved, and his partial erection became full.

They glanced into two open bedchambers and paused at two other closed doors before he heard it. He gestured for her to halt and she came silently to his side. Just on the other side of the door, a dog was whining.

Success.

He glanced up into Esme’s eyes and found them wide. And full of happiness.

His head was abruptly empty of every thought but grabbing her and doing things to her he couldn’t say aloud. Things that involved her gorgeous mouth. On him.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Don’t what?” Her lips formed the words without sound.

“Don’t smile like that.”

“Why not?” she whispered.

“When you smile like that, I—”

Her gaze snapped to the door. From within the bedchamber were now coming the unmistakable noises of a man in the throes.

“There’s no more time.” Charlie glanced up and down the corridor to ensure no one watched, grasped the door handle, and drew it open two inches.

A tiny white dog hurled itself out through the crack and leaped into Charlie’s arms. It was the most incongruous sight: the miniature fluffy creature scrabbling all over his broad chest with ecstatic wiggles and trying to lick his jaw.

“Hush,” he whispered, pulling the door silently shut, and setting the creature on the floor. It leaped about in a few speedy circles and then went tearing down the corridor only to reach the far end and come hurtling back, its tiny legs moving fast. Esme laughed and it felt so wonderfully good to release the nerves that had wound tight since she entered the drawing room.

“Why, it is as though it already knows you,” she said as it pawed up his shins again, then went scampering away in joy once more.

“It does.” He looked up at her. “I stole it from its owner.”

“You?”

“I’ll explain later. Now we’ve got to—blast.”

Voices were echoing in the stairwell. His gaze was on her body and little bursts of flame were heating her inside everywhere.

“What?” she said.

“Nowhere to hide it.”

“My cloak is downstairs with the rest of my clothes.” The voices sounded closer. “I’ll—”

“There’s no time.” He pointed to a door that stood ajar, scooped up the dog in one hand, and tossed it in through the opening. Charlie snapped the door shut in front of her and suddenly he was behind her, crowding her against the door, his hands on her waist and his head bending over her shoulder.

He kissed her bare skin. Ecstatic tingles fanned across her flesh.

“What are you—”

“Make sounds,” he whispered, his lips brushing along her shoulder. A shudder of pleasure went through her. His hands moved up the sides of her waist, sinking her in delirium.

“Sounds?” she barely managed. She had dreamed of this, dreamed of him holding her and touching her, so many dreams. Now he was doing it in the corridor of a stranger’s house with more strangers about to appear.

“Moan,” he whispered, his palms sliding over her gown, moving forward and covering her belly. His mouth shifted to her neck and his lips were hot, soft, wonderful, his hair tickling her chin.

“Wh-what?”

“Moan. Make noises. As though you are enjoying this.”

As though.

Then she understood. Within the room, the dog was whining.

She attempted a moan. It felt good, and exactly what his caresses were making her want to do anyway. She moaned again, louder, letting it come forth naturally. His hands on her abdomen were big and strong and his lips on her neck were making a havoc of need inside her.

She heard the voices in the corridor. The conversation halted abruptly, then started up again more softly. But Esme was hardly aware of the couple passing by. Charlie’s hands had descended to her hips, and she could feel the wall of man behind her, the taut control in his body, and the brush of her tight nipples against the door panel. His hands smoothed down her thighs and her next moan was effortless.

With his fingers circling her hips, he drew her back against him.

Esme had grown up on a farm. She knew the signs of a male animal’s arousal. And she knew now that the man behind her was aroused.

In for a penny . . .

Pressing her hips back, she rubbed against him.

“Esme.” The single word was uttered harshly. But he did not push her away. Instead he pulled her more snugly to him.

“Do you like this?” she whispered with a quiver in her voice.

“Yes.” The word came as a reverberation against her back. Then his hand slid down her belly and between her legs.

She gasped, moaned, made all sorts of other sounds that covered up the dog’s whine.

“You?” he said against her neck, his teeth grazing her jaw and sending spirals of need down to where his hand was touching her.

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes.” She let him stroke his fingers over her and groaned again, harder. It was sublimely sweet and sharp, weakening and delicious and perfect and she wanted more. She was wild for more. Something within her was opening up, stretching, and deliriously needy. The other couple had disappeared into a bedchamber, but she never wanted this to end.

“I didn’t know it was possible to feel this,” he whispered, his other hand moving up her stomach and to the base of her breast, circling her ribs as though to hold her in place. The stroking had become massage between her legs and she throbbed there with a furiously needy ache.

“Silk in a brothel?” she whispered, trying to remain rational.

“Victorious and satisfied,” he said, his thumb stroking the underside of her breast as his hand continued the caress between her thighs and her breaths disappeared entirely. “And hungry. All at once.”

She swiveled around in his arms. With a sound in his chest that might have been a protest or a groan, he bent his head and captured her mouth beneath his.

It was no tentative kiss, no first or chaste or hesitant meeting of lips, but deep and lustful and hungry. Esme had been kissed before, but not like this—not like he knew her mouth better than she did, knew every tender place and knew how the caress of his tongue could spike in her the urge to spread her thighs and take him between them. She could feel his hunger yet there was no haste, only depth and his scent and another, stronger scent twining all through her: lust, the musky mingling of two animals that wanted to mate—that needed it.

His hands were in her hair and his body was so hard, his strength thoroughly devoted to her, and his mouth consuming her lips and tongue. Kissing her. Charles Brittle kissing her as though he could not get enough of her. It made her weak and ecstatic, and she was certain, certain, that if she offered him more he would take it.

Welcoming his lips on her jaw, then her throat, she pulled in lungfuls of air, shuddering, loving his kiss, this caress she probably should not be allowing—but if not now, then when, or ever? As though in a dream she allowed her knees to part. With a groan, he accepted the invitation, bringing his body against her as he took her mouth again, and bore her up against the door.

It was unreal. It was heaven—such powerful feeling, such breathless rightness. He was hard between her thighs, rocking to her as their lips fed on each other’s desire.

But the dog was whining, a pitiful whimper of abandonment.

She wrested her mouth from beneath his.

“Should we leave?” she said, panting a little.

His hands ran up and down her sides.

“Esme,” he said very low and rough. His gaze swept over her face. “We’ve got to leave.”

“Do you have any money?”

The beautiful hazel eyes were bewildered. “Money?”

“How much do you imagine it costs to hire a—that is—me?”

“What?” He broke away from her. “Esme—”

“No, no, it’s not what you think! Only give me half of what it would cost to hire me for tonight. Now. Please. But . . . do you know how much it would cost?”

His throat moved in an awkward swallow. He nodded.

A sick little twist of nerves wriggled through her stomach.

“Please give it to me. The money.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out bills.

She stared. “Good heavens, that much? I suppose it is an entire night.”

His chest was moving hard. “For an hour.”

“An hour?”

“For you, yes.” There was a gleam in his eyes. Definitely wolfish.

From brow to toes she was feverish. Snatching the money from his hand, she went before him toward the servants’ stairwell and heard him open the door; the dog yipped in delight.

She found Peg and the older woman, and tucked the money into Peg’s palm.

Peg gaped.

“If you ever need a friend or help,” Esme said, squeezing her hands, “write to Esme Astell at Skinner’s Perfumery in London. I will return the gown and jewelry tomorrow.”

They stared at Charlie as he touched his hand to her lower back and ushered her out the door.

As they ran down the mews alley there was no sound but the pattering of their footsteps. A minute later he was opening the carriage door and ordering Rory out of it.

“Find all the boys,” he said as he handed her up and passed the dog to her. “Then meet me at the Thistle at midnight.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Rory ran off into the night.

Charlie gave the coachman an address, climbed in, and closed the door. The dog leaped onto his lap and he gave its ears a ruffle with his fingers, then set it on the seat beside Esme, where it curled up in a happy little ball and watched him.

“Why did you give that girl the money?” he said.

“She was supposed to work tonight. But it seems that she is increasing, and the madam would not allow it, and—What? You look odd. Is this the right dog after all?”

“You could have been—” He ran his hand over his face, then into his hair. “You could have been hurt.”

“I knew you were there.”

“I might have already left.”

“Then I would have escaped. Somehow. Charlie, what are you worrying about? I am here, safe, and we have the dog! Now you will tell me how it is you came to steal it and who is the man who had it and what you plan to do with it now.”

“A man named Pate holds the promissory note on my life.”

“Promissory note? On your life?”

“I owe him money. Owed. I didn’t have it. He wanted this animal, apparently to pay a debt to Smythe-Eggers, the man at that party back there. Pate said if I got the dog for him he would wipe my slate clean.”

“Wipe your slate clean? What on earth does that mean?”

“He owns my life. As a member of his crew, I am a captive. Unless I pay him his price, he will hunt me down and kill me as a message to others in his service.”

“I—I see.” She drew a slow breath to steady her nerves. “Why have you stolen back the dog tonight?”

“Because it was wrong to steal it.”

“It was wrong?”

“Of course.”

“But your life—What if Pate discovers you are returning it to its owner? I suppose that is your intention?”

His features relaxed as he glanced at the dog. It was immobile, exhausted after its ordeal, but its eyes were fixed on him.

“Yes,” he said. “By the time Pate discovers it—not if, for he will discover it—I will be gone.”

A tight knot wound itself about her stomach.

Charlie lifted his gaze to hers and she forgot about the dog and villains and that he was leaving imminently. There was such heat in his eyes.

“Esme,” he said deeply. “Back there, in the house, when we—”

Then she was across the carriage and on his lap and twining her hands through his hair as he wrapped his arms around her. Their mouths met, retreated, met again, then connected so deeply Esme moaned.

“I said I would not throw myself at you,” she said amidst his onslaught of kisses.

“I really wanted you to,” he said in a rumbling growl and his hands were all over her, spread down her back, then tucking around her buttocks and pulling her to him.

The silky fabric of her gown and undergarments gave way easily to his hands. The heat of his palms and fingers on her bared legs made her arch to him and meet his tongue with hers. She was aching so powerfully, the place between her legs so hungry for his hand again. She had long known how animals came together. But the throbbing, needy heat in her body was showing her why any of them bothered. His hands were completing the education. With his palm between her thighs, his thumb was stroking her skin.

Then he touched her—intimately. With nothing between his skin and her flesh, it was a revelation. Pure beauty.

A caress. A flick of the tip of his thumb. Another caress.

She moaned, writhed on his lap, desperately hungry for his mouth as she pulled at her skirts, dragging them out from beneath her and finding his hips with her knees, straddling him and kissing him deeper. There weren’t enough kisses in the world. He was still touching her there, still making her wild with need. Trapping his hand between their bodies, she rocked to his arousal.

“Esme,” he groaned, and pressed his finger into her. She shuddered at the sensation. He was stroking her and penetrating her and it was too good. She was mad for it. With each indulgent thrust of his finger her thighs opened wider. “Esme.” Delectable and perfect, each thrust, each caress made the ache even sweeter and tighter. She was whimpering, pushing to him, desperate for even more, wanting, needing—

The carriage jolted through a pothole and came to an abrupt halt.

Removing his hand from between them and reaching up to smooth her hair back, he took her face between his palms and brought their mouths together. He kissed her and then again, then again, as though he would not cease or at least did not want to cease.

“Irresistible.” His hands slipped down her back. “You are perfectly irresistible.”

She loved the sensation of his hard arms beneath her hands.

“You needn’t resist.” The husky quality of her words surprised her.

“Yet I must.”

“You must return the dog now,” she said, feeling his chest with her palms and wondering that she was straddling his lap and had been mere moments from giving herself to him entirely. She still wanted to.

“Yes.”

She could see nothing of him, but his voice sounded peculiarly raw.

“And then leave town,” she said. “That is, leave the continent.”

“Yes.”

“All right,” she said and took a deep breath. She climbed off him and straightened her skirts and sat back. “Go return the dog, Mr. Brittle.”

When, dog cradled to his chest, he had descended from the carriage and closed the door, she opened the curtain and peered out. Without street lamps, the full moon illumined a house set not far from others, cottage-like and exceedingly modest. There were pots of winter greenery on the stoop and the porch was clean of debris.

He disappeared around the side of the house, and was gone for only a few minutes. When he reappeared he had no dog.

He sat beside her in the carriage.

“You do not intend to make love to me now,” she said.

“No.” In the moonlight she could see his slight smile. The carriage jerked into movement.

“It is for the best that we were interrupted,” she said.

“It is.”

When they arrived at the boardinghouse he dismissed the coach and watched her hike up her skirts so she could get her first foothold on the way to her bedchamber window.

“This gown is narrower than mine.” She struggled with it.

He came to her, took her hand, and, ducking to draw her arm over his head, turned his back to her.

“You will not carry me up on your back!”

“Are you doubting my strength?”

“No. That is, I—”

“It’s this or remove the gown,” he said. “Or you could come home with me.” His voice sent a spark of perfect delight up her center.

“Do you have a home?”

“Not at present, actually. But I do have a bed.”

“Charles Westley Brittle—”

“You always use my full name before you chastise me. I like it.” He was smiling. “And I like it now especially, since chastising me for this after—”

“Oh, hush.” She slung her arms about his neck and held on tight as he climbed. When they reached the window he let her clamber over him and into the room. By the time she twisted around and got her feet beneath her, he was gone.

For quite some time she sat on the floor in the cool night air and thought of his kiss and his delectably intimate touch and how he had not, again, said goodbye before disappearing forever.