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She had been trained as a pickpocket and tested on the streets of London, and she was notoriously unflappable, which made her an ideal partner in criminal enterprise and information gathering.
But that morning, as Henry sat on the edge of the bed, newly conscious and impossibly handsome, smiling at her and teasing her and asking her questions that set her aflame with a heady combination of embarrassment and desire, she was unsteady.
Unsteady, and grateful for the way he caught her and pulled her close and gave her something to cling to—his firm, warm flesh. His soft hair. Those lips she’d once thought were unyielding but now, as he kissed her, were a tempting reminder that he was alive, and not simply alive, buthersfor whatever time they had left—until the world returned and he remembered that Adelaide was an imposter, playing at being a part of his world. Born and bred on the South Bank—no kind of woman for the impeccable Duke of Clayborn.
But today, here, in the middle of nowhere, as the sun rose over the countryside, she let herself imagine what it might be if they were a different kind of people—the kind who lived in a little house on a hill, surrounded by farmland, where they woke with the dawn and spent their days with each other—full of each other.
What was the harm in imagining such a thing? Just for a moment.
Just until the world returned, and she realized that he could not soothe all the places he’d marked her—because he had marked too many that could not be seen, and would never return to the way they were.
She would think on that later, and it would consume her. But for now, she willed herself steady, holding the mirror for him as he shaved, watching his quick, economical circles with the boar bristle brush and cataloging his handsome face once more.
Even with the bruising from his battle, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen—somehow more so now than before. She’d never imagined watching a man shave would affect her in any way, let alone making her wish she could climb into his lap and get a closer look.
Really Adelaide, the man was unconscious mere hours ago.
She’d found a razor in the table by the washbasin, and he worked it back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm on its leather strop. “What are you thinking?”
She followed the movements, ignoring the way her heart pounded with each slide. Ignoring the way other parts of her pounded.
“Adelaide.” Her name was firm on his tongue, and she snapped to attention.
“I was thinking that this... It is...” She searched for the word.
He found it. “Intimate.”
“Yes.” Her reply was barely there, more breath than sound.
A growl sounded in the back of his throat. “Christ, that’s pretty,” he rumbled. “I wonder all the other ways I could make you say that word.”
Now she was wondering, too, as he set the blade to his cheek. On the first stroke, he winced, sucking in a sharp breath.
“What is it?” she said. “Did you cut yourself?”
A quick shake of his head. “No. But the angle.” He slowly twisted in the seat. “It’s strange what one finds one cannot do with a broken rib.”
He turned the razor around and offered the handle to her. “Would you—”
She looked to the razor and again to him. “And if I told you I had never shaved a man?”
“Have you?”
“I have.” Alfie thought a daughter no more than an expensive servant.
He closed his eyes for a moment—a touch longer than normal, and when he opened them, there was fire there. “I confess, that revelation made me more than a little jealous, Adelaide.”
The words tumbled through her. “Oh.”
He gave a little laugh. “You like that? That I am suddenly twisted in knots at the idea of you shaving another man?” She didn’t have to admit it. He could see her pleasure. “Tell me the blade slipped, and put me out of my misery.”
“It did not.” She laughed. “And that’s a terrible thing to wish.”
“Who was he?”
Her gaze met his. “If I said he was my lover?”
“Then I suppose I would say his loss is my gain.” He paused, then added, “And resist the urge to get his name from you so I might pay him a visit.”
