But she took his hand, sliding down with the kind of practiced elegance that only came from months of clandestine adventures.
The moment her slippers touched the grass, she drew herself up, her chin high as if to dare the very sky to question her right to be there.
Rhys almost wanted the sky to try.
The park had emptied, save for the odd carriage rattling down the distant lanes. The last of the lamplighters hunched along the walk, glass globe in hand, too absorbed in his routine to notice a duke and duchess trespassing in the gathering dark.
He led her down the rise, his boots squelching in the sodden grass, until the bank sloped toward the Serpentine’s mirrored surface. The water reflected the city’s glow, a fractured ribbon of flame that shivered with every gust.
She glanced behind them. “They’ll see us.”
He shrugged, unbuttoning his coat. “Not unless you plan to shout.”
“Very well,” she said. “But if we’re caught, you will do all the explaining. And I’ll have you know that I’m not a good swimmer.”
“We have an advantage.” He glanced at her, holding up his shirt’s ruined cuff. “You float better than I do. Less baggage.”
She smacked his arm, but there was no force in it. She unfastened her cloak and spread it on the grass, careful not to let the hem trail in the mud. “Turn around,” she said.
He snorted. “You’re wearing more layers than an onion. I doubt your reputation will survive the undressing.”
“Just turn around.”
He did, but he watched her in the dark reflection of the water, the way she untied the sash at her throat and shrugged off her bodice, folding it with military precision.
She wore a chemise beneath, but even through the linen and the London chill, the sight managed to make his breath catch. Or perhaps that was the prelude to plunging into a body of water with a stubborn, beautiful madwoman.
When she cleared her throat, he took his cue, stripped to his shirt and trousers, and stepped toward her. She was shivering, but her eyes were fierce.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She squared her shoulders. “If I say no, will it matter?”
“Not a bit.” He offered his hand, and she took it.
They waded in together, first boots, then slippers, then the biting cold that climbed from ankles to knees. She yelped at the first shock, but he pressed forward, dragging her deeper.
By the time the water reached his thighs, she was muttering curses under her breath, most of them inventive and half of them directed at him personally.
He stopped when they were waist-deep, the bank only a few steps behind. “We could turn back now,” he offered, already knowing her answer.
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped, drawing herself up like the bloody Queen of Sheba.
Then, in one single motion, she ducked beneath the surface, her arms outstretched.
When she surged up, sputtering and wild, he was there to catch her. She clung to his arm, her face streaming, her black hair plastered to her scalp.
“You’re a monster,” she gasped, but the words were laced with laughter.
“I’ll have it engraved on my tombstone,” he said, steadying her with both hands. “But you’ll have to outlive me to see it.”
She kicked out, sending a sheet of water into his face. “You’d better hope I do, or I’ll haunt you.”
He grinned, wiping his eyes. “I’d deserve it.”
He pulled her closer, feeling her heartbeat under his palm, the tremor of cold, the stubborn pride that kept her upright even as she shivered.
“You’re freezing.”
