The cold night immediately felt warmer. Hot, even. “Threatened you how?”

  Imogen’s gaze turned curious. “You are turning red.”

  “Threatened you how?” he repeated.

  “Marriage.” She paused. “Honestly, it would not have surprised me if he sent you not to find me, but to affiance me.”

  He laughed. The very idea of an earl thinking Thomas Peck worthy of his only sister—of Lady Imogen Loveless—was unimaginable.

  “You needn’t find it so amusing,” she grumbled, and for a hot, wild moment, he misunderstood. Imagining for a remarkable heartbeat that she thought him a fine man. One worthy of marrying so far above himself it was absolutely impossible to fathom.

  “Anyway,” she said, a touch too loudly, “a bit of time away and my head is clear. I’ve had a change of heart.”

  He had never heard such a terrible lie. “Have you?”

  “Indeed,” she said. “I’m headed home this very night and cannot wait to meet a battalion of suitors. You shall no doubt be unable to miss the crush of them when you drive past the house. I hope the place can sustain the weight of the hothouse flowers.”

  He couldn’t help his amused look. “Though I sincerely doubt you feel that way, my lady, you must return home. There are actual crimes being committed in London. And I would like to go back to solving them.”

  He didn’t like the look she gave him, as though she had very clear opinions about those crimes, and his role in solving them. “What happens when I go home?”

  “I imagine your brother will buy you a new frock and send you to a ball or two.”

  “No,” she said, suspicion in her round face. “I mean, what happens to you? A new carriage? Larger rooms at Whitehall? Do they name a horse after you at the Palace?”

  “A man can dream,” he retorted, not liking the way the questions suggested he had an ulterior motive for finding her. He was a detective with an assignment. This was his job.

  “Rooms outside of Holborn?”

  “How do you know where I live?”

  She tilted her head, her brown eyes large and lovely on his. Not that he cared about how her eyes looked. “I think you’ll find I know a great deal about you, Detective Inspector.”

  “Because of your chaos ladies, no doubt.”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  He raised a brow.

  She grinned. “Though I daresay they would enjoy the name.”

  The woman was impossible.

  “You should ask for something very valuable,” she said. “My brother is terrified of scandal and drinks with the home secretary, and if you’ve been assigned to keep our family name out of the muck, that should be worth at least a promotion.”

  A pause. A telling one. How did she know that? “You do know a great deal about me, it turns out.”

  “To what?”

  “Head of the Detective Branch.”

  “Impressive.” It did not sound as though she meant it. It sounded as though she was disappointed in him. “Strange, is it not, that Scotland Yard does not offer you a promotion for solving serious crimes in places that need it, but finding one peculiar, madcap, errant aristocratic lady from Mayfair buys you an entire division of the Yard.”

  He hated how the words made him feel, as though he’d done something wrong. As though he hadn’t spent his entire adult life on a straight, narrow path in the hope that he might be able to lift himself and his family from their station. Trying to earn the opportunity he’d been given. To convince everyone around him that he deserved it. “I have done far more than find a girl from Mayfair.”

  “No doubt.” She nodded. “But they only care about the bits in Mayfair, don’t they?”

  He could change that. A promotion meant the ear to the commissioner of police. It meant he could prioritize the injustices of the East End . . . injustices he knew firsthand. Of course, he didn’t tell her that. Instead, he said, “Not all of us are born with the world at our feet, able to play at justice when we don’t have a tea party to attend.”

  Her brows rose at that. “Do I look like the kind of woman who attends tea parties?”

  No. She didn’t.

  “And in your experience, Detective Inspector, have I ever treated justice as though it were a game?”

  He set his jaw. Why did this woman set him off so well?

  “I do not begrudge you your promotion. I am simply saying that if I am the means to such an end, I deserve something as well.”

  He didn’t like the direction of the discussion. “Is it a return journey to your brother’s house?”

  She smiled one of those overwhelming smiles and stepped closer. The wind whipped up the street, sending her curls into chaos. “No. I’ve plenty of friends inside who can do that.”

  Thomas Peck had been a detective long enough to know that this woman was up to something. And that his evening was about to go very, very sideways. And still, he asked, “What then?”

  She shook her head. “I would like the kiss you did not attempt this morning.”

  Chapter Nine

  In all the years that Imogen had loved explosions, she’d never quite felt a thrill like this—like coming toe to toe with unflappable, immovable, perfectly controlled Thomas Peck and daring him to kiss her.

  Enemies close, she told herself. Wasn’t that what they’d decided inside?

  Oh, the request was wild and reckless—her brother would lock her in a tower if he knew she’d made it—but if Imogen was to return to Mayfair and have to attend balls, she could at least have this, could she not?

  She practically deserved it.

  What if this was it, after all? Her only chance to kiss this man she’d watched for more than a year, unable to keep herself from cataloguing all his delicious qualities. She knew ladies weren’t supposed to notice them . . . the broad shoulders, the thick thighs, the sleek beard, the eyes that flashed like he knew every mad thought in her head before she thought it. Like he knew she was thinking of kissing him at that precise moment.

  At many moments, if she was honest.

  Though, he couldn’t be too surprised by that. She imagined most people who found themselves in Thomas Peck’s company imagined kissing him. He was tall and strong and stern and clever, and he smelled like leather and amber and the sun. Imagining kissing him was simply the product of good sense.

  Yes, Imogen had given some thought (a great deal of thought) to kissing Thomas Peck in the past. But until that night, she’d never considered actually asking the man to kiss her. That way, Imogen knew, lay madness.

  After all, Imogen was not the kind of woman men simply hauled off and kissed. She was too peculiar and too perplexing, and altogether too much for most men. For most people, if she was honest. Oh, she had the Belles, who welcomed her particular brand of chaos, but it did not escape her that when their husbands looked at her, it was with the curious fondness one might offer an overexuberant Labrador retriever.

  Thomas Peck had never once looked at her with even curious fondness. Instead, he looked at her with stern resolve. With steady calm. And, in the thick of it, with unflagging irritation.

  Except for now. Now, as her request hung between them in the cold air, and her heart was pounding, the sound like blasting powder in her ears, the poor man looked as though she’d slapped him directly across the face.

  Which wasn’t the most flattering response, if Imogen was being honest.

  “Are you . . . drunk?” A response that could only be described as unflattering.

  Yes. The escape whispered through her. Yes, I am drunk. Why else would I ask you to please kiss me? And somehow, despite knowing she should say yes, she told the truth. “Not at all.” And somehow, despite knowing she should stop talking, she added, “I am perfectly capable of handling my liquor.”

  His brow furrowed as he watched her. “You must be drunk,” he said, his jaw setting in a firm line. “It’s the only reason why you would have made that request, in a pub in Covent Garden.”

  “Technically I’m outside a pub in Covent Garden.”

  “That’s even worse,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night. Tell me, are you attracted to danger? Or is it simply a lack of sense?”

  “I’m perfectly sensible.”

  He gave a little humorless laugh. “In the last fourteen months—”

  “Has it been fourteen months?” she asked. It had been, but she didn’t think he would have also been counting them.

  He didn’t reply. “I have found you in the midst of a turf war between two of the most powerful gangs in London, inside this very building as it was raided by thugs, inside a hollowed-out shell of an alleged seamstress’s shop—”

  “Not alleged,” she pointed out.

  “Absolutely alleged,” he said, “as I don’t believe that was all it was for one moment,” he retorted before continuing, “as the building fell down around us—”

  “I haven’t properly thanked you for that—”

  “I don’t require thanks,” he said. “I require you telling me what you know, so that I can prevent it from happening again.”

  She wasn’t going to do that. She couldn’t be certain he was for trusting. So Imogen stayed quiet.

  He understood. “But I know better than to expect you’ll do that, so tonight, I’ll settle for not worrying that you’re going to turn up and explode Scotland Yard!”

  “Point of order,” she said. “You cannot prove I did that the first time.”

  She had done it the first time, in fact, but Scotland Yard deserved exploding, if you asked her. Not that she was about to tell him that. She was supposed to be keeping enemies close, after all.

  He looked to the sky and cursed, dark and soft. Irritated? Exasperated?

  “If you don’t wish to kiss me, that’s fine,” she said. “I only thought it might be diverting.”

  When he returned his gaze to hers, it was full of something else entirely. “Diverting.”

  Even Imogen knew she could not say life-altering. “Yes.”

  Something rumbled in his throat, and even in the shadows, she could see the color washing over his cheeks. “Lady Imogen.”

  “You needn’t emphasize it,” she grumbled. “I don’t need a reminder that I’m a lady.”

  “I didn’t emphasize it to remind you that you’re a lady.”

  She looked away, down the street.

  He went on. “Nor did I emphasize it to embarrass you.”

  “Why, then?” She looked to him, her gaze finding his for a heartbeat before his slid away, over her shoulder, to the door to The Place.

  “I did it to remind me that you’re a lady.”

  Her mouth dropped open on a little “Oh.” The full meaning of the words became clear. Meaning, if she wasn’t a lady . . . what then? In her lifetime, she’d never been more curious. She repeated herself. “Oh.”

  “Dammit,” he grumbled. “Go back inside.”

  She had no intention of going back inside. Instead, she stepped toward him, filled with courage. “I thought you wanted to take me home. To my brother.”

  “I think you should find someone else to do it.”

  Fascinating. She took another step toward him. Close enough to touch him, now. Close enough to feel his warmth. “But what of your assignment?”

  “My assignment was to find you. You have been found.”

  “Seems a bit like a half-measure if you ask me.” She looked up at him, her breath quickening at the way he stared down at her, his jaw steeled. His brow set. Stern. “What of your promotion?”

  He shook his head. Once. “I’ll get it another way.”

  And in that breathless moment, Imogen was overwhelmed with something she’d never felt before. Certainty. This man wanted to kiss her. And for someone who had reached the age of twenty-four without ever having been so certain of such a thing . . . it was . . . explosive.

  “Do you hear that?” she asked.

  He shook his head, and she watched the knot in his throat move as he swallowed.

  “It’s a frizzle.” She stepped closer.

  A low sound from deep in his chest.

  How exciting.

  She put her hand on the place where the sound had come from. “But that . . . that was a rumble.” It turned into a low hum.

  “Tommy?” she asked quietly, the word so soft that the wind would have stolen it if they weren’t so close.

  “Mmm.” She wasn’t sure the noise was meant as encouragement, but she took it as such. After all, she might never feel like this ever again. What if this was an irreproducible phenomenon? A chemical equation that only worked with these particular variables?

  Imogen plus Tommy plus moonlight equaled . . .

  How else was she to prove her hypothesis? She’d never ask him again. She took a little breath and said, “Would you kiss me, please?”

  His eyes were closed before the words were even out, and for a heartbeat, Imogen thought she had miscalculated.

  But then he cursed. Low, dark, and absolutely wicked. And as the word hovered between them, one strong arm snaked around her waist, pulling her tight to him, and his other hand clasped her face, his thumb pressing beneath her jaw, tilting her face up, and his eyes opened, and he was staring into her, and suddenly, Imogen didn’t feel at all sure. Or at all safe. She felt very much unsure, and very much in danger . . . but in the most thrilling way possible . . .

  She sighed as his lips touched hers, and he pulled away, just enough to speak. “Christ,” he whispered. “Don’t make noise.”

  Confusion flared. “Why?”

  “Because it’s bad enough you feel the way you do . . .” he said, as if it were an explanation.

  Which it absolutely wasn’t. “How do I feel?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her, and Imogen forgot the question because she was too wrapped up in how he felt—one hand at his broad chest and the other to his soft beard, holding his face as he held hers. She let her thumb slide over his cheek as she pushed herself up onto her toes, and it was his turn to make noise, another of those delightful rumbles, punctuated by his pulling her tight to him and deepening the kiss.

  The January wind whipped around them, lifting the edge of her coat, and somehow, Imogen felt nothing but his heat. He was big and warm, and the lips she’d imagined so many times were impossibly careful with her, sending pleasure pooling deep within. Imogen had spent years with Sesily, and Adelaide was recently married, and she’d had reason to see dozens of lovers in embrace, which was why she’d always imagined kissing a pleasant way to pass the time . . . but as Tommy’s hand went wide on her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and his tongue stroked across her bottom lip, as though asking for entrance . . .

  Boom.

  She gave it without hesitation, reveling in the way he claimed her, stroking deep, scattering her thoughts. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and the rest of her was in chaos, consumed by this man, who she’d imagined kissed very well but was perhaps . . .

  Was it possible he was the greatest kisser to ever live?

  She couldn’t stop the laugh that came at the thought, another exclamation of delight that distracted him—dammit. He lifted his head, his breaths matching hers with their weight. “You laugh a great deal at odd times.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “I am enjoying myself. What else would you have me do?”

  He watched her for a long moment and then said darkly, “I can think of a few other things I would have you do.”

  Oh, that sounded delicious. Before she could ask him to elaborate, a cacophonous noise came from behind her. Someone had opened the door to The Place.

  “Eep!” She let out a little squeak as he lifted her nearly off her feet and turned her, placing himself between her and anyone who might be leaving the pub. Not that Imogen could imagine anyone having any interest in what they were doing. “What on—”

  “Hey! Peck!” Caleb Calhoun shouted from across the street, his broad American accent impossible to miss.

  Tommy rumbled again, making sure she was properly out of view before turning to look over his shoulder. “Get gone, Calhoun.” Imogen shivered at the power in the command.

  “When I tell you there’s nothing I’d like to do more . . .” Caleb trailed off, stepping into the street anyway.

  Imogen made to step out from her spot and speak to him, but Tommy held her firm. “Let me—” she began.

  “No,” he said softly, looking down at her. His face was shadowed, and she shivered at the conviction in the word. “He doesn’t get to see this.”

  Of course Tommy wanted to hide what they’d been doing. He’d only kissed her because they had a deal. To send her home to her brother and clear her name from his list of assignments. Witnesses would complicate things, and the last thing Detective Inspector Peck needed was more gossip in the News—especially relating to kissing unmarried ladies.

  Imogen reveled in the privacy for a different reason. With no one to witness it, this wild moment was theirs alone. To be kept between them, safe, for as long as they could remember it. And Imogen would remember it forever, she had no doubt. Long after Tommy had forgotten she’d ever existed.

  Once she’d gone back to being too much for the rest of the world—this kiss would be enough.

  Still, Caleb Calhoun was married to Sesily Talbot, and if Imogen knew one thing, she knew that if her friend had sent him to find her, Caleb was not going to be deterred—even if he very much wanted to be. Sure enough, the American stopped several feet from them and said, “Alright, Imogen?”

  Tommy released her, taking his heat with him when he turned to face the other man. “That’s Lady Imogen, to you.”

  Calhoun’s brows rose. “Is it, now?” He stepped to the left and peeked around Tommy’s broad shoulders. “Ah. There you are.”

  She blushed.

  “Do you need assistance, my lady?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Calhoun. I’m quite well.”