Give us a little more time.

  She was lost to him and to this, to his rare smiles and his strong arms and his pride and his goodness.

  After all this time, Adelaide had found a good man. And she would take a moment with him over a lifetime without him, without hesitation. She would be with him for as long as he’d have her, and count herself lucky to inhabit even a small, secret corner of his life. And when the time came, she would let him go, free and clear, and ignore the hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

  Her decision made, his hand stroked down her spine, his touch holding her like a breath. And then he asked, “Where is my box?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As they lay there, the light shifting through the room, moving from morning to bright noonday sun, Henry marveled at the quiet of the countryside, and breathed in the smells of the autumn in the world beyond the windows, and wondered how much it would cost to buy this little house on this little hill in this little town and live here with Adelaide for as long as it took to convince her to be his.

  He would follow her wherever she chose—give her whatever she wished. He would live in her apartments above The Place if she liked—if Maggie O’Tiernen would suffer a duke as a tenant.

  Whatever Adelaide wanted, it was hers. He’d make sure of it.

  He opened his mouth to offer it. To ask her to be his, to spend her life by his side. But, what would he be asking? He disliked the term mistress, and the way it carried ownership and impermanence with it. There was nothing impermanent about what he wanted with this glorious woman.

  And as for ownership. He did not fool himself into believing he would own her. Not when he was so thoroughly hers.

  He knew how she thought of her life in Lambeth. Knew she considered it a mark against her. And he would never give Adelaide even a moment of believing she was not worthy of all of it. Marriage. The title. A collection of babies—preferably little girls with hair like fire and eyes like velvet and a wicked sense of justice.

  With a deep, piercing ache, he knew that he wanted all of that with Adelaide. And he knew that he could not have it.

  He couldn’t bear for there to be any misunderstanding between them about why, however.

  So, it was time for her to open the box.

  When he asked for it, her eyes went wide with surprise, as though it was the last thing in the world she’d expected him to ask, but she didn’t hesitate. Finding her spectacles on the side table, she slid out of bed, leaving him aching for her as she crossed the room to fetch it.

  “You could have taken it from me at any point,” he said as she returned to him.

  “Would you believe I have been distracted by other things?”

  He smiled, a thrum of arrogant pleasure coursing through him. “By me.” He’d seen the tears in her eyes when he woke, though. Had held her in his arms as she’d shaken with relief. This woman felt something for him. And he was not about to turn it away.

  She extended the box to him, and he shook his head. “You do it. I’ll teach you.”

  The wary look in her eyes was unmistakable and he knew she was worried about what truths he might demand in exchange for tips about the cube, but before he could speak, she gave him a little, uncertain smile and said, “As I said when we began it, I am an open book.”

  Henry was through with the game, despite desperately wanting to play it. He’d been drinking in the little bits of her, tiny moments of revelation, filled with skirts tied with beautiful ribbons and secret passageways behind paintings of shield-maidens and kisses on bridges. She liked Westminster Bridge. He’d buy it for her, dammit.

  But the little sips of her were no longer enough. He wanted to bathe in her.

  First, he’d show her that he would never ask for more than she was willing to give. That he would be the only person with whom she did not have to perform. He lifted his chin in the direction of the box she held. “Show me what you remember.”

  She made quick work of the mechanism, remembering each step without hesitation, until she landed where she’d been before, a narrow cylinder in her hand. “It doesn’t open,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I thought it might be a key.”

  “It’s not so simple,” he replied, wanting her to keep talking. Wild about the way she turned the puzzle over in her mind.

  And then, his brilliant lady touched the tip of the obsidian cylinder to the exterior of the box. And gasped. “It’s a magnet!”

  He wanted to kiss the delight from her lips. “It is.”

  With supreme focus, she ran it across the box. “It sticks in some places, but not others.” Her eyes found his, bright with triumph. “It’s a maze. The key is inside.”

  It took her no time to find the place where the magnet collected an item on the inside of the cube, nor to trace the large letter C that filled one side of the cube with slow, sure patience, until she reached the bottom of the curve and a little click sounded. Her lips twisted into the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, triumphant and sweet and enough to make him want to toss the box across the room and take her back to bed.

  She’d found another latch, a seam along the edge of the box popping open, allowing her to slide a piece of wood from its mooring there, releasing what appeared to be the top of the cube.

  “Be careful now.” He couldn’t stop himself from helping.

  She looked to him, her gaze tangling with his for a moment and searching for clues. He didn’t give them to her. Instead, he gave her a dozen other things—hoping she would understand them. Pride. Pleasure. Adoration. Desire. A promise that when she was through with the puzzle, if she set the box aside and asked him to make love to her, he would do it without question.

  Because in that moment, he belonged to her. She was discovering his secrets just as much as she was discovering the secrets of the box. And for the first time in his life, Henry felt clear to share them. She worked on the box, her touch gentle and seeking and soft—enough to make him wish she was working on him instead. When she lifted the panel, it revealed a second wall inside, a smooth piece of oak painted like a starfield, that looked at first glance as though it was a red herring.

  Except it wasn’t. There were three small circles inlaid in the painted wood, beautifully decorated: a sun marked with a swirling L, a moon with a C, a planet surrounded by rings with an H. Not just circles. Buttons.

  “Careful,” he said again, steel in the word.

  She understood immediately. “The wrong button will destroy the contents.”

  His blue eyes found hers and his pride was overpowered with something else. Admiration. Fire. She thought for a moment, one fingertip coming to tap at her lower lip, making him want to lean forward and take it between his teeth, to kiss her until she was panting with pleasure. Unaware of the direction of his thoughts, she quickly understood what she faced. “Ink?”

  He nodded. “Clever girl.”

  “The benefit to being a lifelong thief. I’ve seen traps like this before.” Her brow furrowed. “Do you not wish to ask me a question?”

  “I wish to ask you a thousand of them.” The truth. “But not now.”

  “And what, I will owe you?”

  The question made him want to rage. Who had taught her this? That every moment with another person was a transaction? Who had made her believe that she had to give up pieces of herself for others? “Adelaide,” he said, quietly. “You owe me nothing. Do you understand? You saved my life. You healed me and sat vigil as I mended and you still think I will ask you payment for a piece of me. You owe me nothing.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  He did kiss her then, stealing the caress, licking into her mouth, stroking deep before retreating to send a slow, lingering lick along her bottom lip. “You’re so close,” he whispered. “Finish it.”

  For a heartbeat, she appeared to consider kissing him again instead of working on the puzzle, and Henry wondered if they might be able to pause her activities to do just that. But before he could suggest they make good on her desires, she spoke, her fingertip barely running over the box. “H is for Henry.”

  He nodded. “But it is not my box.”

  “C is for . . . Clayborn?”

  “My father. But it’s not his box, either.”

  She tilted her head and studied him, the box nearly forgotten in her hands. “Whose box is it?”

  He suddenly felt more sorrow for his father than he had in a decade. In longer. “It was my mother’s. He made it for her. To keep what is inside.”

  “Henry,” she said, the puzzle forgotten as she lifted her hand to his face, tracking her thumb across his cheekbones. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I was ten when she died. Too late to forget her, too early to really remember her. She’s shadows and feelings and warmth and beauty in my memories. But I can’t quite reach them.”

  She nodded. “I did not know my mother, but sometimes I think I remember her.”⁠

  Yes. It was like that. He clung to the words—to the truth in them and the little piece of her she’d shared. He lifted his chin toward the box. “Press it. L for Laura.”

  She did, and the top sprang open. “Henry,” she said softly. Different than earlier, when she spoke with pity. This one sounded remarkably like awe. “It’s beautiful.”

  She was beautiful.

  “Every birthday, he’d build us a new one and hide something inside.” She turned to face him, her eyes light with interest, setting the unlocked, unopened cube on the bed between them. “Sometimes they would take hours to open. Jack always got frustrated and wandered off.”

  She smiled. “Not you, though.”

  He shook his head. “Not me. I loved the mystery of them. The challenge. I loved the way they revealed their secrets only once I’d proven myself.” He looked to her. “I still do.” He didn’t say more. Didn’t tell her that he would do whatever was required to prove himself to her.

  She knew it. She had to.

  “What was inside them?”

  “Trinkets. A coin. A length of new fishing twine. A sack of lemon candies.” He gave a little laugh. “That’s why Jack always gave up. He thought the real gift was whatever was wrapped in paper and string.”

  “You knew better.”

  “I’ve never been interested in what’s easy.” He indicated the box. “This one is the most complex he ever made. Ours never had security measures.”

  Because it kept a secret that he’d never wanted revealed. She reached between them and lifted the box, moving it several inches toward him. “Thank you for teaching me.”

  His brows rose. “You don’t want to know what’s inside? What’s so valuable that a notorious gang of thieves was hired to steal it? What kind of secret might be able to do in the Duke of Clayborn?”

  “No,” she said. “Some secrets are not for me.”

  This one was, though. This one, he wanted her to have—the proof that he would stand with her, at her side, facing whatever came, for as long as she’d have him. Proof, too, that he could not marry her.

  She would understand when she saw. He pushed the box toward her. “Open it.”

  Something flashed in her eyes. Something honest and urgent. “Henry—if I do . . . I need you to know . . . whatever it is . . . I’ll never use it.”

  “I know,” he said. “But even if you did—I would not regret giving it to you. I would not regret this moment. This time, here in this place.”

  “But . . . I deal in secrets.”

  He caught her cheek in one hand and leaned forward, kissing the whisper from her lips. “This one comes with no charge.”

  She opened the box just as he had a hundred times before her, marveling at the little tray within, suspended beneath a vial of blue ink that would have snapped in two if she’d pressed the wrong button, rendering the square of paper seated in the tray unreadable.

  He watched as she inspected the mechanism, and reveled in her smile as she recognized how it worked. When she pronounced, “This is very clever,” Henry found he wanted her to feel the same way about him, and vowed to do his best to impress her every day, as long as she’d have him.

  Removing the paper, she lifted the tray to reveal a tiny compartment within, just large enough for a second wooden box, this one filigreed with an elaborate L. She hesitated, and something tightened in Henry’s throat at the pause. At her respect. Her understanding that what was within was the most valuable thing he could give her.

  “Go on,” he said, the words coming ragged.

  Her eyes found his, wide with concern, but she did as she was told, lifting the box and opening it, revealing his mother’s wedding ring, a thin band of the greenest emeralds Henry had ever seen.

  “It’s stunning,” she said, running her fingers over the jewels.

  “Emeralds for her eyes . . . one of the few things I remember about her,” he said. “Her green eyes. Like spring, every minute, my father would say.”

  Adelaide smiled at the little story. “When you say you believe in love, it is because of them.”

  He nodded toward the paper she’d removed, and held his breath as she lifted the square carefully, unfolding the thirty-six-year-old parchment. He knew what she read. Had read it so many times himself that he’d committed it to memory.

  Dearest L—

  This is likely not the letter you wished to receive, or at least, it is not from the sender from whom you no doubt wished to receive it. And yet, it is imperative I write to say all the things that I wished to say this morning. The things you would not let me offer—in your misguided belief that I was acting too much a gentleman.

  What I feel now, in this moment, is nothing like gentle. I am full of anger for how you have been left. Full of rage for how you have been hurt. And full of hope for how you might heal.

  I have spent a lifetime knowing you. A lifetime loving you. And now, if you will have me, I wish to spend a lifetime by your side, as father to your children. What I have, I offer to you—a home, a hearth, and a future.

  I have never put much stock in the title; I have always believed that how a man lives is far more valuable than what the world calls him. But I find myself willing to make every possible argument in the hope that you will accept my offer. If it is land you wish for the babe, or wealth for him, or title, that is my offer. Consider him there, with you, already my heir. Already with a father who will be filled with pride at his every accomplishment.

  Here is all of it: you may have all that is mine if only you wish it. All I wish is a future that we might together call ours.

  Yours, always,

  Clayborn

  “Clayborn,” she said when she reached the end, tracing one finger over the signature, once bold and passionate and now faded with the years.

  “My father,” he explained, though he did not have to. “Well, not my real father. The father who raised me.”

  “No. Your real father,” she insisted, looking up from the letter, tears in her eyes.

  The ache in Henry’s chest grew tighter as he reached for her, wanting to stop the tears, one of which spilled over, down her cheek, leaving tracks along her beautiful skin. He brushed it away with his thumb and whispered, “Love, no . . .”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry—it is so . . . This is so . . .”

  He nodded. “It is beautiful.”

  “He loved her so much.” She looked back down. “And you—my God, Henry. The way he loved you . . . even before you were born.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “There was never a moment in my childhood when he was not my father. Not even when Jack, the son of his blood, was born.”

  “You were every bit as much his as Jack was. This letter is nothing if not proof of that,” she said with a smile. “I imagine he was an insufferable father, crowing about his lad to all who would listen after you were born.”

  He let himself laugh. “From what I hear, I was walking at four months. Reading at six.”

  “Of course you were,” she said, looking back to the letter with a wistful look that made him feel the same—longing for a past that he would never know.

  For a future he’d never imagined.

  Until her.

  “She married him. Of course.”

  He nodded. “She was the daughter of a landed gentleman my father was in business with in a town not far from the country estate. She believed another when he told her he would stay. He did not.”

  “She was not the first to believe pretty words. Nor will she be the last,” Adelaide said.

  “My father—he loved her enough for both of them. He made the box for her when I was born,” he explained quietly, wanting her to understand. “So she could keep his promise safe. So she would always remember he’d take care of us.” He paused. “We should have destroyed it. But . . .”

  She shook her head. “I would never be rid of it. It’s too beautiful.”

  “The last I have of them, together.” He went quiet for a moment, memories crashing over him. And then, “I do not know who my father is. He could have been anyone.”

  “Do you wish you did?”

  He had considered the possibility before, of course. “Over the years, there have been more than a few times when I’ve wondered if I could find him. What I would say to him if I did.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head. “I had a father, and I would trade every question I have for the man who sired me for five more minutes with the man who raised me.” He paused. “I should like to know I made him proud.” He’d never said such a thing to anyone before, not even to Jack. But for some reason, it came easily with Adelaide.

  Perhaps because he wished to make her proud, too.

  “You did,” she said without hesitation. Without doubt. “You made him so very proud before he died, I’m sure of it. And now . . . if he could see you as the world does . . . as I do . . .” She smiled. “His boy. His family. Not born of blood,” she said. “Born of love. Of care.”

  “I’m not the only one with a family like that,” he agreed. “Yours as well. In these past few days, I’ve seen the kinds of friends you collect. The Duchess, Miss O’Tiernen, Gwen. Lucia.”