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“It’s possible. You’d make an excellent bruiser to keep the peace.”
“Six years of boxing at school,” he said, dryly.
She laughed again, setting her cheek to his chest. “I believe there is room in my carriage for you,” she said,knowing she shouldn’t be so happy to offer it. Knowing that every moment they were together was a moment that threatened the life she’d so carefully built for herself.
His hand slid over her shoulder, and he rumbled beneath her ear. “You are willing to share with me?”
Perhaps it was the quiet of the room. The warmth of the bed. The roughness of his beard as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. But the question did not seem to be about carriages anymore. Not that it would matter, as Adelaide had a feeling the answer would be the same. “Yes. I would like that.”
“Mmm.” That delicious sound, warm and wonderful. “Must we go tonight?”
They should.
But Jack and Helene were safe in their room an hour north, under the watchful eye of the Duchess’s scout. And an hour was not so far. Adelaide and Clayborn could leave early. Catch them by lunchtime. See them to Gretna. Keep them safe there and back.
Stay away from London for a bit longer. Hidden from view.
Together.
“I suppose we could wait,” she said, softly, knowing she was thieving time. Knowing it was a risk.
He tightened his arm around her in approval, tucking her close to him, running the tips of his fingers over her shoulder, back and forth in time to his slow, rhythmic heartbeat. She let her thoughts wander from Jack and Helene and the Belles and the Matchbreaker and Alfie Trumbull and Havistock... and finally, to Henry. And his secrets.
To the idea that he wouldn’t marry—that he would simply... languish. That he would be alone... Something flared deep in her at the idea. It shouldn’t have bothered her. She was alone, was she not? Had been for a lifetime and expected to be for a lifetime more.
But the idea of him alone . . . of them both alone . . .
There was something there. Something... free.
What had he done to her?
“If you do not marry,” she whispered. His fingers stuttered over her skin as hers began a slow track over his chest, playing in the dark hair there. “If you find a girl who has no plans for it. Who knows what she likes...”
Somehow, in the darkness, his plans for his future stretched out before them... Adelaide saw something more. Something like possibility.
“I am listening.” His hand went flat on her shoulder, pressing her into his warmth.
She breathed him in. “Marriage isn’t the only path.”
“Shall I let her take me to mistress?”
The question was low and dark and injected with more humor than Adelaide wished.Maybe.Maybe there was a middle way? An arrangement with her? One in which she continued her work, remained in her world, and simply... added nights like this? With him?
They would have to be discreet, of course. He was one of the most recognizable faces in Parliament. A brilliant orator. A cunning mind. A powerful voice.
But Adelaide had made a lifetime of going unnoticed. What if they could find a way to repeat this night? Why not take it?
They lay in silence, the low rumble of the tavern below having given way to quiet so impossibly still that she could now hear nothing but her heart. Or was it his, beating in a steady rhythm beneath her ear, slowing as the rise and fall of his chest grew heavy and even, and he fell asleep, holding her in his arms.
Adelaide was still for an age—minutes, maybe hours—marveling at the feel of his body against hers. Of his warm skin and the rich scent of sun-warmed leather that mixed with the rosemary from his bath. She’d never noticed a man’s scent before. Never reveled in her mark on it.
Never felt the keen pleasure that came with the knowledge that he was, for however fleeting a moment, hers.
Never wondered if there might be a way to keep it close. To hold it tight.
It was the wildness of the experience—the absolute madness of it—that made her whisper to the darkness, “Mine.”
It was certainly madness that the word gave her even more pleasure aloud than in her thoughts. Pleasure and triumph and a bone-deep something that she knew better than to name, knowing instinctively that if she inspected it... if she put words to it... she’d never be able to forget it.
