The thief had marvelous composure. The first second, her
panic showed plainly. It drained the blood from her face,
exposing the artful blending of rouge that had lent her
cheeks such fresh color. Her new pallor revealed freckles
—a great many of them, long faded.
In the next moment, as though a switch had been flipped,
roses bloomed again in her cheeks. She called up a lovely
smile, which turned her blue eyes into cheerful half-
moons. “Lord Palmer! Why, I hadn’t dreamed to be noticed
by you. You are quite the most popular gentlemen in the
ballroom!”
“Lucky that we’re not in the ballroom, then.” Christian
spoke the words absently, surprised anew by the husky
pitch of her voice. She was of average height and size;
her voice, however, promised the ability to boom. It was
rich enough to belong to a giantess in metal breastplate,
with Viking horns atop her head. “I confess, I did not
notice you there, Miss . . .”
“But of course you didn’t,”she said warmly. “It’s my good
luck to catch you alone. But how selfish it would be to
hoard you!” As she started past him, she nodded toward
the direction of the ballroom, her fleeting touch along
his arm—and her quick, flirtatious glance—suggesting her
great desire that he follow.
She was clever. Christian captured her hand before it
could slip away. Without hesitation, she twirled around
to face him, her train hissing in a broad arc across the
marble floor. Her wide smile had not budged a fraction.
“Yes, Lord Palmer?”
He matched her light tone. “And once again, I feel my
disadvantage. Must I beg your name from Mr. Everleigh?”
Mention of her employer, whose study she had so recently
infiltrated, made her flinch. She had not expected him to
segue so quickly to veiled threats. She glanced over her
shoulder. The hallway was empty, of course, the strains
of a waltz dim but distinct. Nobody would leave the
ballroom until the next set.
Seeing her plight—alone, quite alone—she redoubled the
brilliance of her smile, then surprised him by stepping
closer. “It’s terribly awkward.” What a magnificent voice
she had! And how well she used it. Her hushed tone
conjured intimacy, inviting him into a sweet little
conspiracy. “I do hope that I can rely on your
discretion.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “Well. You know what they
say.”
She looked up at him through thick dark lashes. He could
no longer imagine how he’d mistaken her earlier as
servile. Between her voice and her oceanic eyes and her
unflappable charm, she was a siren.
Her measuring look also suggested a shrewd mind. She was
not yet sure how much trouble she was in. He might simply
be a blundering idiot. Or he might be a cad, who meant to
press his advantage. She was still making up her mind.
So was he. Blackmail was a precarious art, as likely to
go wrong as to aid him. But her composure seemed
promising. Only a trustworthy tool would serve his
purposes.
“No,” she said. “I don’t know what they say. Will you
tell me?”
He extended his elbow in an offer of escort. Her hand
fluttered down, landing on his sleeve as lightly as a
butterfly. “They say a man is only as good as his word,”
he told her as they fell into step. “And I’ve been told
by several sources that mine is irredeemably rotten.”
Her laughter held a carefree lilt, very convincing. “But
that’s nonsense," she said. “You’re a great hero, Lord
Palmer. Everyone has heard of your feats abroad.”
Ah yes. His bloody, much-celebrated bravery.
To prove her point, she began to recite the damned poem.
“‘Who o’er yonder battlement, when enemy drums did pound
—’”
“Yes,” he interrupted. “I believe I’ve heard that one
before.” Five thousand times or so. It did not improve
with repetition.
She was gazing at him brightly. “So then my point is
proved: who would dare call you rotten?”
Nobody called him rotten, of course. They begged for
autographs instead. “Perhaps you will.”
He felt the slight, nervous dance of her fingertips on
his forearm. “I can’t imagine why.”
They had been making very slow progress toward the
ballroom. But now Christian drew her to a stop by the
darkened stairwell. “Tell me,” he said. “I knew Everleigh
was a man of particular tastes. Does he often require you
to wait beneath the desk for him?”
The skin tightened at the corners of her eyes. “I wish
you wouldn’t mention it,” she said.
He almost laughed. How odd that he should find this
pickpocket diverting. But for a woman who’d gotten
herself into a great deal of trouble tonight—removing and
replacing her mistress’s bracelet, breaking into her
master’s locked study, hiding beneath his desk to
eavesdrop, and perhaps worse (for a pickpocket, surely,
did not break into studies only to eavesdrop?)—for all
these redoubtable sins, she nevertheless did a brilliant
job of playing the breathy naïf.
He admired a good performance. After all, he played the
hero on regular occasion.
“A gentleman wouldn’t mention it,” he said. “Alas, I
already warned you. I’m a rogue.”
This time, she believed him. He sensed her reassessment,
her subtle change of posture and tone. “Lord Palmer,” she
purred. “I don’t expect your approval, of course. But Mr.
Everleigh and I . . . That is, you must know that I’m one
of the hostesses here, what they call an ‘Everleigh
Girl’—”
She was still trying to cozen him. Make him believe he’d
interrupted her plan to surprise her lover. To disconcert
her—for clearly he hadn’t managed it yet—he lifted his
hand to cup her cheek. “Indeed. I believe I’ve seen your
face before.” He stroked her jaw. “An advertisement for
Pearson soap, was it?”
She went still. Her skin was satin-smooth, warm, almost
feverish to the touch. She smelled, he realized, like a
garden in hot weather, climbing roses and jasmine and
honeysuckle warmed by a noonday sun.
Their eyes locked. She blushed, then looked away. “That
was Miss Ames in the advertisements,” she said. “I am not
one of the girls who wins such honors.”
He studied her—the casual grace of one spiraling black
ringlet; the faint trace of freckles on the crest of her
round cheek. “I can’t imagine why.”
That was empty flattery, of course. He knew why the
advertisers favored other Everleigh Girls. This woman
before him had no special beauty, apart from the angelic
magic of her eyes—and a certain sensual grace in the way
she held herself, slim and erect—and the softness and
warmth and scent of her skin.
None of which would translate in photographs.
He retreated a step. “I still don’t know your name.” Not
a creative remark. But his brain felt oddly unfocused, as
though he had just taken a few fingers of whisky.
“Ah.” She turned back to him, and he was oddly relieved
when their eyes met and she looked, once again, quite
ordinary to him. “You see that it’s hardly worth knowing,
though. Miss Ames models for Pearson’s. You will find
Miss Snow on the boxes of Ruben’s Toothpowder, and Miss
Lowell and Miss Rousseau smiling on bottles of Mr.
Munson’s Tonic. I am the lowest in our ranks—I know it
very well. But if you imagine this would protect me from
jealousy, you’re mistaken. Should the girls come to know
of my . . . special friendship with Mr. Everleigh, I
assure you they would make my life a misery.” She paused
here, slightly breathless—a state that drew his
attention, no doubt deliberately, to the snowy rise of
her modest but excellently formed décolletage.
It felt wrong to be so riveted by her performance. He had
far more important tasks than parrying words with a woman
who made her living batting her lashes at the wealthy.
Yet . . . what harm in admiring her? She was as cool
under pressure as a professional soldier, but her talents
clearly ran toward charm and coercion. She would fit his
purpose splendidly. A fine spy.
“Such a peculiarly impassioned plea,” he said, “when all
I ask is your name.”
“I . . .” Her face briefly went blank, as she groped for
a new script to guide her.
He decided to help. The most predictable narrative was
also the most credible. Grasping her by the waist, he
eased her deeper into the shadows. Unwittingly, she
helped by backing into the wall.
It was no hardship to place his face so close to hers
that he could breathe the perfume of her hair. “It isn’t
Pearson soap you use,” he murmured.
Without hesitation, she murmured back, “I see no need to
support my competition.”
He hid his smile by turning his face into her throat.
After a night spent in humorless company, she rather felt
like balm on a wound. His lips brushed the tender spot
beneath her ear as he spoke. “Perhaps you should adjust
your aim.” But not her soap. Whatever she used was
perfection. “I can think of many areas in which you would
have no competition.”
“Oh?” The syllable was more like a croak. She cleared her
throat. “Do tell.”
There was no call to keep touching her. She was clearly
disconcerted. Yet the scent of her skin . ..
With the very tip of his tongue, he tasted her.
Salt. Flesh. Sweetness. How peculiar and perverse, after
so many months of deadness, to feel desire stir now.
But why not? The ferocity of desire was only a shade away
from bloodlust, and she would make a very good weapon for
him. A fine advantage in the battle to come.
As he breathed against her, her hand briefly tightened at
his waist. He understood that the gesture was not meant
to encourage him. Nor was it a protest. She touched him
merely by way of acknowledgment. He had intentions; she
understood that; she would not object.
Had he nursed any doubt about her guilt, this moment
would have killed it. Her passivity answered the question
he’d yet to ask. What were you doing in that office?
Nothing innocent. Otherwise, she would have protested by
now.
How far would she go to avoid explaining herself? His
curiosity on the matter was as pragmatic, he supposed, as
her willingness to distract him. After all, the first
rule of war was to know the constraints and potentials of
the weaponry at hand.
Taking hold of her chin, he lifted her face. She did not
flinch from his regard. Her blue eyes were wide and
bright as robins’ eggs.
“Perhaps you’re right,”she said lightly. “You’re rather
rotten, after all.”
How refreshing to be viewed so honestly. He offered her a
faint smile. In reply, her own lips curved the slightest
degree, the angle defiant.
Defiance did not suit him. He leaned forward and kissed
the smile from her lips.
Flirt, evade,parry, giggle, flatter . . . The moment his
mouth touched Lilah's, these desperate tactics fell away
like so much irrelevant fluff.
Kiss.
He tasted like champagne. His lips were warm and soft. He
sucked on her lower lip, leisurely, testing, and God help
her but the pit of her stomach dropped away. She realized
her arms were around him. Only to placate him, of course—
and to test a theory.
His suit was not padded. This broad, hard muscle was all
his by effort and training. A soldier. Well, she should
have known. Not a gentleman after all, with apologies to
Fiona. He had not saved her as an act of chivalry. He
meant to press his advantage.
He pressed it now as he stepped into her fully, and she
felt the size of him, his height and the muscled brawn of
his thighs and the . . . distinct protuberance hardening
against her skirts. Large, everywhere. Think. A brute. A
bully, to catch her in this hall and harass her. She knew
how to handle a bully. She—
He opened her mouth with his own. Ah, God, his tongue was
clever; the kiss was skillful and gentle in the way that
a spider was gentle; as he teased her, as he tasted her
tongue and lured it, he wove a snare to trap her. And her
body liked it. A delicious heat curled through her; she
sagged back and his arm tightened around her waist to
hold her against him, keeping her compliant to the
ministrations of his clever, clever mouth.
A dozen gentlemen had kissed her. She knew how to handle
this. Keep his interest at bay, accept the kiss and then
break free, with every show of flustered flattery—
He angled his head. Oh yes, he was clever. Go deeper.
Appalled at herself, she turned her face aside. What was
wrong with her?
He made some noise in his throat, a growling sound like
approval. Like she’d done something wonderful. He kissed
the corner of her mouth, then kissed his way down her
jaw. He nuzzled her throat—ah, he smelled of some brand
far rarer than Pearson’s. He smelled expensively clean,
like foreign spices and Christmas wreaths.
He bit her neck lightly. A sound escaped her. She opened
her eyes, goggling at the empty hall over his shoulder.
What was she doing?
Perhaps he sensed her distraction. His hand pressed
harder at the small of her back, reminding her of the raw
power of his large, hard body. Instincts like a predator.
Ah, heaven help her, a man who knew how to read a woman’s
signals . . . How solidly his muscular thighs cradled
her. She could intuit, as though her hand had already
pressed against his belly, the hard planes of muscle that
knit him together.
She had to stop this. She grasped his shoulder, ready to
push him away. But the unyielding bulk fascinated her
fingertips. She squeezed, amazed, as his hand slid down
her arm, cupping the point of her elbow. His callused
fingers stroked her, soothing and then gripping harder as
they massaged her forearm, testing her strength as she
tested his.
He kissed her mouth again. So sweetly. Had she ever been
kissed like this? Pray God this would not be the last
time—
“Wait.” That wasn’t the right thought. “I—”
“Shh.” He looked into her eyes, his own the shade of
tarnished gold, intent and sharp. He placed a fingertip
very lightly against her lips. She stared at him,
ensorcelled.
“Someone will hear,” he told her.
Yes, someone would hear. It made a very good reason to
stand quietly, passively as he laid his thumb on the wing
of her collarbone. His gaze dropped to follow the
trailing stroke of his thumb. The backs of his knuckles
brushed her breastbone. He seemed only curious. Harmless.
Intent on following the slope of her breast.
She licked her dry lips. Someone will hear. She could
call out—
The neckline of her gown conspired with him. The
tightness with which she’d laced, to compress her waist
that extra inch—it caused her bodice to gape, slightly.
He reached beneath her neckline, beneath her corset and
chemise. His thumb, it knew what it was doing. He found
her nipple. Rubbed gently.
This throb between her legs . . .
His next kiss felt like approval, a reward. His tongue
played with hers as he stroked her nipple. He was . . .
dangerous.
“I don’t think . . .” How dazed she sounded. Like a dash
of ice water, it sobered her. She pushed him away.
He stepped back agreeably, one hand slipping into his
jacket. Why?
He produced a handkerchief, offering it to her.
Befuddled, she said, “No, thank you.” And then, as he
retreated another step, the full awareness of her idiocy
broke over her, and she felt the blood drain from her
face. God above! Everleigh Girls had been sacked for
consorting with clients.
She peeked around the corner. The hall remained empty.
Thank heavens!
She crossed her arms over her breasts, unhappily aware of
how bereft they felt, before she turned back. He was
watching her, those chiseled lips quirked in a faint
smile.
Her dazzled agitation died instantly. How satisfied he
looked with himself! As though he imagined he had been
seducing her, instead of using his discovery earlier—her
hiding place beneath a desk—to coerce her into a kiss.
Oh, bloody hell. He hadn’t coerced her. She had been
seduced. Absurd!
She reached for her composure. Squared her shoulders and
straightened to her full height. “But I’m still waiting,”
she said, and was proud that her voice did not tremble.
He cleared his throat. “Waiting for what?”
His voice was not so steady, either. That bolstered her.
“Waiting to hear the areas in which I might excel.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Apart from the obvious?” His gaze
dropped briefly to her mouth. “I’ll gladly tell you, if
you tell me your name. Or must I beg?”
She edged away from him before remembering to flutter her
lashes. “I imagine you do so very handsomely.”
He laughed again. “I think you’ve seen precisely how I do
it.”
She blushed, then wanted to kick herself for it. It was
not her way to fall in with the competition. Every other
woman in England pined after this man. She counted on
herself to remain at least somewhat immune to his charms.
“I’m Lilah Marshall. And the rumors are true: you, Lord
Palmer, are a flirt.”
“Lilah. A very pretty name.” His smile was dimpled, that
long scar on his cheek as pale as silver.
“Now,” she said, “your reply.”
He shrugged and glanced down the hall. “I’m sure, Miss
Marshall, that there are many fields in which you are
unmatched. Certainly, for instance, the field of lock
picking.”
She could not have heard him right. “I beg your pardon?”
When he smiled again, she felt her heart skip a beat.
Only now, for the first time, did she notice that his
smile did not reach his eyes. His smile was easy and
charming; his golden eyes were watchful and
dispassionate. His gaze belonged to a sharpshooter in
battle.
“I liked you better flushed and sighing,” he said. “Alas,
frankness will serve us better. Where you don’t excel is
keeping hold of what you’ve stolen.”
What on earth? Her hand flew to her hidden pocket. The
letters were gone!
Why, this toff had not been seducing her—he’d been
distracting her in order to pickpocket her!
Palmer bowed and started past her. She grabbed his hand,
and he pivoted. “Not here,” he said, and nodded down the
hall.
The set had ended. Guests were filtering into the
corridor to enjoy the cooler air.
Desperation made her reckless. “I don’t care! You—”
His hand twisted in hers, took control of the grip. His
palm was much larger, hardened and callused. She tried to
yank free. His grip tightened—not to the point of pain,
but certainly to the point of clarity. He was far
stronger. He could hold her against her will without
breaking a sweat.
She looked up, startled, and found herself pinned in his
sharp, steady gaze. Silently he waited for her to
acknowledge the truth: she was the one who was caught.
A chill ran through her. She took in the size of him, his
brawny, strapping build. The gentlemanly polish—his
dimples, his clean-cut good looks, his title and fame—had
fooled her before. But now she saw the man behind that
charming mask. His cool-eyed composure, and the power of
his carefully gauged restraint, caused her instincts to
sound an alarm.
Danger.
She made her hand go limp in his. Without hesitation, he
bowed over it. “Good evening, Miss Marshall.” As though
they had just concluded a dance.
Frozen, she watched him walk away, tall and straight-
shouldered. Faintest suggestion of a limp—or was that her
imagination?
Guests caught sight of him. Merry greetings rang out. He
lifted his hand to them. Never once did he look back.
A war hero! Pah! A thief, a rogue—what did he mean to do
with those letters?
She cupped her hands over her mouth as the disaster
registered. Why, he could have her imprisoned. Those
notes were solid proof that she’d gone into Peter
Everleigh’s study to steal.
Worse yet—without them, she could not keep her bargain
with her uncle.
Panic robbed her of strength. She sagged against the
wall. No matter what Palmer did now, he had already
ruined her.