Women never pulled this much from him. Required this much of him.
He was, perhaps, the only man in England who thought sexual congress should be reserved for a woman you actually liked.
Orgasms were plentiful, while affection was scarce.
In all probability, Mercy was marrying that coxcomb Montague, imminent marquess, devoted curator of mistresses, and future father to a bastard or two. There were rumors about the man that Damien had no intention of disclosing—not when her father apparently approved of the match. The Earl of Whitmore had his scandals, as it were, and obviously cared little if his son-in-law had similar burdens to manage.
As long as a solid title stood the test, which Damien’s lack of certainly didn’t, the earl was apparently willing to give up his daughter.
A leased hack rumbled down the alley, and he glanced up, his heart sinking when a flamboyant chit stumbled out and pranced into a flat down the way. Damien laughed softly, despite his displeasure. This neighborhood was a thousand kinds of interesting, and it suited Mercy right down to her paint-streaked fingertips.
Why deny her, he asked himself for the thousandth time since leaving her with teary eyes the day before?
Because she’d gotten to him.
And his were worthy survival instincts.
But the situation was near perfect, even he’d be forced to admit.
Mercy was experienced without any true experience, and he was a virgin with loads. He’d waited for the right person to catch up to him, a gambit requiring him to surrender at some point, and bloody hell, if the wager hadn’t arrived.
Her kiss had made him feel invincible.
Confident and steady, like the man she’d drawn in the sketch. When other women, and his commerce with them, had made him feel detached. He wasn’t one of those blokes who didn’t believe in love—like his brother, Knox—he merely thought it wasn’t a gift coming his way during this lifetime.
He’d been taught by a cruel father not to expect it.
Damien had been repressing his emotions for so long, he’d no idea how to retrieve them now that he needed them. Too, there was the fear he was taking something from Mercy she should be saving for her husband. She was right about that, and he’d never been a thief-in-the-night type. He also loathed taking advantage of that sweet slice of the past and her delightful infatuation.
However, since he wanted her as madly as she wanted him, the scales were balanced. Academic minds appreciated a balanced maneuver.
The carriage that turned into the alley was the one he’d been waiting for—the woman inside the one he’d been waiting for. On the heels of this disquieting insight was a rush of longing that he finally, barely, managed to accept.
If Mercy said yes to a night together, he wasn’t going to let fear extinguish his desire.
Not this time.
The hack halted with a sputtering creak, and Damien was on there before the coachman ambled down from his perch to release the girl. He would take care of that duty.
Mercy’s startled gasp lit the air when she saw him standing on the grimy cobbles, hat in one hand, spray of hyacinths in the other. He shrugged and raised the bouquet. He’d selected the flowers because they were close to the deep-sea hue of her eyes. This tidbit, he wasn’t about to admit. “I thought your studio could use a little color not encased in a tube of paint.”
She rolled her lips in to hide what he suspected was a smile. A jolt of lust, clear and bright, shot through him as he imagined the things she could do to him with that gorgeous mouth. “Pierre never brought me flowers. You’ve one up on him there.”
He sputtered a laugh, forcing himself to ignore the jealousy lying beneath his amusement. Taking her gloved hand, he helped her down the rusty carriage step. She was dressed for work in a faded gown most would consider fit for the rubbish bin, her half boots stained with a colorful rainbow of paint, her hair in a loose chignon that appeared to be on the verge of slipping free.
She was stunning and unconventional and clever. And he wanted her.
When Damien had rarely let himself want anything.
Mercy turned to him before going inside the dwelling, muted sunlight sweeping across her cheeks, sparking amber on the tips of her eyelashes. Taking the posy from him, she brought it to her nose and inhaled a faint breath. “I have a proposal, DeWitt.”
Damien popped his beaver hat against his thigh, partly to hide his burgeoning reaction to the scent of flowers and her, earthy, sweet, erotic. Whatever she was doing to him, it had never been done before. “I’m listening.”
She tore her gaze from the hyacinths and fixed it on him. The impact traveled to his toes and back. “You listen. That’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked you.” Before he could respond, she added, “I want to draw you. I’m alone this afternoon, without my companion in attendance. If you come inside and whatever happens is allowed to happen, you have to agree to let me sketch you until my fingers bleed.”
I want to make you scream with pleasure. How about that for a proposal?
Sighing, Damien glanced back to see the hack lumbering down the alley—then turned to find Mercy’s smile a veritable treasure spilling across her face. “Don’t laugh. I merely wanted to ensure he wasn’t listening. Your driver was foxed, Ainsworth, about to pitch off his perch. Not someone you need whispering about an earl’s wayward daughter meeting the staid member of the Troublesome Trio in a Fitzrovia alley. You have young Percival to think of.”
