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He hoped she liked it. Really, really hoped she liked what
she saw. Mr. Moon had approved, but it was Caroline’s opinion that mattered. That Henry craved.

“And you,” she said, mirroring his grin as her eyes flicked over his costume one last time. “Passable, I suppose.”

Just like that, in a room full of family and friends and footmen, they were alone, her voice low, his lower, as they grinned at one another. Was he imagining her burn, the same burn that coursed in the space between his blood and his bones? She couldn’t like him, or feel for him the things he did for her. He’d left her, he was maimed, a cripple, scarred on both sides of his skin. Why did he even try?

Because of the way she was looking at him, now. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, hold her chin in his palm.

Her brother the earl cleared his throat, and Caroline’s blush deepened as she looked away and the spell was broken. Henry looked up and saw Thomas Hope glaring at him from across the table. He straightened in his chair, tugging at his cravat; yes, the diamond, of course.

Dinner passed in a whirl of dishes and desserts; Caroline rose, and the ladies rose with her, bowing out of the room; then, cigars and brandy, the three of them—Hope, the earl, and Henry—sizing one another up through the haze of smoke.

“My offer of aid stands, Hope,” the earl said, rolling his cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “The news of the stolen diamond bodes ill for my fortunes as it does for yours. I’ve men and money at my disposal. You need only ask.”

Henry met Hope’s eyes across the table. The earl had a set of stones on him, Henry had to give the man that; to offer aid in the search for the jewel, when he knew, and they knew, that he’d stolen it himself, was nothing if not ballsy.

Two can play this game, Henry thought, the table jumping as he stubbed out his cigar in an engraved silver ashtray. “We’ve men and money of our own,” he said. “Besides. I rather enjoy the hunt. Not as much as I enjoy the kill, of course. The kill is my true skill.”

It was a ridiculous and melodramatic speech, but there was something about the earl that set his teeth on edge, and made him feel particularly vengeful.

If Henry hadn’t given Caroline his word, he would’ve strangled her brother right then and there.

The earl wore a small smile of triumph; Hope appeared frustrated, utterly defeated; and Henry felt too many things to possibly list.

The earl stood, draining the last of his brandy. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we? My new billiards table has just arrived. It’s proven quite amusing; even Caroline likes to play.”

*   *   *

C
aroline liked to play indeed, though she proved she was just as accident prone at sport as she was at life in general. Five minutes after the gentlemen entered the room, Caroline managed to launch a cue ball at Sophia’s mother’s head; Lady Blaise went down with a muffled cry, her overturned lace-edged petticoats like the layers of a flaky confection from Gunter’s.

The party broke up after that. The earl, in all his thieving deviousness, swept Lady Blaise into his arms and gallantly carried her to her waiting coach; the ladies Sophia and Violet hurried out the door after him. Mr. Hope took his hat and gloves from the butler and without a word stalked into the night, which left Henry and Caroline, alone, in the front hall.

She was weeping openly now, bottom lip wobbling as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Lady Blaise is going to be just fine,” Henry said, drawing up before her.

“I know.” Caroline wiped at her face with the edge of her wrist. “I just. I feel terrible. I’m such an ungainly mess, I shouldn’t be allowed in public, or around other people—”

“Stop.” Henry stepped forward. “It was an accident. Besides, you taught us all a valuable lesson: find cover whenever it’s your turn to play.”

Caroline scoffed. “Thank you,” she said. “That doesn’t make me feel any better, but thank you for trying.”

A breeze wafted in through the front door, carrying with it the barest trace of a strange, heavy scent.

That scent.

A scent that made Henry stiffen. He knew it. It caught inside his head, a vague memory he couldn’t quite place.

“Do you smell that?” he asked.

Caroline sniffed. “Smell what?”

The scent dissipated, if it was never there. “Nothing,” Henry said, looking down at her. “I must’ve imagined it.”

Heavens, but she was lovely, eyes wide and wet.

Without thinking, Henry reached forward and swiped away a tear with the crook of his first finger. Her skin was damp, and warm; alive.

Caroline froze; realizing what he’d done, Henry froze, too.

Caroline looked up at him, her long, dark lashes wet with tears. He felt wild with the desire to touch her again, but he couldn’t move, and neither did she. The air between them tightened, urging them closer, pulling, challenging, teasing. If he took one step forward, just one more step, he could crush his lips to hers, hold her face in his hands . . .

She was afraid; he could tell by the uncertainty that darkened the wet pools of her eyes. Tears rolled silently down the sides of her face, seeping down her throat as she bent her neck to look up at him.

“My lady,” he whispered. Of its own volition, his traitorous first finger unfurled, guiding the other four to cup her face in his hand. Desire shot through him, tightening the muscles in his legs, his back, and inside his chest.

Her lips parted, slightly. “Please,” she breathed.

“Please what?” His voice was gruff.

Behind them the sounds of the earl’s conversation with Sophia and her mother floated through the door; Caroline and Henry were safe, for a moment at least.

Caroline scoffed, her lips curling into a tiny smile. “Please don’t address me like that.
My lady.
I hate it.”

“It’s what you asked.”

“I hate it.”

“How should I address you, then?”

Her eyes flicked to his lips. “I don’t know.”

Henry’s fingers moved to her ear, her hair. Caroline didn’t move into the caress, exactly, but she didn’t pull away, either. Her face was tense, pained as she looked up at him.

His eyes moved to her throat. No woman on earth had a more elegant neck; a more enticingly erotic vulnerability there, in the soft sinews that moved against her skin in time to her scattershot pulse.

Henry dipped his head, testing her. Still she did not pull away. Her breath was sweet against his skin.

It was stupid.

It was dangerous.

It was rascally, and unforgiveable.

But he was going to do it anyway.

Before he could think better of it—they were in her
brother’s
front
hall
, for God’s sake!—he tucked his hand around her head and coaxed her to him, pressing his lips softly to her throat.

Thirteen

C
aroline’s eyes fluttered shut.

And in the space of a single heartbeat, she was lost in the tenderness, and the heat, of Henry’s kiss as his mouth moved to cover her own.

She’d sensed his rising desire all evening: across the drawing room, and at the table during dinner. He vibrated with it, his eye darkening in a strangely familiar way that made Caroline’s belly turn inside out.

She recognized his longing in her own. Ever since they’d planted the peonies together in the garden, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him, and how hard they had laughed. She hadn’t had that much fun in an age; really, since she’d climbed through the window of his bedchamber back in Oxfordshire after she’d married him in secret.

There were no more diverting things in England than climbing through windows and secret weddings, after all. Oh, and manure fights.

Those, too.

Caroline had fought the rising tide of her desire for Henry. She’d tried reading, and walking, and replanting half her brother’s garden; but even days spent in the sun, her hands
thrust up to her wrists in dirt, couldn’t keep her from thinking about his half smile, the pale skin of his wrist.

She hated him for making her feel like this.

She hated herself for allowing him to. She’d been so careful to avoid moments like these, men like him.

And yet the shiver that darted up her spine when he brushed his knuckle across her cheek was impossible to ignore. The
memory
of his touch was its own kind of sweetness; but the
reality
of it was overwhelming, a different sort of sweetness, poignant, unbelievably lovely because it was happening here, now; and neither of them could take it back.

His mouth was warm and soft against her own, possessive. His fingers were moving in her hair, trailing ribbons of fire along her scalp. He kissed her slowly, carefully, as if they weren’t standing in her brother’s front hall, stealing a caress; as if they had all the time in the world.

He backed her against the wall, his legs spread wide to trap hers between them. He surrounded her; even through closed eyes she could sense the enormity of his body, the enormity of his longing.

Caroline tasted the salt of her tears on his lips. His scent, the lemons and the spice, filled her head.

Heat bolted through her, pooling between her legs. Henry’s lips pressed and asked and answered, moving from one corner of her mouth to the other. Both his hands were on her face now, angling her head so that he might kiss her more deeply. His palms felt rough, calloused against her skin.

Where have you been? she wondered. Why did you leave?

And why do I feel this way about you after what you did to me, how stupid you made me feel?

But Caroline knew he wouldn’t answer her questions. She would probably never have the truth.

She did, however, have this kiss. And she couldn’t have given that up if she wanted to.

Henry stilled at the sound of approaching footsteps. Caroline’s entire being cried out at the loss of his caress, even as panic unfurled in her chest. Her eyes flew open.

Oh God
, she thought.
William
. If he caught her kissing Henry, he’d kill them both right there in the hall.

She pulled away. “My broth—”

Henry pressed a thumb to her lips, glancing over his shoulder. A beat passed. Caroline’s heart pounded in her ears. Henry still pinned her to the wall.

With feline stealth he grasped her by the elbow and whirled her around the corner. Soundlessly he opened the door to her brother’s study, using his body to urge Caroline inside as he closed the door silently behind them.

Henry held her against the wall beside the door, his body pressed to hers as he waited. They were both breathing hard.

The darkness inside the study was complete and close; through the door Caroline could hear William conversing with the butler, Mr. Avery, in low tones. More footsteps, a few more words, and then all was quiet.

Caroline was about to let out a sigh of relief when Henry took her mouth with his, resuming the kiss he’d begun in the hall. Hungrily he edged his body against her own, one hand on the wall beside her head, the other on her neck, his thumb grazing her jaw as she rose to meet his caress. Fire streaked through her, the kiss deepened, and he was opening her mouth with his lips, his tongue gliding to meet her own.

She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. Everything was dark, and unbearably warm, but her body was alive, exquisitely, painfully so, as if her sight had lent its wide-eyed strength to her sense of touch.

Her hands went to his chest. She should push him away.

Instead her fingers reveled in the crisp thickness of his shirt, the velvet lapels of his dinner jacket. The muscles of his chest tensed beneath her careful touch. Oh, how she loved the feel of him, the firm softness of his flesh.

The kiss was wild now, and she could feel the gentle press of his cock against her belly. The heat between her legs flashed with pain. Twelve years later, and she still wanted him the way she had in the wanton throes of adolescence.

Twelve years later, and he still wanted
her
the same way. Or so she guessed from the hardness jutting out from his thighs.

The wallpaper scraped the back of her neck. It would leave a mark. He was always marking her. She should stop, and put an end to this madness. They could be caught.

But the thought of getting caught didn’t frighten her as it should. Instead it titillated her, and stoked the desire that pounded through her body.

Even as her heart beat a staccato note—
no
, it seemed to say,
no
—she couldn’t stop the kiss. It seemed a sacrilege, after all the years of her loneliness, to give up on a kiss like this one. A kiss that she felt in her bones. A kiss that swallowed her whole, and made her glad to be alive.

Funny, but the last two times she felt so glad were with Henry.

Although she refused—
refused
—to believe that meant anything.

His lips trailed from her mouth down the slope of her jaw, lingering on the tender place where ear met neck, before moving to her throat. Caroline sighed; he made an urgent, guttural sound, halfway between a growl and a groan. She felt his chest vibrate with it.