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But... what if?
For the first time, Adelaide allowed herself to consider the possibility that she did not need to forget the Duke of Clayborn, in all his untouchable aristocratic divinity. That perhaps there was a way forward for them—unconventional and limited, but a path they could tread... together.
Mistress, he’d said. A jest.
A word that she’d never considered before, because women like Adelaide were not made for mistressing. She was not pretty enough or droll enough or sultry enough to summon men to her bed. But why not another word? If he would have her? Why notcompanion? Why notsecret keeper?
Why notpartner?
She caught her breath as the thoughts took shape. Adelaide Frampton, who had spent a lifetime alone, facing down pain and danger and loneliness, who had made a place for herself in the world as a woman with a wicked sense of justice, and a willingness to do anything to mete it out—found herself undone in those moments, in the dark... byhope.
Foreign and unnerving, the feeling twisted, becomingsomething more familiar. Easier to ignore. Fear. Who was she if she allowed herself to hope for another?
If she allowed herself to put a name to him? A face?
If she stole it? For herself?
The answers were for another day. But that night, for once, Adelaide allowed herself a taste of what it would be to sleep, safe and wanted, in a lover’s arms.
Chapter Eleven
Henry woke to a noise beyond the door.
The room was full of the deep dark that came with the heaviest part of night, the candles having long since burned out, the fire down to glowing embers in the hearth. He’d fallen asleep with Adelaide in his arms, warm and soft and relaxed for the first time since they’d met. The scent of her surrounding him, fresh like rain, the weight and heat of her pressed against him, her fingers playing over his chest in smooth, lush circles, making him want to buy the Hungry Hen and never leave it.
Making him want to keep her there, in that bed, until she shared every one of her secrets.
Making him want to tell her all of his.
Which was madness, of course.
Wasn’t it?
She’d offered him a future.
He’d known since he was fourteen that he would not marry. That he would do best not to tumble into love like other men. He’d built himself a cool, unwavering identity—one that did not recommend him to women. Or anyone else, for that matter. Once others realized that the dukedom was not accessible, they moved on, as there was little reward in staying.
But somehow, this woman had found her way in with her touch and her kiss and the little glimpses of her thatshe gifted him, like treasure. A good thing, too—for if she hadn’t gifted them, he might have stolen them, with how well he liked them. Bits of her life, her world, her mind. Her kisses.
And then, last night, after he held her in his arms and told her that marriage was not his future, how he feared loving another more than she could love him, she had not asked for his secrets.
Instead, she’d offered a new path.
To be his mistress.
Of course, it was impossible. He’d watched Adelaide Frampton for long enough to know there were no half measures for her. She deserved a man who could give her everything. Marriage. A home—a damned palace if she wanted it. Children to fill it with laughter. Honesty. A life without secrets.
She deserved that full heart.
But there, in the depths of night, in that dark inn at what felt like the end of the earth, if he closed his eyes, he might believe it could be him.
Even as he knew he shouldn’t, he tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer. His hand coursed over the soft skin of her back, pausing when it found a raised mark. The hint of another scar. Longer than the one at her side.
What had the world done to this woman?Anger threaded through him, hot and impatient, chased by a heady desire to find those who had wronged her and to destroy them. To avenge her. To protect her.
I don’t need protection, she’d said downstairs, after he’d gone for the brute. Called her his wife.
And she didn’t. Not all the time. He’d seen her do plenty of protecting herself. He’d seen her go head-to-head with aristocrats and bruisers alike. Christ, he’d seen her leap onto a moving boat, as though a drop into the Thames wouldn’t take the life of anyone who had the misfortune to suffer it.
