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She rubbed against him harder, slower. She knew exactly what she was doing and wanted him to know it too.

He swore.

She felt like a queen. Like the debutante she had never been: glittering, charming, wanton. There were moans on the other side of the curtains, soft groans, whimpers of pleasure. They were like other hands in the dark, touching her. She squirmed, too aware, too conscious.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bram asked quietly, closing his teeth around her earlobe and tugging gently. A little sound formed in her throat. She reached back, desperate to feel him. “Ah, ah,” he clicked his tongue. “This might be your game, but the rules are mine.”

She whimpered when he held her still.

“Agreed?” he asked.

She nodded, jerkily. As if her body was not her own.

“My rules,” he reminded her sternly. “But yours to stop at any moment. Do you understand?”

She could have wept with the need to have him touch her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded again. He was still covering her mouth, gripping her to his body. His length thickened at the top of her buttocks, nudging against her. And then his lips were on the side of her throat, brushing up and down, softly, so softly. A lick, a tease. A scrape of teeth that sent decadent shivers bolting down her spine.

He lifted the hem of her gown, his ragged breath in her ear, a counterpoint to the soft moans escalating throughout the grotto. He dragged his fingertips up her leg, along her knee, up her thigh. She quivered with anticipation, with a want that clawed through her, urging her to reach back again. He pinned her ruthlessly, fingers pausing at the crease of her thigh. “What did I say?”

She whimpered again but relented.

“You’re going to be so quiet for me, aren’t you?” he asked. “So good.”

He slid between her folds, sliding back and forth, inked knuckles wet with her body’s response before he eased a finger inside of her. He groaned as if he were the one being stroked, and it only made the heat rise more sharply inside of her. He built a rhythm, thrusting deeply, slowly, circling her nub, trusting harder. Another circle, a flick, a press of his thumb. She moved against him, seeking, reaching, desperate.

“Take it,” he said roughly. “It’s yours—take it.”

She shattered.

There was no Miss Vinegar. No Lady Clara. No spinster or wallflower. Not even the Nightingale.

Only Clara.

Pleasure was sharp, a kiss with teeth. A bite. And all the sweeter for it.

She went limp against him, and he smiled into her hair, releasing the hem of her gown.

It had taken Clara barely a few days out of London to succumb to ruination.

It was shameful. Delightful. Not remotely sustainable.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. Next week. It hardly mattered—she would not let her worries and her wishes taint a perfectly decadent evening.

*

That was why it took her a long, disorienting moment the next morning when she found the note under her door.

I know what you do. Five thousand pounds or the world will know it too.

She froze. Had someone seen her last night? Bram had covered her with his coat when they snuck out. No one had paid the least bit of attention to them. He hadn’t said a word as they crept across the cold lawn and back to the Dower House. No one could have overheard a snippet of conversation and recognized them. Even when he walked her to her bedroom door, he did not say a single word. His eyes glittered fiercely before he took his leave. After searching her room, of course, to ascertain that it was safe.

Nightingale, she reminded herself. This was about her books. Nothing else.

Though she was a little bit proud of herself that she now had two scandalous dealings that might lead to blackmail.