Wanting her.
“Are you?” he prompted.
She sighed. “No. I am not angry.”
“You like that I know you. All of you. The two halves.” His touch reached the back of her knee and the caress there seemed to unstick her.
She shifted, lifting the other leg, pressing her other foot against his chest, pushing him back. Staying his touch. “Tell me another.”
“Another?” he asked.
“Another truth,” she said.
He captured the foot at his chest, lifted it, pressed a hot kiss to the inside of her ankle, letting his tongue lave the soft fabric there until she sighed. “I want to take these stockings off you. I want your skin, softer than silk.”
He nipped at her ankle, loving the gasp she let loose in the carriage, suddenly hot as the sun. “It is your turn.”
She stilled. “For what?”
“Tell me your secrets.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know where to begin.”
He knew that. She was filled with shadows, each one protecting some piece of her. Each one in need of light. “Begin with this,” he said, sliding his hand up her calf to her knee, following it with a swirl of his fingertips. “Tell me how it makes you feel. Without artifice.”
She laughed as the he tickled her. “It makes me feel —” When she stopped, he did, too, pulling his hand away from her. She stretched her leg after him, as though she could catch him. Return him. “It makes me feel young.”
He did return to her then, surprised by the word. “What does that mean?”
She sighed in the darkness. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t, stroking again. And again. “What does it mean, Georgiana?”
“Just that —” She stopped. Her foot flexed against his chest, and he wished they were at his home. He needed more space. He needed to see her – touch her – at will. She took a breath. “It’s been a long time… since…”
He knew the way the sentence ended. Since she’d been with another man. Since she’d been with anyone but Chase. He didn’t want her to finish the thought. Didn’t want the man’s name here, in the darkness, with them.
But she finished it anyway. “… since I’ve felt this way.”
And, like that, he was unlocked. There was something about this woman, about the way she spoke, the promises she made with simple, ordinary words, that made him thoroughly desperate for her. But when she confessed her feelings, with utter honesty, surprise and a touch of wonder in her beautiful voice, how was he to resist her?
How was he to ever give her back once he had a taste of her?
How was he to walk away, eventually?
Christ.
What kind of mess was he getting himself into?
He released her, setting her feet to the floor, and she resisted the loss of him just as his body resisted the loss of her.
“Wait,” she said, leaning forward, her beautiful face coming into the light. “Don’t stop.”
“I have no intention of stopping,” he promised her. Himself. “I just want to make a few things clear.”
Her brow furrowed, “How much more clear must I be? I propositioned you in Hyde Park. I met you outside your office dressed like a…” She hesitated. “Well, like the kind of woman who does those things.”
It occurred to him that she often dressed in such a manner. “I don’t care what you wear.”
When she spoke, the words were dry as sand. “You certainly seemed to like the stockings.”
The memory of black silk with silver piping took over, and what would have been a laugh became a growl. “I like the stockings very much.”
She blushed, and he marveled at it. He leaned forward until he was inches away from her face. Her lips. “I wonder,” he whispered, “Do other bits of you go red when you are embarrassed?”
The flush grew. “I don’t know. I’ve never looked.”
“Well, I am most certainly going to look.”
“In the name of investigative journalism, no doubt.”
He grinned. “I am the best newspaperman in London, love. I simply cannot leave the work at the office.”
She matched his smile for a long moment, until the expression faded into seriousness. She looked down at her hands, clasped in the space between them. “You are making me like you,” she said.
He watched her carefully. “You don’t already like me?”
She spoke softly. “Of course I like you. But now – you’re tempting me with things that I cannot have.”
He knew immediately what she meant, and the words sent a wave of sadness through him. He was not the man for her. He could not give her a title. Could not give Caroline security. At best, he was born into mystery. Bred in the gutter.
And that was before she knew the truth.
Before she knew he was not what he seemed. He was nothing that he claimed to be. Before she knew that he had used and manipulated her to gain access to Tremley’s secrets. Before she knew that he was a criminal. A thief.
Destined for prison or worse if he was found out.
When he was found out.
Because no matter how careful he was, no matter how well he threatened Tremley, as long as the earl drew breath, he was at risk.
And everyone he loved was at risk, as well.
So, even if she weren’t on the hunt for a title, he could not be the man she wanted. And he certainly could not be the man she needed.
But he could be the man she had. Right now. For a brief, fleeting moment before they both had to return to reality.
He reached for her, lifting her off her seat, loving the little squeak she released as he pulled her into his lap to straddle him, silken skirts and petticoats cascading around them both. She rose above him, topping his long frame by several inches because of their position, and he adored it, the way she looked down at him, something like promise in her beautiful amber gaze.