She returned the oil to her bag. “Bay and rosemary essence. And willow bark. It will help with the pain.”

  “So you have decided I shall live,” he said.

  He didn’t deny there was pain, and she admired that. “For another battle, no doubt,” she said. “You should get in. Before the water cools.”

  He grunted and she moved to the window, looking out on the darkness below, the light from the candle reflecting in the glass. “There is no screen,” she said softly. “I shan’t look.”

  He didn’t seem to mind, and Adelaide was consumed with the sound of his undressing—the slide of wool and cotton a slow, sinful temptation in the silent room. She heard him step into the water. His muffled groan. A deep inhale. A long exhale.

  Her skin grew tight, hot and uncomfortable over muscle and bone, and it took all she had not to turn and look at him. This man who came from a world so different from her own—it seemed impossible that they were in the same universe, let alone the same building . . . let alone the same room. While he bathed.

  He was too much for looking at.

  Like jewels or silk or fur in a shop window. Too costly.

  Steal him.

  “Thank you. For the bath.”

  Adelaide stiffened at the words, rummaging through her bag for nothing. “Of course,” she replied into the dark brocade.

  “Adelaide,” he said softly.

  “You shouldn’t call me that,” she said, because she felt she should.

  “You’re right. Miss Frampton.” Dammit. She didn’t like that he agreed.

  “On the other hand,” her traitorous tongue added, “if we are to play at being married . . .” Silence fell as she trailed off, and she willed the heat from her cheeks in the interminable stretch.

  “Many married couples use titles.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “How romantic.”

  “I would not have thought you were interested in the romantic.”

  “I’m not,” she leapt to say. “But you must agree, given names are the literal least one should expect from the person who is to be our partner in all things—tying cravats and folding trousers and whatnot.”

  He gave a little laugh. “Are we speaking of a wife or a valet?”

  “Are they very different?”

  “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 best schools. 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?”

  Dangerous. She hedged. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

  It was a lie. She’d loved the race. Could still feel the way her heart pounded when she’d realized he’d found her. Caught her.

  His gaze narrowed, just barely, just fast enough for her to know he knew what she played at. “You liked it.”

  She pretended to inspect the little tool. “Are you looking for praise for your carriage leaping and tavern brawling?”

  “I was good at dockside brawling, as well, was I not?”

  He had been. Too good.

  Her gaze narrowed on his. “What kind of duke is good at brawling?”

  “Tell me you liked it when I found you. When we raced.”

  Truth for truth. What stupid rules.

  When she did not reply, he set both hands to the edge of the bath and said, “Fair enough,” and before Adelaide could do a thing to stop him, he stood. Without shame.

  Dear God.

  Had she been prepared, she might not have looked. She might have turned away, avoided noticing the rivers of water sluicing down his body, over the ridges and angles of his muscles—muscles no aristocrat should have. She might have missed cataloguing the bruises along his torso—not just from the leap from his carriage, but remnants of the bout on the docks. The one he’d fought for her. To keep her from falling into the hands of The Bully Boys, just as he’d intended to keep her from Danny earlier, and then, from Billy, downstairs.

  Bruises were not new to Adelaide. She’d spent a lifetime looking at them. Tending them. They were the way of the world on the South Bank.

  So why did she itch to touch his bruises? To heal them?

  Why did they feel like they belonged to her?

  Why did she like it?

  And why did she dislike it so much when he reached for a towel and wrapped it about his hips, hiding the rest of him, the shadowed private places that she’d been unable to catalogue.

  He stepped from the bath, the sound of the water interrupting her thoughts and summoning her attention from where his large, muscled hands tucked one corner of linen tightly against the corded sinew of his hip. Good lord he was handsome.

  “Thank you.”

  Her gaze flew to his, and he clarified, though not without a mysterious smile, as though he could read her thoughts. “For the bath. The oil—you were right. It helped.”

  She waved off his words. “It was nothing. What wives do for husbands, no?”

  What on earth? Where had that come from?

  “I wouldn’t know. Likely not all wives.”

  She looked to him then. “Only the fake ones.”

  He laughed, and she liked it more than she cared to admit. “Puts the entire institution of marriage to shame.”

  “Such as it is,” she intoned, immediately regretting the words when he looked to her, sharp and curious.

  “You don’t care for the institution of marriage?”

  She shrugged. “I am the Matchbreaker.”

  “Why?” When her brow furrowed, he added, “Why do it?”

  She thought for a long moment, and then said, “At the beginning, I did it because someone did it for me.”

  “You were to be married.”

  “I was to be married off,” she corrected. “My father’s only daughter—a peace offering to a business rival.”

  His brows shot together, and when he spoke it was with a low, threatening growl. “What happened?”

  She was lost to the memory for a bit. “It was all very ordinary—no different than it has been for countless others. I was born a girl, and so my value was in marriage. In being traded for money or power or peace. I knew what was expected, and I prepared for it. I donned my wedding dress and walked alone to St. Stephen’s in the rain.”

  “Alone.” He whispered a curse. “St. Stephen’s,” he said. “Where is that?”

  She didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want this to end just yet.

  He nodded, seeming to understand. No judgment. “Go on.”

  “The groom stood with me, and it was all perfectly ordinary. Perfectly normal. The parson began and . . .”

  “And?” he prodded.

  She shook her head. “Before the ceremony could end, a new path was offered to me.”

  “The Duchess of Trevescan.”

  He noticed so much. So much more than anyone else ever had. Adelaide nodded. “She helped me escape.”

  “And the wedding?”

  She didn’t misunderstand the question. He wished to know if she was married. “It didn’t take.”

  “Thank God for that.” She liked the relief in his voice. Like he would have asked for an Act of Parliament himself if her answer were any different.

  She nodded. “After that, I knew that this was the work I wanted to do. Ending bad matches. Offering women new paths. Reminding them that marriage to a bad man is not better than a lifetime without one. Ensuring that they enter their matches with wide eyes and, hopefully, full hearts.”

  “Full hearts,” he repeated.

  She nodded. “I do not pretend that every match is a love match, but when you marry, wouldn’t you like a bride who comes to you with hope for it?”

  In her lifetime, Adelaide had never imagined having such a conversation with a half-nude man. Let alone a half-nude duke. She would do well to remember that bit. Dukes and men were vastly different flavors.

  He hesitated, and she wondered at the pause. What it meant. Instead of asking, she said, “It is the least we should expect.”

  “A full heart,” he said, tasting the words on his tongue. “That sounds like you believe in love to me.”

  She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “You would know.”

  “Mmm,” he replied. “So you do believe in it.”

  “I believe in it,” she said, and it was the truth. A year ago, she might have said differently. But she’d seen Sesily fall wildly in love—seen the lengths to which her friend would go to protect the man who was now her husband. Seen the sacrifice and the sorrow and the immense joy. But that was Sesily—who had never once in her life taken no for an answer.

  Adelaide was not Sesily. “I also believe it is not for everyone.”

  He watched her for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking—all the replies he tossed out before settling on, “I agree.”

  He did?

  “It is not for you, either?” Why had she asked that? She didn’t care.

  “It is not,” he said, as if he’d given the question a great deal of thought. “I have no intention of marrying.”

  She lingered over the words, the memory they summoned of his declaration that his brother was his heir. “You do not intend to marry,” she said. “But that is not the same as not intending to love.”

  He shook his head. “Neither are in my cards.”

  “What nonsense,” she said, unable to keep the judgment from her tone.

  Surprise flashed in his eyes. “Is it?”

  “It is. You’re a decent man, rich, powerful, and aristocratic, and with a single purpose, if we’re being honest.”

  “It seems we are,” he said, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Go on.”

  “You’re essentially required by law to marry. Preferably someone with an understanding of your rich, powerful, aristocratic world, who will then provide you with rich, powerful, aristocratic heirs.”

  Someone the absolute other end of the world from a girl who’d spent her childhood picking pockets of wealthy toffs who’d lost their way on the South Bank. Someone who would never find herself in a dark room above a roadside tavern in casual conversation with a half-nude man. Duke.

  She left that bit out.

  “Jack and Helene will deliver me rich, powerful, aristocratic heirs,” he said, leaning on the edge of the tub. “And now you know why I am so committed to seeing him married.”

  “For your heirs?” She felt as though she were under water. He might marry and have his own heirs, and yet he left the work to his brother.

  She looked down at the box in her hands. What secrets did this man keep?

  “For his own heirs. For his own love match. Which has always been the plan.”

  “What of your plan? What of your love match? With your perfect wife?”

  There was absolutely no sadness in his eyes when he said, “There is no love match for me.” He hesitated, and then added, “And if she does not come with rosemary oil for my wounds, I think she will not be so perfect.” It should have been a joke. It honestly started as though he meant it to be. On the surface, the words were perfectly cordial, full of ordinary, gentlemanly gratitude.

  But they turned soft and low, and when he added, “Thank you, Adelaide,” they sounded not gentlemanly at all.

  They tugged her toward him, even though they shouldn’t. “You’re welcome.”

  He kept speaking, his voice low and filled with promise. “Tonight, we play at marriage, and I vote for the kind that comes with given names. It seems not worth playing at all if the only perk is someone to fold my trousers.”

  “You are not wearing trousers.”

  His eyes darkened and he straightened, closing the distance between them. “You’re very perceptive.”

  “It is a well-honed skill,” she said distractedly as he advanced. Still half nude. Mostly nude, if she were the kind of person who was particular about such things.

  “If we were married, I would call you Adelaide, and it would not be a scandal.”

  If they were married, she wouldn’t be so warm. So tempted. She wouldn’t be moving toward him. Closer, closer, until there was nowhere left to go. Until she could smell the rosemary oil on him.

  Close enough to feel the heat of his bath. To touch him.

  “I would call you Adelaide, and you would call me . . .” His words were so low, they were a rumble in his chest. She felt them like a touch on her skin. Like a promise.

  Don’t finish it. Don’t say it.

  “Henry.” Close enough to savor the taste of his given name—forbidden—on her tongue.

  Close enough to see the way his eyes darkened, the centers of them blowing wide.

  Close enough to like it as his hand came to her cheek, as he tilted her face up to his and kissed her.

  Which she liked even more.

  Chapter Nine

  There were at least a half-dozen reasons why kissing her was a bad idea.

  First, this was not a leisurely holiday. They were on a quest to find Jack and Helene, and they should be preparing for a change of horses, not lingering in shared rooms in posting inns.

  Second, Adelaide was a tremendous thief—which the regular collection of society idiots seemed not to have noticed—but he had noticed, and, as she was currently in possession of the most important thing he owned, kissing should be out of the question.

  Third, though she did not appear to be lying to him, she was most definitely holding back enormous amounts of information relating to their quest. For that alone, he should not kiss her.

  And the most important reason? Adelaide Frampton deserved a man who would kiss her, love her, and marry her. And Henry was not that man.

  But in that moment, as candles and firelight cast long, dancing shadows around the room, and the aches—in his shoulder . . . at his side . . . on his cheek—waned in the fragrance of her rosemary magic and the memory of her long, lovely fingers circling the water to slowly brew her elixir, he didn’t think of any of those reasons.

  Instead, he thought that Adelaide Frampton was wearing too many clothes.

  And then she gasped, a soft little sigh that opened her to his kiss, and he wasn’t thinking at all. He was pulling her closer, and the box she’d been holding dropped to the carpet with a soft thunk that he might have cared about if not for the wild temptation of her mouth, wide and soft and so pretty.