He should not have sought those plum-ripe lips.
But he had, and the instant his mouth touched hers, his famous self-control unraveled.
He grasped the back of her neck and drew her closer and kissed her as he’d wanted to do from the first moment he saw her.
He felt her stiffen, and No danger, some distant part of his brain assured him. She would thrust him away, and probably slap him for good measure.
She did not thrust him away.
Her body abruptly went all soft and pliant, and her mouth moved under his, answering. Her silken hair tickled the back of his hand, begging to twine about his fingers. The scent of her skin stole inside him like a dangerous vapor, and the longing to which he’d refused to yield came to wild life inside him.
His body remembered the feel of hers when he carried her, the easy way she fit in his arms, the soft curves tucked against his hard frame. His body had craved more, and it had cost him an effort, later, to speak without revealing the depths of his frustration.
But that was before. This was now, and all he cared about was now. He cupped her face and drank deeply. He tasted dreams and youth and longing—a taste like a night of too much wine, a taste like too many lonely nights.
Of course he wasn’t drunk or lonely and he knew better than to yearn for his youth and its dreams, its passions. All that was behind him. Years behind. Lost.
He should have recognized the danger then, understood what was stirring to life within him, and stopped.
But he was past the moment of logical thinking. He was unable to recognize that what he tasted was danger, and so he failed to understand why it called more insistently than common sense. He understood only that this tasted like a woman and smelled like a woman and felt like a woman—and she was a forbidden woman, all the more irresistible.
Her hands stole up his coat and caught hold of the fabric. He felt her fists on his chest, and his heart thundered with excitement, like a boy’s when a girl first says yes. He brought his hands to her jaw, to untie the bonnet. He pushed it from her head. He dragged his hands through her hair, and the glossy curls coiled about his fingers as he’d wanted, and they were softer and silkier than he’d imagined. Everything about her was more than a man could imagine, and he wanted more.
He crushed her against him and deepened the kiss, to find the secret taste of her. He let his hands rove over her back and down to her waist, but as he slid them over her breasts, she broke away.
She pushed him from her with surprising strength. “No! Enough!” She turned away and picked up her bonnet from the carriage floor. “Oh, this is very bad.”
She shoved it on her head and hastily tied the ribbons. “This was unforgivably stupid. What is wrong with me? I cannot believe—What an idiot. I was supposed to kick you or tread on your foot. I vow, one would think I had never learnt a thing about men. This was a terrible mistake!”
He found his voice and some vestige of his mind. “Yes, it was,” he said.
He collected his famous composure and helped her out of the carriage.
The perfect gentleman, as always.
“Good-bye,” he said.
She hurried away without answering. In the next instant, she’d vanished into the night.
He swore once, under his breath, then set himself to gathering the shattered pieces of what used to be his perfectly regulated world.
Chapter 6
Friday 5 October
TO AVOID FURTHER INVOLVING THE underfootman in the secret, Peregrine had made a post office of sorts by prying loose some bricks near the back garden gate. There either Olivia or an accomplice deposited her letters and collected Peregrine’s. Though she was a girl, she moved about London far more freely than Peregrine did.
Unlike him, she did not have servants watching her constantly. She made any number of detours to and from school, none of which she remembered to mention to her mother, and all of which horrified and fascinated him.
He squeezed into the shrubbery, where he would not be seen, and opened the letter.
Queen Square
Thursday 4 October
My Lord,
Farewell!
The Time has come for me to Depart upon my Quest.
“No,” Peregrine said. “No.”
He had written two long letters to her, explaining what was wrong with her Idea about finding Edmund DeLucey’s treasure. First and foremost, young ladies—and she was a lady by birth, and must never forget this—did not set off on jaunts unaccompanied. Second, she must consider the grief she would cause her mother, who was an agreeable, sensible, and intelligent parent, unlike some. He had written third, fourth, fifth, and sixth points, too—a complete waste of ink.
“I might as well have written to the head of Young Memnon,” Peregrine muttered.
Be assured, sir, that I have read and thought about Every Word you have written to me. However, Matters Have Reached a Crisis.We moved to Queen Square on Monday. Our new Lodgings are more than comfortable, and I for one am glad to put a distance between my home and St. Sepulchre’s Workhouse. Yet Mama grows more Unhappy every day. I fear she is Sickening, the Victim of a Wasting Disease. She pretends to eat and sleep, but it is all a Sham, for she grows pale and thin. I am glad Papa is not alive to see it, because he would be Heartsick.
Even you must agree that I have Not a Moment To Lose but must set out AT ONCE. Rest assured that I have taken your words To Heart and shall not make this Journey Alone. Sir Olivia travels with her Trusty Squire, Nat Diggerby. His uncle drives a cart to market on Mondays and Fridays. We have arranged to meet him tomorrow at the Hyde Park Corner Tollgate. He will take us as far as Hounslow. A Wise Plan, you must agree.
“No, I don’t, you idiot girl,” Peregrine said. “What becomes of you after Hounslow—if you get that far? Do you never stop to think that your Squire Diggerby might be taking you to his ‘uncle’ the pimp or his ‘aunt’ the brothel keeper?”
Peregrine could hardly believe she was so naïve, given how much else she knew. He su
pposed the deficiency was on account of never having attended public school, where boys learned, along with Greek and Latin, all they needed to know about pimps, bawds, and prostitutes.
He hadn’t time to fill in the gap in her education.
The impulsive creature was leaving today.
He had to stop her.
BATHSHEBA GAVE UP waiting for Lord Lisle after half an hour. Evidently she’d misunderstood his schedule. She’d thought he’d said he was leaving on Saturday for Scotland. He must have said Friday, and she had only half-listened, her mind elsewhere.
She could not recall whether he’d said good-bye. But why should a boy of thirteen think it necessary to take any special leave of his drawing teacher? His uncle had taken polite leave already, a few days after their last encounter. His secretary had written a courteous thank-you letter, enclosing payment for the remaining lessons.
She gathered her belongings, closed up the classroom, and set out for home: a new home, thanks to Lord Rathbourne . . . whom she’d never see again.
He would keep away, and she was safe now, quite safe.
Also bored and out of sorts . . .
. . . until some hours later, when she was taking the table linens out of the cupboard and found the letter Olivia had left for her.
PEREGRINE ARRIVED AT Hyde Park Corner tired, hot, and cross. He’d lost his way several times, and twice he’d had to run away from louts who took exception to his costly attire. In normal circumstances, Peregrine would have run straight at them, in order to beat them bloody. He couldn’t take the time, and having to run away like a coward did not improve his temper.
He was angry with himself, too, for not having the good sense to hire a hackney and spare himself a great deal of aggravation.
This was not the best frame of mind in which to approach Olivia, who stood talking to some women selling pies. Beside her stood the boy version of a bull: Nat Diggerby, no doubt. His head went straight down to his shoulders, with no discernible neck between, and his shoulders were so wide he must have to go through doors sideways. He stood like a bull, too, head tilted downward, while only his eyes moved, watching the scene about him.