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“I’ll protect you,” Margery said, smiling up into his eyes. She
felt happy and a little dizzy and more than a little drunk. Fortunately, Henry’s
arm felt exceedingly strong and reliable about her. It felt perilously
right,
as though she belonged in his arms, a foolish,
whimsical notion that nevertheless she could not dislodge.

She turned toward the door—and found herself face-to-face with
her brother Jem.

“Moll!” Jem’s voice snapped like a whip and the sweet, heady
atmosphere that had held Margery in its spell died like a flame doused with
water.

“Hello, Jem,” she said, disentangling herself from Henry, who
seemed inordinately and provocatively slow to release her.

“Who’s the swell?” Jem said, cocking his head at Henry. There
was an edge to his voice and an ugly look in his eyes.

“Henry Ward,” Henry said, stepping between them. He offered his
hand. Jem studiously ignored it. Henry looked amused.

“Jem,” Margery said reproachfully.

Her brother flicked her look. “You should be careful, Moll,” he
said. His gaze returned to Henry. “You can pick up all sorts of riffraff in
here.”

“And you should mind your own business,” Margery said, furious
now. She felt Henry shift beside her. She could sense the sudden tension in him,
an antagonism that matched Jem’s except that Henry was watchful and controlled,
appraising her brother with coolly assessing eyes. She remembered that Henry had
been in the war and felt a shiver of alarm. Jem was hotheaded, a street fighter,
but he was no match for a trained soldier.

The atmosphere was as thick as smoke now. The music had died
away; everyone was watching, apart from the highwayman who was fumbling with the
barmaid’s bodice, his face buried in her cleavage. Even the men from the next
table had abandoned their fight in anticipation of one that promised to be more
deadly.

Jem put his hand on Margery’s arm. “I’ll take you home,” he
said. “Come on.” He nodded toward the door. “I’ll not have my sister treated
like a fancy piece.”

“No,” Margery said stubbornly. “I’m not going with you.” She
shook him off. She felt humiliated and upset; she wanted to cry because Jem had
taken all the fun and excitement from her evening and torn it to shreds.
Everything looked tawdry now and Jem was making her feel like naive fool and
worse, like a whore whose favors were up for sale for the price of a mutton
pie.

“Don’t confuse me with the sort of women you consort with, Jem
Mallon,” she said sharply. “I’m no lightskirt.” She bit her lip against the
sting of tears. “You’ve spoiled my evening,” she said. “I was having such a nice
time.” She felt forlorn, like the little girl she had once been, stamping her
foot with anger and hurt when Jem or Jed or Billy had broken one of her precious
toys.

“For God’s sake, Moll,” Jem said contemptuously. “Can’t you see
all he wants is a quick fumble down a dark alley and he’s just loosening you up
for it?”

Henry stepped between them then with so much intent that
Margery grabbed his sleeve in urgent fingers. The atmosphere had changed now. It
was deadly.

“No,” Margery said. “Please.”

Her eyes met Henry’s. There was such protective fury in his
that she was awed to see it. Something sweet and warm settled inside her. Here
was a man who cared about her good name and would do all he could to defend it
and her against the world. She had never felt so cherished before.

“Your sister does not want me to hit you,” Henry said, his
voice lethally soft. “Out of respect for her, I will not. Don’t insult her
again.”

There was an ugly look on Jem’s face. He would not back down.
“I don’t trust you,” he said. “If you touch her I will kill you.” He turned on
his heel and stalked out of the inn, sending a glass tankard spinning to smash
on the floor and pushing a drunk out of his way.

There was a long, heavy pause and then the music struck up
again, raucous as before. The sound of voices rose above the din, and everyone
moved, resumed whatever they had been doing and pretended that they had not been
watching and hoping for a mill.

“I’m sorry,” Margery said. She was shaking. She felt Henry take
her hands in his. His touch was very comforting.

“He only wanted to protect you,” Henry said. “I would have done
the same.”

Margery gave a little hiccup halfway between a sob and a laugh.
“I doubt you would have threatened to kill anyone,” she said.

“I might have expressed myself slightly differently, but the
sentiment would have been the same.” His lips grazed her cheek in the lightest
and most fleeting caress. “I’ll take you back,” he said. “Completely untouched,
so that your brother does not come looking for me to slide a knife between my
ribs.”

He took her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin with
quick efficiency. His fingers brushed her throat. Margery repressed a shiver.
She felt shaken and upset but beneath that was a deeper emotion, something so
precious and tender she trembled to feel it.

The street was silent and dark, the leaning houses pressing
together, their windows blind, their shutters closed. High above the sloping
roofs, Margery could see a sky spangled with stars. She felt tired all of a
sudden, as though the pleasure she had taken in the evening and in Henry’s
company had drained away, leaving her empty. She sighed. “I did not want the
evening to end like this.”

Henry stopped walking and turned to her. “How did you want it
to end?”

The quiet words made her heart skip a beat. She glanced up at
him but in the dark his expression was unreadable.

“I wanted to go to Bedford Square Gardens,” Margery said, in a
rush. “I wanted to look at the stars and feel the breeze on my face and hear the
sounds of the city at night....”

“We can still do that,” Henry said. “Since that is what you
would like to do.”

Margery paused. They were alone and the night pressed in about
them, silent and secret. Somewhere, streets away, a clock chimed the quarter
hour. She could hear Henry’s quiet breathing and feel the heat of his body where
it brushed against hers. He said nothing more. He was waiting for her to decide
what she wanted.

A strange feeling swept through Margery, part excited, part
fearful. Jem had been right; she had taken a risk tonight, but she trusted
Henry. She knew that in all the drab repetition of her daily life this one
evening would always sparkle as bright and exciting as a jewel. She did not
expect it to happen again, but she wanted it to end well, not on the sourness of
Jem’s intervention, spoiling the magic.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was husky. “Yes, please.”

Henry smiled but said nothing and took her hand in his. They
walked back through the quiet streets, the brim of her bonnet brushing his
shoulder. Neither of them spoke. It did not feel necessary. When they reached
the gate at the corner of the gardens, Margery opened her reticule. Her fingers
shook a little as she took out the key and turned it in the lock. The gate swung
open on well-oiled hinges and they stepped inside.

“Lady Grant gave me a key when she realized that I like to take
the air here of an evening,” Margery said. “The gardens are private to the
residents.”

On this evening it was like a secret garden, belonging to them
alone. The gravel of the paths crunched softly under their feet as they made
their way beneath the spreading boughs of poplar and oak. Margery ran down the
path to the place where a pool was sheltered by the overhanging branches of a
willow. She trailed her fingers in the cool water and watched the ripples
shatter the reflection of the stars. Somewhere, distantly, in one of the grand
town houses that bordered the square, an orchestra was playing a slow, dreamy
waltz. It reminded Margery of the previous night, when she had danced with Henry
on the terrace.

With a sigh, she straightened and turned back to look for
Henry. He was standing still and straight in the shadows of a plane tree. His
silhouette was dark, his shoulders broad and strong. The moonlight glinted on
his glossy black hair. Margery went up to him and put her hands against his
chest.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

He smiled. “My pleasure, Miss Mallon.”

Spontaneously, Margery stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the
cheek, as she would have kissed one of her brothers if they had given her a
present. Henry’s cheek was smooth beneath her lips—evidently he had shaved
before coming to meet her—and warm. Margery was suddenly vividly aware of the
scent of his cologne mingled with the smell of crisp linen and sweet scented
grass. The combination went straight to her head and she felt a soaring
dizziness that was far more dangerous than the light-headedness induced by the
ale.

She drew back, made clumsy by shock and awareness, and in the
same moment Henry turned his head and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth.
Margery felt him go very still. The moment turned from something sweet to
something profoundly awkward. Heat suffused her. She felt inept and mortified.
She was ready to curl up with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean… It was a mistake—”

“Does this feel like a mistake?” Henry said. His arms went
around her, pulling her against him, and then he was kissing her properly.
Margery’s head spun, and the ground shifted beneath her sensible half boots and
she realized that the kiss in the brothel had been nothing at all compared to
this.

Henry’s lips moved over hers, his tongue touching hers, tasting
her, searching, exploring. It was astonishing. It was bewitching. Little ripples
of pleasure shimmered through her, down to her toes. She was shocked and
intrigued all at once. It lit her blood with fire, making her shiver with heat
and cold simultaneously as though she suffered a fever.

She had wanted this. She realized now how very much she had
wanted Henry to kiss her. She had wanted it all evening and now it was
happening. Her whole body tingled with surprised delight and a sudden fierce
triumph.

With one hand Henry pulled the ribbons on her bonnet and cast
it aside on the grass, and then his arm was across her back and his fingers were
tangled in her hair, sending the neat pins flying, tilting her face up so that
he could kiss her more deeply and more urgently still. Margery felt sweet
lassitude seep through her body, weakening her knees, filling her with the most
agreeable sensation of pleasure that she had ever known. She wanted more of it;
suddenly she felt starved and greedy for it, her senses waking into life.

She drew closer to Henry, sliding her arms about his neck and
opening her lips beneath his, kissing him back. He tasted of brandy and fresh
air and something she had never known before, something that was elemental and
special only to him. Her breasts were pressed against his chest as he held her
close. There was a lovely, painful ache in the pit of her stomach. She had never
known anything to compare with this combination of driving need and wanton
weakness.

Henry’s mouth left hers, but only to press kisses against the
tender line of her neck and to linger in the hollow at the base of her throat.
She trembled now, alive to his touch, as he slid the striped spencer from her
shoulders and dropped it to join the discarded bonnet on the grass. His hand
cupped the curve of her breast through her gown, his thumb insistent as it
rubbed over her nipple. The friction of rough cotton against her skin was
exquisite and Margery stopped thinking abruptly, her mind swamped instead by
pure, hot desire. She gave a keening little cry and Henry’s lips returned to
hers in a ruthless kiss that swallowed her cry and drew her tighter still into a
spiral of need.

If she had thought his touch through the material of her gown
incendiary, it was nothing to the experience when he slid his hand inside her
bodice and she felt his palm, warm and firm, against the side of her breast. The
heat and the longing exploded inside her.

It felt as though the very stars were spinning in their
courses. She had long ago forgotten to think. She was consumed by sensation
only, her whole body clenched in such desperate wanting that she thought she
would scream with it.

Her back was against one of the trees now. She could feel the
bark snagging against the thin cotton of her gown. She tilted her head back to
allow Henry greater access to the bare skin of her throat and shoulders,
delighting in the nip of his teeth and the caress of his tongue. There was no
shame or hesitation in her. This was a part of her nature that she had not
suspected for a moment, but now it drove her.

When Henry tugged down the neck of her gown and she felt his
mouth at her breast, she was shot through with such intense pleasure that she
would have crumpled to the ground had he not held her pinned against the
tree.

A moment later she realized that he was lifting her. The bark
scored her bare back but the roughness of it was no more than additional and
delightful stimulation against her nakedness. His hands were beneath her thighs,
somehow her legs were wrapped about his waist, and her palms were flat against
the solid hardness of the tree trunk. She could feel the kiss of the night air
against her breasts.

She was filled with a ravenous greed to take Henry completely.
She did not want to give herself to him. That felt too passive for the need
within her, which was hungry and concentrated. She wanted to take. She was
learning so much about herself and so fast. Her mind could not grapple with it,
but her body knew what it wanted. It knew it with a knowledge that was deep and
primitive. Henry’s mouth was at her breast again, his tongue licked, his teeth
tugged on her nipple and she arched back against the hard trunk of the tree,
bending like a strung bow.

“Henry, please.” Her words came out a whisper.

Taken by such pleasure she had meant to urge him on to more,
but her words had the opposite effect.