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“I suppose that depends on whether the marriage is romantic or not.” His blue eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Adelaide.”
He said it like he was testing its flavor.
How did it taste? Why did she care?
“If we play at it, we might as well play at the romantic version.”
She stilled at the suggestion, another offering. Another thing she could thieve. But in all the time that Adelaide Frampton, quick-fingered pickpocket and legendary thief, had operated on either side of the Thames, she’d never been so unnerved by what might happen if she committed the crime.
“Look at me.” Another command.
Her heart thundered in her chest. Knowing that if she took the chance tonight, if she stole tonight, it might be her only opportunity. Knowing, too, that the punishment might be worse than any she’d suffered before.
Eager for something to keep distance between them, she reached into the bag, collecting his box from within. Only then, with the oak shield in hand, did she face him.
As a rule, Adelaide did not find aristocrats attractive. She didn’t like all their smooth, straight edges and impeccable clothes. Didn’t like the way their hair never slid out of place and their white gloves were never marked. Didn’t like the fact that they never laughed too loud and were never caught unaware by a sneeze and never slurped their soup. Aristocrats, in Adelaide’s view, spent far too much time trying for perfection when it was imperfection that made for a life well lived.
And the Duke of Clayborn was perfection personified. Usually.
Except then, in the bath, his hair out of place and his cheeks red with the marks of his carriage tumble and the damp heat rising from the water, with a bruise blooming on his shoulder where he’d taken a hit, and his right hand, flexing absently on the rim of the copper bathtub, as though he could release the sting of the blow he’d landed below... nothing about him was perfect.
Oh, his jaw was sharp and his nose was straight and if he opened that beautiful mouth—for it was empirically beautiful—she knew that he’d speak with the even, smooth tone of a lifetime in the best houses and the bestschools. The kind of man Adelaide never found attractive. The kind of man who was not for her.
But there, in a bathtub in a tiny room above the taproom of the Hungry Hen somewhere in Lancashire, his blue eyes on hers, full of heat she didn’t dare consider, the Duke of Clayborn looked... rough. Wild. Free.
Like he could be hers.
Adelaide sucked in a breath, but did not speak. What could she say?
I want you.
She was saved from speaking when his gaze moved to the box in a slow slide that sent a sizzle of heat through her. “Are you returning it?”
Tightening her grip on the cube she said, “As your wife, does it not belong to me already?”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Go on then, have you worked out the solution?”
Grateful for the distraction, Adelaide looked down at the box. She turned the bottom. Pressed the corners as he’d shown her the night before, and then returned the base again, popping a small square in the side of the cube, a button of sorts that, when pressed, revealed a narrow cylinder no more than an inch long.
She met his gaze, pleasure thrumming through her to discover the outright surprise and—even better—admiration there. She held the cylinder aloft. “The solution?”
He shook his head. “No, but a step in the right direction. I am impressed.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you.”
“I should be unnerved by the speed with which you have advanced.”
She offered him a wry smile. “You would not be the first to hesitate at my advances.”
He did not laugh. “I assure you, Adelaide, if you were to make advances, I would not hesitate.”
Oh, no, this was dangerous.
Do it. Advance.
She couldn’t. No good would come of following her desires with this man. Instead, she cleared her throat and waved the cylinder. “What is it?”
He shook his head, and she knew before he spoke that he was about to invoke the rules. “Did you like our race?”
