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Caroline sucked in a breath as the skin along her neck and shoulders broke out in a wave of goose bumps. She didn’t say anything.

And then Henry was leaning forward, angling his neck as he lost himself in her nearness. He pressed his mouth, gently,
to the bottom corner of her neck, the place where it sloped into shoulder. Her skin singed his lips; he tasted salt, and her.

A flood of memory crashed through him. He knew her, he knew her taste and the curves and hollows of her body, the breathless sounds she made. Across the ballroom she’d been a stranger; but now, up close, she was as familiar as she’d been that summer night so many years ago.

She was his.

At least for now.

His lips were moving up the elegant length of her neck now, slowly, as he savored every inch of skin, and felt the furious working of her pulse in the curve beneath her ear.

Caroline’s eyes were still closed as she tilted her head, baring her throat to him. He held her neck in his hands, holding her closer against him, steadying her against his increasing hunger.

His mouth moved over her jaw to graze the corner of her lips, and then he was turning her toward him, trapping her legs between his own as he at last took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.

A levy broke inside him at that moment, releasing a torrent of emotion, of feeling he hadn’t known he’d been holding inside his chest until now.

Behind his closed lid he saw stars, and then he saw nothing, blind to everything but the riot of sensation that pulsed through him from this place where skin met skin.

In half a heartbeat he was wild with desire. It took his every ounce of self-control to kiss her carefully, thoughtfully, as she ought to be kissed; as he wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to do a thousand other things, too, things he’d learned in the misguided hope that he would one day be able to do them to
her
. Things that one could only learn in Paris; things that would make an Englishman blush, or die, or both.

God, but her lips were soft. Yielding. Her mouth tasted sweet, like wine, and clean. She allowed him to open her lips with the gentle press of his own; he groaned aloud, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He dug his fingers into her hair, his thumbs hooked beneath her chin. He moved her head against his kiss, tilting her to the right, then to the left, taking her bottom lip between his teeth.

Henry took and she gave, willingly, meeting him stroke for stroke. She was falling into his caress; he could feel her sway beneath him.

The wildness that ran hot just beneath his skin—he struggled to control it.

And then, in the next instant, he couldn’t.

He stepped forward, wanting to feel more of her against him; instead he managed to push her, hard, into the bureau.

Caroline cried out against his mouth, a pitiful sound that made his heart twist inside his chest. At once he fell away, holding up his hands.

“Oh—oh, Car—my lady, I didn’t mean— Are you all right?”

She was weeping again, tears streaming from the corners of her closed eyes. Her bottom lip wobbled as she struggled to catch her breath.

Christ, what had he done? He was a pig, a randy, rutting pig, and a vile bastard, too. He was thirty
bloody
years old; he should have learned to control his baser impulses by now.

Henry had done enough damage. He could not bear the thought that he’d hurt her yet again.

“Please,” he begged, desperate.

She opened her eyes; they were sharp with pain. He couldn’t help himself; he reached for her. She froze.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

“But I—”

Anger flashed in her eyes.
“Don’t.”
And then: “Take me home. Please, Henry, take me home.”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

She looked back. A beat passed between them. She reached out, and brought her hand down, hard, on the side of his face.

His ears rung at the force of her blow; his skin stung as he blinked, stunned, holding the offended cheek in his hand.

For the first time in his life, Henry didn’t know quite what to say.

Caroline looked away, her chest rising and falling; and then, quickly, she made to move past him. He reached out and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her against him.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, fighting his grip.

He gritted his teeth. “I’ll not allow you to walk home unescorted. It’s dark, and those blasted thieves are on the loose.”

“I don’t want you to escort me. My brother lives three streets over, I’ll be fine—”

“No.”

“No?” She drew back. “Don’t think I won’t slap you again.”

He met her eyes. “But you won’t.”

She hesitated. Tears streamed down the sides of her face as she closed her eyes, shaking her head.

“Why are you here?” Her voice broke. “Why have you come?”

His grip loosened on her arm. “Business. I’m here on business. I would’ve never—”

She scoffed. “
Business
. Of course.”

“I’d tell you more if I could.”

She tore her arm from his grasp, backing away. “I don’t want to know more.”

“What do you want?” he said, softly.

Caroline met his eyes. “I want you to take me home. And then I want you to stay away from me, for good.”

“All right.” He licked his lips.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, swiping her cheek with the heel of her hand. “Sometimes I even wished you
were
dead. That made it hurt a little less. I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alive anywhere else but with me. I never heard from you, nor did anyone else. The way you disappeared after taking all that I had to give—the grief, Henry, you cannot know the grief I have suffered. And now, to know that you’ve been alive all this time . . .”

I know, Caroline,
he wished to say. I know the weight of your grief, for I have carried it as my own these past twelve years
.

“I thought you were dead,” she repeated. “Then you appear out of the ether, running from God knows what through the hedgerow in Hyde Park. Did you follow me to Hope’s ball?”

“No.” He swallowed. “Yes. Maybe. Not exactly.”

She scoffed again. After a beat she drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. When she spoke she sounded weary, defeated. “Take me home, Henry. And for God’s sake, don’t ever come near me again.”

He chewed on his bottom lip. “If that is your wish.”

“It is, very much.”

“Your gown.” He nodded at her bare shoulder. “Let me help you.”

Caroline turned her back to him, pulling her loose hair over that damnably beautiful shoulder. She was shaking.

He took the laces of her stays in his hands and gave them a soft tug; her body rocked in time to his movements. He wove the silken laces through each of the heavily embroidered grommets, his fingers brushing her skin as he tied off the laces at the small of her back.

His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe.

Henry brought her sleeve back over her shoulder, and then he went to work at the buttons of her gown. His fingers trembled and slipped, and he cursed under his breath. Her scent filled his head.

“I can do it,” she said, reaching back.

“No.” He tugged her toward him. “There’s only a few more.”

He coaxed the last button through its tiny hole. Resisting the impulse to put his hands on her, he stepped away, releasing a long, low breath.

“There,” he said. “A little crooked, perhaps. But otherwise all set.”

Caroline tucked her hair back over her shoulder and placed her hands on her ribs. “Thank you.”

She shivered at a sudden gust of chill night air. Henry crossed the room and closed the window, untangling one of his coats from a nearby settee. He really should look into hiring a valet, and soon; Mr. Moon was better at being a woman than he was at tidying up.

“Here,” he said, holding the jacket up to Caroline’s back. “Might I?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes.”

He wrapped her in the jacket, carefully; she pulled it by the lapels closer about her breast.

Her breast
. He couldn’t even think the word without feeling like his cock would leap out of his breeches.

You cad
, he screamed at himself.
You bastard.

“Let’s go, then,” he said gruffly.

She followed him out into the night. The air felt blessedly fresh, a welcome foil to the desire still burning inside him. He could not bear to be close to her—honestly, his cock
would
leap out of his breeches if he so much as looked at her—and so he walked a pace or two ahead, stalking through Mayfair as quickly as his feet would take him.

Henry knew her family’s town house well; it was one of the oldest—and largest—mansions in Hanover Square.

She moved quietly behind him, her footsteps falling lightly on the cobblestone street. At last they drew up at the back of her brother’s house. Curiously, several windows glowed with light. It must be half past one, at least; what the devil was Harclay up to at this hour?

“Do you need help getting in unnoticed?” Henry asked, hopefully. “It appears your brother might still be awake. We might—I mean
you
might—climb through the window?”

Caroline glanced up at the house, a small smile playing at her lips. “Oh, he’s awake, but I daresay he is much occupied at the moment—either with wine or a woman or both. Probably both, now that I think about the way he was looking at that girl tonight. Though I must confess I am relieved he—she—they both made it out of Hope’s ballroom alive. He won’t notice me sneaking in.”

“Of course.” Henry rocked back on his heels. “Well, then.”

She turned to look at him. “Here, your coat—”

“Keep it.”

“I couldn’t. One of the maids might find it, or William. It’s far too large . . .”

“Keep it,” he said. He gave the sleeves of his robin’s-egg blue coat a good tug. “I find I am rather partial to this lovely frock, and may have several made in its pattern. Something about the cuffs, and the sheen of the silk—rather glorious, isn’t it?”

She smiled, a sad thing. Her eyes gleamed in the blue light of the moon above. “Good-bye, Mr. Lake.”

“My lady.” He bowed, struggling to keep his voice even. “I—I confess I do not know what to say.”

For a moment she hesitated. “Neither do I. Good night.”

And then she was gone, the squat kitchen door closing noiselessly behind her.

Henry stared at the door for several minutes, not moving, hardly daring to breathe. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. She wasn’t coming back; she wouldn’t fly through the door and in a fever of romantic impulse toss him into the nearby bushes and have her way with him. That light in her eyes—the one that belonged to the seventeen-year-old girl he knew a decade ago, the one that flashed with mischief, and the intent to indulge such impulses—had been extinguished.

Finally he turned and strode back out to the street.

He didn’t make it very far.

Somewhere between Hanover Square and Regent Street, Henry drew up, suddenly, in the shadows of what was probably some royal duke’s half-completed palatial manse. Leaning his forearm against the naked scaffolding, he smothered the sounds of his grief in the crook of his elbow.

Beneath him, the wooden beam shook in time to his shoulders.

He managed to compose himself sometime later, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His ribs felt bruised, as if he’d been beaten from the inside out.

Well, then.

There would be no sleep for him tonight. He looked up at the moon; it would be dark for hours yet. As he’d discovered years ago, there was no better cure for heartache than chasing scalawags through slums in the dead of night. He would hunt down the thieves and recapture the French Blue, and once Napoleon took the bait, Henry would be on the first ship bound for France. He’d forget tonight, forget the look in Caroline’s eyes when he’d called her by her name.

His work had always distracted him from what he’d done; he could not think about
her
if he was in motion, constantly. And tonight he needed to be distracted.

To Cheapside, then.

Six

C
aroline moved silently through the shadowed halls of her brother’s house, not daring to breathe lest she release the sobs tightening at the back of her throat.

She stopped short at the suspicious sounds emanating from behind the closed doors of the drawing room. It was shameless of her, but at nine-and-twenty she was too old for such trifles as shame, and so she drew closer, angling her head so that she might better listen.

There was the tinkling of laughter—
female
laughter—and then, a beat later, a voice.

“Wait a moment,” the woman said. “How am I to double my stakes? I’ve only one virtue to offer, after all.”

Caroline blinked. Surely this woman was not wagering her virtue over a game of cards with William? It was preposterous to even think—

“I shall just have to take you twice,” her brother purred. Caroline could hear him shuffling a deck of cards. “Shan’t I?”

She surely
was
offering William her virginity. Caroline wondered what William wagered in return. Really, where did he find such willing victims? And which games of chance invited bets of a sexual nature?