And then he kissed her, and he played the thief.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He had been lost the moment she sat on his lap.

  Before that, truthfully. When she’d perched on the edge of the bed, mirror in hand, and he’d noticed the tremble in her fingers as she tried not to look at him. But she’d wanted to. She’d liked looking at him.

  Just as he liked looking at her. Just as he liked touching her, testing the curve of her hip on his thigh, the weight of her on his lap, the silk of her skin.

  The warmth of her in his arms when he pulled her to her feet and danced with her, teasing her closer until they were pressed against each other, and he was wondering how quickly he could get her back to London, so he might take her to a ball and scandalize the doyennes of the aristocracy by claiming every dance, and scandalize the rest of the aristocracy by tugging her into dark gardens and having his way with her.

  And scandalize her, because he was coming to see that she liked to be scandalized.

  Bandages and rosemary balm be damned, Adelaide was his cure.

  The realization was a gift, as though he’d found something for which he’d been searching for years, and now that he’d found it—found her—a new road rolled out before him. He’d spent months watching her and days chasing her and mere hours discovering her, but there, in that house on the hill, with his brother eloped to God knew where and heirs to come, suddenly it was all clear, and Henry was free to watch her and chase her and discover her at his leisure.

  She liked it when he watched. And chased. And discovered. She reveled in his notice. And he intended to give her more of all she wished.

  All she asked for. All she deserved.

  So he did what any intelligent man would do and returned to his chair, tugging her into his lap, so he could give her his undivided attention.

  “Like this,” he whispered, pulling up her skirts until her knees were on either side of his thighs and she stared down at him like a queen.

  His queen.

  “Have a care for your ribs,” she said, resisting giving him her full weight. “You couldn’t shave.”

  “Could I not?” he asked, his fingers at her hips, holding her on his lap. “I cannot remember anything painful about the experience. Not when you made it so pleasurable.” He moved to the ribbons of her skirts, toying with them. “These ribbons—the first time I saw you use them, tossing your skirts away on the docks to run faster—they’re brilliant.”

  Her smile was full of pride. “Not just to run faster. Don’t forget the element of surprise.”

  “How could I? Those grey skirts disappeared and sudden I was chasing this . . .” His hands went to her bottom and squeezed. “Glorious.”

  She sucked in a breath. “I am very lucky to have a very clever dressmaker.”

  “Mmm,” he said, tugging at the ribbon, just enough for it to hint at untying. “Who is she?”

  She hesitated, and he regretted the question. He didn’t want to play their information game right now. He didn’t want to be reminded that there were countless secrets between them.

  Surprising them both, however, she answered. “Her name is Jane Berry.”

  Even that—the tiny piece of information—felt like triumph. “I assume she does not have a shop on Bond Street.”

  Adelaide gave a little, secret smile. “No. Her shop is in Croydon.”

  Far away from the prying eyes of the aristocracy. “And yet, her designs take London by storm.”

  She leaned in and kissed him, quick and sweet and distracting.

  Not distracting enough. When the kiss ended, he stroked a hand over her long body, loving the way she arched into his touch, and said, “You trust me here.” He didn’t wait for her reply, instead pausing at the place just above her bodice, where her heart pounded. “But not here.” Wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck, he pulled her close and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, whispering there, “And not here, either.”

  She looked away, over his shoulder, as though searching for the right way to answer. “It isn’t specific to you. I trust very few people.”

  “The Duchess of Trevescan.”

  She nodded.

  “Sesily Calhoun. Lady Imogen Loveless. Maggie O’Tiernen. Lucia.”

  Another nod.

  “Others, I assume,” he said. “All women with skill and talent and a wicked sense of justice.”

  She did not nod then. Instead, she stared down at him and said, “You have been noticing me.”

  The way one noticed a candle in darkness. “Every time you enter a room. And one day, I shall earn the rest.”

  The words did not tempt her to confide in him, and he did not expect them to, but she rewarded him in other ways, with a flush of awareness across her breast, a flash of desire in her eyes.

  He had waited a lifetime for this woman, and he would take the pieces she gave him, every hint of her secrets, and he would put them with his own. And she would trust him one day, because he had earned it from her.

  Now was not the time for such a vow, however—not when Adelaide was so quick to hide. Instead, Henry returned to her ribbons, toying with the pretty silk. “When I was with fever . . . unconscious . . . I dreamed of these ribbons.”

  She watched him. “What did you imagine doing with them?”

  “Catching you. Untying you.”

  She nodded. “Show me.”

  He did, loosening the ties that held the skirts bunched between them. When he was through, he found the seam of the fabric and tugged.

  They fell away, draping over his legs to reveal—

  Dear God.

  “Why, Miss Frampton,” he said, unable to stop his fingers from sliding up her thigh to the bare curve of her bottom. “This is . . . scandalous.”

  Beneath those skirts that were so easily dispatched, Adelaide was bare. “I did not expect anyone to be interested in what was beneath my skirts today.”

  “That was your first mistake,” he said, the words coming on a low growl he could not control. “I find myself endlessly interested in what is beneath your skirts.” His fingers chased over the smooth, warm skin of her bottom, to the seam there, skimming over the sensitive flesh, loving the way she gasped her surprise at the touch.

  She rocked against him, the heat of her teasing through the fabric of his trousers. “Henry.”

  “Take your hair down,” he ordered, reaching for those rich, fiery strands. “I’ve dreamed of this—of your hair down around you as you reign above me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” Her fingers stroked over his torso to his bandaged wound, and he sucked in a breath.

  “I promise you, love . . . what I feel when you touch me is nothing like pain.”

  Her hands went to her hair and he stroked over her laced bodice—the only thing left on her body, the fabric straining where her breasts rose and fell in staccato rhythm—a clear sign that she was as wild as he was.

  She was so beautiful, rising above him, her long arms up as she worked at her hairpins, her hips canted against him, her lovely strong thighs hugging his own as his fingers found the soft, silken curls between them, stroking over them. “So pretty,” he whispered, tracing gently over her folds, teasing her, loving the way she rocked toward him, her body begging for his touch.

  “Henry,” she said, his name like a plea.

  She wanted him to touch her, and he liked that very much. “Mmm. Here?” Another soft stroke. Barely there. Torturing them both. “What was it you said to me on the dock all those days ago? She who finds, keeps?” Another stroke, a temptation. “I have found something . . . tremendous.”

  He watched her, growing heavy and hard.

  “I’m going to keep it.”

  Her eyes flew open, meeting his. “Me.”

  “Mine.”

  She writhed against him, searching for more, and he pulled back, refusing her. Toying with her. She gasped, and the sound, full of desperate need, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever encountered.

  “You’ll let me, won’t you? Keep you?”

  “Yes,” she panted. “However you’ll have me. As long as I might keep you, as well.”

  And then the hairpins were dealt with, and her rich red curls were down around her shoulders, and he couldn’t stop himself from touching them, his free hand immediately tangling in them, and he had a heartbeat to marvel at their softness until she was touching him again, one hand on his shoulder and one—Ahh.

  She found his wrist, her touch firm, holding him tight as she lowered herself to him, sliding over his fingers once, twice, until he was there, in her silky heat, and they both groaned their pleasure. “This—” he said, hot at her ear, loving the sound of her shattered breaths. “I am going to make you come like this.”

  He stroked, smooth and slow, and she whimpered, a magnificent little noise that would have unraveled him if he didn’t have plans for this woman. For this moment. He licked at her ear, and stroked his thumb over the bud of pleasure at her core, reveling in the way she twitched beneath his touch. “And then I am going to make you come with my mouth.”

  “Henry . . .” Two syllables turned into a dozen.

  “Tell me, love.”

  “Please.”

  He grew impossibly harder. That word on her lips. He was ruined for her. He would give her whatever she wanted. She only had to ask for it.

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” She did, her eyes opening, black centers blown wide in rich brown velvet. He groaned, straining up to kiss her, ignoring the pull at his side. “I have more to tell you.”

  “Show me instead.” She sighed, rocking against his hand. “More.”

  “Look at you,” he whispered, watching her work herself on him, painting little circles over her softness, finding the place where her nerves screamed for him.

  Her hands came to his shoulders on a gasp. “Henry.”

  He turned his head and nipped at her wrist, running his teeth over her skin. “What will you do when you’ve ridden my fingers and tongue, love? What will you do when you’ve come against me twice?”

  “I’ll . . .” She rolled her hips against his fingers. “I’ll want more.”

  The confession nearly did him in. He’d give it to her. Whatever she wanted. “What more?”

  “Your—” She stopped.

  “You know the word. Use it.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, love, you absolutely should,” he whispered, wanting her to say it.

  Those eyes again, full of desire. “Your cock.”

  He growled and claimed her mouth, licking deep, sucking the profanity off her tongue. “Yes,” he breathed, harsh and aching when he released her from the kiss and reached for the laces on her bodice, yanking at the strings until it was loose enough to bare her breasts.

  He captured one straining nipple in his mouth, sucking it deep and slow, as his thumb circled the place she needed him most. When she cried out, one hand tangling in his hair, holding him to her breast, he knew he had her, his fingers and mouth and words sending her higher and higher.

  When she whispered, “Please . . .” he released her breast, just long enough to say, “I’m going to let you ride my cock.”

  The words catapulted her into her orgasm, and he leaned back to watch, loving the way her eyes found his, knowing that his watching was part of her pleasure. He was devastatingly hard by then, a fine sheen of sweat across his torso, his body a singular ache, desperate to take her.

  Not yet. Not until he’d made good on his promises. “Beautiful girl,” he whispered, guiding her back, over his arm, pressing kisses along her torso, sucking at her nipples again. “So sweet here. So stunning.”

  She had found a source of pleasure strong enough that she was not embarrassed by his compliment, and for the first time since he’d begun telling her how beautiful she was, she did not deny or hide from it.

  A flood of triumph coursed through him. If this was what it took to make her understand how perfect she was, he would give her this every day. Forever.

  He lingered on the word—one he rarely considered, as forever required a certainty in the future he’d not had since he was a boy.

  But somehow, here, with this woman, he did not run from the idea.

  Adelaide. By his side. A passel of little girls with fiery curls and curious, all-seeing eyes.

  If she knew what he was thinking, she would run.

  As it was, she was moving in his arms—had he spoken his thoughts aloud? “Where are you going, love?”

  She leaned in and pressed a kiss high on his chest, lingering on the muscle there before licking over one of his nipples, forcing a hiss of pleasure from him. She wasn’t running. Dear God. She was coming off his lap, lowering herself to her knees between his thighs.

  She wasn’t running.

  “Adelaide.” He reached for her, his fingers catching in her hair, guiding her to look at him. “What are you doing?”

  Her smile set him aflame as she removed her spectacles and tossed them on a nearby table, instantly forgotten as her hands slid up over his legs, pressing along his thighs on their quest to the buttons of his trousers. She paused there, the touch of her fingers soft and tempting as she looked up to him. “I find your plan for the afternoon extremely appealing, but I wonder if you would mind if I add one additional activity.”

  She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, on her knees, between his legs, lush and languid from the orgasm he’d given her. Knowing she watched, Henry sucked his fingers into his mouth, tasting her there, sweet and sinful. Her eyes went wide, and he went impossibly harder at the expression, full of surprise and desire. “Delicious,” he said, a scrape of sound. “Why not come back and give me another taste?”

  He saw her consider it, and held his breath, waiting for her to choose her pleasure. He reveled in that pause, in the knowledge of her desire for him, for his touch and his mouth and his cock. He reached for her hair, like fire. “Come, Adelaide. Let me pleasure you until we are both lost to it.”

  “No,” she said, capturing his hand and pressing a kiss to the palm, licking over it and up one of his fingers. He cursed, foul and full of desire, as she sucked the tip into her mouth, her tongue laving the pad of it, a promise.

  She released him with a knowing smile, moving his hands to the arms of the chair and wrapping his fingers around them. “No distractions. I’ve plans.”

  He released a punch of breath and leaned back, his heart a riot in his chest as he stared down at her as she took him in, her own hands exploring without hesitation, fingers dancing over the skin of his torso, his muscles tightening beneath her touch as his whole body snapped to perfect attention. He gritted his teeth at the twinge in his side.

  No pain. Not now. Only pleasure.

  Only Adelaide.

  Lower and lower she moved, until she reached his trousers, the hard, straining length of him impossible to ignore. Her hands hovered there, above the bulge in the fabric, for a heartbeat. A lifetime. Her beautiful gaze found his. “May I?”

  “Fuck, yes,” he breathed.

  Another small, secret smile. “What language, Duke. How the world would react if they knew what a filthy mouth you had.”

  “Let me use it on you,” he said, the words harsh, part command. “Let me lick you again and again, until you forget your name.” She rewarded him with a sharp inhale. A flicker of her dark lashes. She wanted it.

  Good. He intended to give it to her.

  But then he couldn’t intend anything, because she was touching him, stroking and exploring the hard straining column of him beneath his trousers. His grip tightened on the arms of the chair, the wood creaking in his hands as she worked his buttons with speed.

  Thank God. He couldn’t bear slow.

  She struggled with one and released a little sound of frustration, and Henry thought he might come from that sound alone—the proof of her desire for him. But no. He wasn’t coming without her.

  Not even when she spread the fabric wide and revealed the length of him, hard and hot and aching.

  “Oh,” she said softly. “That is—”

  It was rude. A gentleman would apologize for it.

  “—beautiful,” she finished, delight in her voice.

  His eyes slid closed and his heart pounded and the edge of the chair’s arms bit into his flesh and he willed himself not to touch her. To let her touch him.

  Was she going to touch him?

  One finger. One sinful finger, sliding over the tip of him and down the throbbing column. Like fire. Like torture.

  “Adelaide.” All the years he’d tried so hard to be in control. To be a decent man. To be noble. And with one finger, she turned him into an animal. He cursed, low and wicked.

  She gave him what he wanted, gripping him more tightly, rubbing her thumb over the broad head of him.

  He hissed out a breath, throwing his head back against the chair, his gaze rapt on her hand as she worked him over with her pretty, tight fist—down, then up again. He wouldn’t be able to control himself much longer. She didn’t want him touching her as she did this? Thought he could resist her? She’d have to lash him to this chair if she wanted that.

  With effort, he tore his gaze from where she touched him to find her waiting for him. She wasn’t watching the movements. Wasn’t gauging his desire from the iron stiffness in her hand. Instead, she was watching his face. Watching him, watching her.

  He found control again. “You like what you see.”

  “I do.” Another stroke, long and lingering. Another breath, punched from his chest.

  “You see what you do to me?”

  A small smile. A whisper of triumph. “You want me.”

  Want was too small a word. Four letters where he needed forty thousand. “I do.”

  “My hand.” Those smooth, rich slides would kill him.

  “Yes.” His hand flexed on the chair. “Adelaide. Let me touch you.”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” She paused. “If you touch me, I won’t be able to concentrate.”

  “I don’t need you to concentrate, love,” he said. “I need you to lie down and let me worship you.” She needed it, too. He could see it in the way her pretty sable lashes flickered with desire. “God, you’re beautiful. Let me show you how much.”