‘What are you doing…’ His eyes skimmed her length in the blue-black shadows. ‘Dressed this way?’ He still held her arm, some unexplainable force, protectiveness or untamed interest, or neither perhaps, provoking him to keep hold. What if she bolted? Took off running as quickly as she’d materialised? Safety, he reminded himself, it was an issue of personal safety. ‘Why were you attempting to look in this window?’
She uttered not a word. Her eyes lowered, breathing stilted and, if it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight, her skin paled considerably. Still, she didn’t attempt to free herself. He leaned a bit closer. ‘Will you answer the question?’
Her brows pleated slightly before at last she matched his gaze and puffed out an answer. ‘Which one?’
She seemed to relax, her arm all of a sudden softened beneath his touch. He should stop touching her now and let her go. Beyond reason, he tightened his hold. He doubted she would recognise him as the gent from Charing Cross with his disguise removed, but he remained unsure how keenly she studied his face and wasn’t apt to take the chance.
‘Any of them would suffice as a beginning.’ With a quick surveillance of the surrounding area, he released her and stepped away, hoping with his short withdrawal she’d find the words she needed. Indeed, she had no idea he was Mr Goodworth and that proved bloody convenient.
‘I’m dressed this way so I can enter the Underworld without notice. I wished to see inside.’
Similarly to their encounter earlier, the lady experienced no remorse at stating her intentions. One would think she was royalty, or very close to it, for all the attitude contained in her slight form.
His bark of laughter must have startled. Did she think her answer sufficed? Her eyes grew larger, if possible, her arresting green gaze fixed. ‘Of course you did, but the fast set inside would recognise you as an easy mark in less than a roll of the dice. One look at your graceful features, the curve of your…’ He lost his train of thought and jerked his attention to her face. ‘Your chin, with not a whisker in sight.’ Thank God. ‘Your delicate neck and slim legs. You believe a cap and some trousers can hide the truth? Why, they’re no disguise at all.’ He gestured up and down to echo the observations. She stared at him as if he were daft. Another laugh surfaced but he got the better of it. ‘Now explain this foolishness? What prompted this ridiculous charade and futile attempt to enter my hell?’ A lock of hair fell over his brow and with annoyance he pushed in back under the brim of his cap. He’d left in a rush, without his coat, his shirt sleeves rolled to avoid ink blots in the ledgers.
‘Your hell?’ Slim arched brows furrowed over intelligent eyes. ‘I was told Mr Sinclair owned this property. Are you the same?’
Oh, she was a dandy. Her tone rang with authority, absent of disdain but confident and seemingly accustomed to acquiring any and all things desired. He counted to five before he answered. ‘True enough he does. As do I and another of our associates. And you are?’ He watched with a keen eye, but no recognition to his identity showed. The dusky clouds overhead parted and filtered additional moonlight to cast her in a golden glow. Deuces, she was a beauty. If he didn’t know it already, the enchantment of starlight confirmed the conclusion.
‘Gemma.’ She gave a thoughtful pause and he waited. ‘I’m not sure my surname proves relevant.’
Aah, but he possessed that missing piece of the puzzle from their unexpected rendezvous this morning. ‘Well, Gemma.’ He tried her name on his tongue and oh, how he liked it, among other things. He was fast collecting a catalogue of observations, every one of them more enticing. Not that it mattered, he reminded. ‘I am Mr Hewitt and you are trespassing.’
‘I didn’t mean to get caught.’ She didn’t sound apologetic. If anything, she sounded annoyed he’d interrupted her plans.
‘Yes, I’ve no doubt.’ He wasn’t certain but he thought he smelled honeysuckle. None of the bushes near the hell were floral. It could only be the lady. ‘Well then, now that we’ve established your need for a costume, let’s have the why of it.’
She wrinkled her nose quite adorably and he rubbed his fingers together for want to touch her again. It wouldn’t be proper, but then their entire interaction had proved nothing of the sort. Gentlemen and Cits followed a code of ethics that did not apply to former beggars and homeless bastards. Lady Amberson was strictly forbidden. Regardless, his heart raced like a mad thing in his chest and he had no way to explain the reaction.
‘I’d rather not say.’
She eased back until she skimmed the brick building. Something had her on edge almost as much as he. It was due time she experienced a bit of discomfort. With a sardonic grin he inched closer. ‘Come now, you were caught looking through my window.’
‘It wasn’t exactly your window.’ Her answer was anything but rueful.
He slued his eyes above her head for effect. ‘Wrong again.’ The screech of an alley cat or otherwise disgruntled night creature caused her to startle, or mayhaps it was the way her brain processed his words. Truly the lady thought herself above. He really shouldn’t torture her so. ‘Now, sweet Gemma.’ He lowered his chin so his face aligned, their noses all but touching. ‘How can I help you?’ He spoke in a low rasp, vying for menacing but not quite pulling it off. He knew the perfect way to send her scampering and teach her a well-deserved lesson. And likewise, satisfy the vexatious curiosity racing in his blood.
Her eyes grew large as she matched his. ‘Mr Hewitt.’
‘Yes.’
‘I should take my leave.’ She swallowed as her gaze flittered to his mouth, down, up, then down, up again. ‘I’ve troubled you enough for one evening.’
‘You’re no trouble at all.’ The little minx. He leaned in, his body full of heat, her lips but a hair’s breadth from his and all reality changed in that moment. He should send her on her way, release her from this moment fraught with dangerous consequence, but the words to do so refused to emerge.
The mood shifted, her stance softened, though the air was charged with an energy he could in no way describe. It was as if he could feel her heartbeat, experience the rush of her emotions, all by being closer. He wondered if she detected the same. Perhaps she did. Her eyes fell closed. Long lush lashes bowed down to rest on pale cheeks, as smooth and opalescent as the inside of a rare shell.
He itched to trace his fingers over her skin, thread through her hair and close the tiny distance needed to connect their mouths. Nothing more than a little puff of breath escaped her lips while his body throbbed with yearning and, down below, his smalls tightened significantly.
No matter everything about the encounter was wrong. If anyone should see him, mouth to mouth, pressing a lad against the bricks of the hell, they would fail to understand the truth of the situation.
‘You’re a clever thief if ever I’ve met one.’ He never meant to voice the words, desperately attempting to regain clear thinking, but this seemed new territory.
‘Oh.’ Her eyes popped open.
He didn’t wait for her to elaborate.
He brought their mouths together and her shudder of surprise reverberated in his soul. She did nothing more than stand still at first while his mouth fit over hers with perfection, the sensual heat of her lips extended to every part of him, every nerve ending and cell. She tasted as he imagined, sweet, fresh and wonderful, and when she recovered from her initial shock, she placed her hands tentatively on his shoulders, the wall at her back reliable support, their kiss taking on a rhythm of its own.
He’d kissed dozens of women. Maybe more. Bawds, ladybirds, cast-offs and runaways. Not one proper. No one like Gemma. Her innocence and shy inhibition evoked an urgent need to touch, caress, explore every inch of her. He laid his palms flat against the wall, caging