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.”

  She dipped her head to hide her smile at the words. “He was not my lover,” she said, finally. “I am not the kind of woman who attracts lovers.”

  It was the truth, and also a shameless hunt for a compliment. She would be well served if he agreed with her.

  Please don’t agree.

  “As I have spent the better part of the last two years imagining all the things I would like to do to you, I must disagree. Vehemently.”

  She gasped. “You have?”

  “In great detail. So much so, that I’m eager to resume my position as your current lover, so can we get on with this?”

  It was difficult to think of anything but his frank confession. “What sorts of details?”

  “Shave me, and I will show you.”

  She swallowed. “I—”

  “Unless you’re through with me?” he prodded.

  “No—” she said. “No.”

  He exhaled, harsher than normal, as though he’d been waiting for just that answer. “Excellent. Then do you mind hurrying up? Because I have plans to get back to kissing you.”

  He did not have to ask her twice. She set the mirror aside and took the razor from his hand, standing to consider the proper angle for her task.

  “You should sit,” he said, as though he read her mind, the words a bit rough. “It will give you better access.”

  She looked to his lap, his trousers tight across his thighs. And across other things . . . Realization coursed through her, chased by desire. He wanted her. “On you?”

  A delicious hesitation. Then, on a low rumble, “If you like.”

  She shouldn’t. This wasn’t a game. This was a sharp blade to the man’s throat, and it wasn’t as though she were a trained barber. But the temptation to sit in his lap, to feel the hard press of his muscles against her . . . It was too great. She took her seat, one of his hands coming to her hip to hold her steady, sending heat sizzling through her.

  “Is this . . . Are you comfortable?”

  He was in no way comfortable. She could feel him, rigid against her—his thighs, his chest, his . . . other bits. She resisted the temptation to explore just how rigid she’d made him when he said, tight and clipped, “Perfectly.”

  She cut him a disbelieving look, but focused on the task at hand, setting the razor to his cheek and carefully pulling it along his skin.

  She released a breath when she reached the line of his jaw and rinsed the blade in the basin nearby.

  He raised a brow. “Are you nervous?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “You seem it.”

  “If I am, it is because you are making me nervous,” she said, taking another line of beard.

  “That’s interesting, as I am the one with the blade to his throat.”

  “That’s why I’m nervous,” she replied, rinsing the blade once more. “No talking, please. As you know, I don’t care for dead dukes.”

  “Until me, I’m not sure you cared for living ones, either.”

  Another stroke. “Who says I care for living ones now?”

  He caught the hand with the razor in it, meeting her gaze firmly. “You care for me.”

  Why did it matter so much to him? And why did confessing it feel like she was stepping off a cliff, making her heart pound? “I do.”

  He released her and relaxed, his lips, cloaked in soap, twisting in a little, satisfied smile. “Good.”

  They were silent for a long moment, his gaze tight on her, watching her every move until she thought she was desperate to hide from the inspection. As she began shaving his neck, she whispered, “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “The blade at your throat isn’t enough of a reason?”

  “I confess, Adelaide, I enjoy looking at you enough to take the risk.”

  Her eyes met his then, that deep cerulean blue, and she shook her head. “I can’t concentrate if you’re watching me.”

  His fingers tightened on her waist at the confession and he grumbled, “Only because I want this to go as quickly as possible.” He closed his eyes, and she took the opportunity to steal a look at him. To lock away a memory of this moment, his dark, impossibly long lashes against his cheeks, dots of soap at intervals across his face, the newly formed bump on his bruised nose—hoarded proof that he’d thrown himself into battle for her. That he’d been hers for a heartbeat.

  “If I can’t look at you, at least let me hear you,” he said, the words shaking her from her inspection.

  “Shall I tell you a story?” she said, letting herself tease him. Just for now. Just for tonight.

  “Yes.” He leapt upon the question. “Tell me a hundred of them.”

  She smiled at this new man—nothing like the duke she’d once thought him—and dragged the razor back and forth in the warm water. “What would you like to hear?”

  “Tell me who you were when you were young.”

  She shook her head before she remembered that he could not see it. Working carefully at the underside of his chin, she said softly, “There are too many stories, and none that make for good storytelling.”

  “That suggests there are many that make for good storytelling, sweet. Come . . . you can surely find one.”

  What could she tell him that would not remind him of the differences between them? The story of her learning to pick pockets? The story of always, always feeling alone?

  The story of finding a man she wished to be alone with?

  Stalling for time, she reminded him, “You owe me a story, too. Your first kiss.”

  He opened his eyes, reaching up to stroke a thumb over her cheekbone before he said, “I find I cannot remember any kisses before yours, Miss Frampton.”

  She couldn’t help the sound that came, something that could only be described as a giggle. “I’m sure that’s not true. Close your eyes.”

  “It is,” he said, doing as he was told. “I can only hope you are as superior a barber as you are a kisser?”

  She smiled, enjoying the tease. Enjoying him, as she checked her work, looking for extra bits of beard that she might have missed. “I would not like you to be dissatisfied.”

  “Oh, I am dissatisfied,” he rumbled, low and soft and so close. “So much so that I think I deserve restitution.”

  She reached for the towel she’d set next to them, reaching up to wipe soap from his smooth face.

  “Beard restitution?”

  “Mmm.” That sound. That singular, delicious sound. Would she ever be unmoved by it?

  Leaning back, she considered her handiwork. “I’ve done quite well, I’m afraid. No restitution necessary.”

  “Then I am left with payment. Name your price.”

  Kiss me.

  She would never know if she’d given voice to the thought. It did not matter. Because he did as she asked, pulling her to meet him, licking into her mouth and giving her the kiss she’d been aching for, his hands chasing over her waist to hold her on his lap as her hands tangled in his hair and she kissed him back, matching him move for move, until the kiss ended and they gasped for air.

  “My services are more expensive than that,” she teased softly, reaching for him again. He met her, kissing her until she felt as though the world had slipped away—everything gone except Henry, smelling like mint and soap and rosemary.

  Finally, he pulled back, pressing his brow to hers as they both panted their pleasure and he whispered a wicked curse before asking, “How is it possible that you haven’t been won, Adelaide Frampton? How is it that you are here, ripe for me, making me ache and aching for me, in return?”

  She placed her hands on top of his, where he held her tight. “No one has ever . . .” She searched for the words. Wanted me. Come for me. Wooed me. Won me. She couldn’t say any of that, obviously. It would make her seem . . . needing.

  She was needing. She needed him.

  She pushed the thoughts aside and finished the sentence. “. . . noticed me.”

  He shook his head, slow and certain. “You’ve said that before. That you are not noticed. It is not true.”

  “I prefer not to be noticed.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Because if no one notices me, they won’t notice that I don’t belong.” She gave a little laugh. “Of course that’s silly, isn’t it? I don’t belong. Not in Mayfair. Not at your dinner parties where everyone laughs when husbands insult their wives. Not at your balls where people go out of their way to ignore the outcasts. The ones who aren’t beautiful. The ones who are aging. The ones who never quite got the hang of the quadrille.” She looked to him, feeling that she ought to confess, “I’m not good at the quadrille.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Of course you do. You notice every imperfection. You told me once that I overstepped when I was the only person in the room to defend Lady Coleford in her sitting room when her husband was a monster.”

  His sigh was full of frustration . . . and contrition. “I did.”

  “I was furious.”

  He nodded, his lips curving in a half smile. “You were. It was magnificent.”

  “You should not underestimate the power of a woman’s fury, Duke.”

  With his thumbs, he raised her chin, and he pressed a kiss to the soft underside of her jaw. “I have seen you at work, Miss Frampton. I do not for a moment underestimate you.”

  “Do you know that when I left that evening, I immediately went looking to fill your file?”

  Another kiss, this one lingering, made better by the way he finished it by whispering at her ear, “I can respect vengeance.”

  She clutched his forearms, her words going to breath. “I wanted to destroy you.”

  Another kiss, lower, where her pulse pounded. The swipe of his tongue, and then he lifted his head and looked her deep in the eyes. “I did it to protect you. To keep you unnoticed. If that man—if any of these men you loathe—with good reason, I would add—ever noticed you . . . Adelaide, don’t you see what would happen?”

  She’d seen what bad men could do with their lack of conscience. Had spent years fighting them when the world turned away from their behavior. “I can hold my own, Duke.”

  He nodded. “That much I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”

  “I’d rather speak than be silent. I’d rather fight than be protected. But you forget, Henry, that it’s not my speaking that gets me noticed. When a woman speaks too loudly, fights too passionately—that is when she goes unnoticed. They would rather shun me than hear me.” She paused. “They’d like me to shut up and dance the quadrille.”

  “Hang the quadrille.”

  “I would wager all I have that you are excellent at the quadrille.” When he did not answer she said, “Aren’t you?”

  “Adelaide.” He gave a little laugh, as though she was being silly. And maybe she was. Maybe she was irritable.

  Or maybe it was frustration, and she was simply reminding herself that there was no future for them. And maybe she needed that. “Aren’t you?” she repeated.

  “Yes. I am good at the quadrille.”

  “There, you see?”

  “I assure you, I do not. But I also do not care about the quadrille, because it has nothing to do with being noticed. Shall I tell you why?”

  She shouldn’t care. And still, “Why?”

  “Because the only person I noticed at the Beaufetheringstone ball didn’t dance the quadrille; she never does.”

  Her heart started to pound. “What do you mean?”

  “She never dances. Though she does pick the occasional pocket.”

  Her cheeks were burning again. “I sometimes dance.”

  “When?”

  There were parties that didn’t have dancing with mincing steps that she simply had not been able to master in the five years since Duchess took her in. Nor did they have mincing people. Duchess loved parties that existed beyond the aristocracy. That welcomed people of all walks. And there, there weren’t orchestras, but bands. Fiddles and pipes and drums and wild, raucous reels. And Adelaide adored those dances. But she couldn’t tell him about them. They weren’t for dukes. “When there is no one around to notice.”

  He nodded. “Show me.”

  “Show you what?”

  “Dance with me.”

  Her brow furrowed. “There is no music.”

  “No?” he said, and moved, tipping her to her feet as he stood. “Are you sure?”

  “You’re mad. It’s an effect of the blood loss.”

  “Maybe. You ought to take pity on me and dance with me, then, as it might be my last time.”

  Adelaide didn’t mean to step into his arms, but suddenly, there she was, wrapped in his warmth. “This isn’t—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Where shall I put my hands?”

  She reached for him, knowing she shouldn’t. Put one of his hands at her waist, took the other in her own.

  “This is familiar,” he said.

  She stepped closer, until they were nearly touching. “Like this?”

  “Still familiar,” he said softly. “I’ve danced like this before.”

  Her brows rose. “Not in Lady Beaufetheringstone’s ballroom, I wager.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “I am not,” she said with a smile. “After all—I was your first kiss.”

  He laughed, a low delicious rumble, and Adelaide stepped closer. His grip tightened, making it impossible for her to move away. “What about this?”

  “Mmm.” That low rumble that never failed to turn her insides liquid. “This is less familiar.”

  She couldn’t help her little smile. “This?” She stepped closer.

  The rumble became a growl as the band of his arm tightened around her. “Miss Frampton . . .”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I don’t care for the idea that you’ve danced quite this close to other men.”

  “Are you jealous?” His words, thrown back at him.

  “Burning with it,” he said, the words low and clipped. “I know I haven’t the right to, but I hate the idea of you in the arms of another.”

  She shouldn’t like that. But oh, my, she did. She liked it very much, and rewarded him for it by pressing even closer. “Does this help?” she whispered. “I’ve never danced this close to another.”

  He had so many sounds. This one was pleasure. And she liked it the best. “So, this is how you would have us dance?”

  “If there were music, yes.” She paused. “But Mayfair would most certainly notice.”

  His lips were so close. Was he well enough for this?

  “Not me,” he said. “They’d notice you, though. Certainly.”

  He was so warm, and so alive, and so perfect—it was impossible to imagine the wide world letting him go unnoticed for even a moment. He was the opposite of her.

  “I notice you, Adelaide.”

  His touch on her skin, his voice in her ear, his heat . . . all around her.

  “I notice this.”

  She clung to it, that vow. The impossible truth of it.

  Knowing that it would not always be true. Knowing that it would end, because there was no other option. Knowing that every moment she stole was just that . . . stolen. Criminal. Smuggled.