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No one on the Thames was watching.
“Who says I was stealing anything?”
There was something about him. About this. Something wild and unfettered and exciting . . . and dangerous. He stepped closer, his words low and dark as he continued, “You don’t have to admit it. I know a thief when I see one.” He reached for her, and she held her breath, wondering where he’d touch her. What the leather of his glove would feel like on her skin.
Except he didn’t touch her skin. Instead, he said, softly, “Red.”
For a moment she didn’t understand, and then she felt a tug at her temple, where a lock of her hair had escaped. She reached up, knocking his hand away and pushing it behind her ear.
He watched the movements, his gaze unreadable, and Adelaide went hot with his discovery and the sudden realization that he was close and warm and he smelled fresh, like citrus—a scent that did not come with the South Bank.
It was not a scent for Adelaide.
Adelaide Frampton was a woman for working days, and she had a keen understanding of what that meant. Of what she might hope to claim. This man was not for her, which made him a wicked temptation, like sweets and silks and purses and pocket watches. Like all of them put together. Too much for a thief to resist.
So she tilted her face up to his and stole him. For a moment. A heartbeat.
Intending to give him back.
Except it wasn’t a heartbeat. Oh, it might have been when he froze, stiffening the moment her lips touched his. He sucked in a breath—her breath—and she wondered if she’d made a mistake. Wondered if he might clasp her by the arms and push her away.
She wouldn’t have been surprised. Kissing in full view of London was not for Adelaide Frampton, unnoticeable plain Jane. Nor was it for Addie Trumbull, unimaginable legend.
Except...
When he set one hand to her—holding tight to the wooden cube with the other—he didn’t push her away. Oh, for a moment she felt the hesitation in his grasp, as though he considered it. But then... he took over.
His strong arm came around her back, securing her against him as he lifted a hand to her face, gloved thumb brushing along the line of her jaw, then stroking up over her cheek as he took her in hand, tilting her to gain better access to her mouth.
Suddenly, it seemed very much that he was the thief and she the prize.
And there, on the banks of the River Thames, for all of working London to see, Adelaide let him thieve, giving herself up to this kiss she had started and he had joined—like none she’d ever experienced.
This stern, unyielding man kissed like a practiced and superior scoundrel.
Not that Adelaide complained.
Instead, she pressed closer, one hand coming to his chest, warm and broader than it seemed in the waistcoat and shirtsleeves he wore. She sighed at the feel of his breath. At the heavy scruff of beard that roughened his sharp jawline. At his lips, delivering on the temptation they’d promised.
He took advantage of that sigh, thankfully, stroking his tongue over her open lips, sucking her bottom lip between his own, worrying it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue and licking into her—just once, like he knew he shouldn’t. Like he couldn’t resist.
Just as Adelaide knew she shouldn’t.
Just as Adelaide couldn’t resist.
Daylight be damned; docks be damned; duke be damned.
A bell rang in the distance.
Damn.
She pulled away at the sound, and a growl of displeasure sounded deep in his chest as he chased her lips for a heartbeat, as though her retreat had been a mistake.
It certainly felt like one.
Because suddenly he did not seem so much a duke.
Perhaps it was the sunset—the way the light had gilded the entire river, stealing away reality and leaving nothing but this man, who was somehow far beyond the starched, unpleasant duke. Tall and impossibly handsome and kissed like he never intended to stop.
