“A fortnight of a full belly,” she said to him, “and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be desperate. That girl was hungry, Mark. She’s probably sleeping rough, and I nearly threw her to the wolves. I am no better than she is—I’m only luckier. I picked the right pocket. Who am I to stop somebody else from doing the same?”
Dear, sweet Eliza! She felt guilty for saving Hilda’s pearls at the expense of another girl’s livelihood.
Mark pressed his lips to her temple. “It’s alright to want to protect a friend, and I know Miss Prevost is grateful for your keen eye and quick fingers,” he said. “I would’ve been cross if the girl had taken my pocket watch.” He drew the gold timepiece from his waistcoat. “It was my grandfather’s, you see.”
She examined the watch with careful, practiced hands. She could discern its monetary value with a sweep of her fingers over the case inscribed with the crest of the House of van Bergen. More importantly, she understood its worth. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is, and very dear to me.” He slipped it into his pocket, fearing that he’d been the next target in tonight’s pickpocketing spree. “Thank you for safeguarding it.”
Eliza smiled, for every action had consequences, both good and bad. She had robbed a man of his purse, and then leaped intohislandau. She had savedhiswatch from theft, and now lay nestled in his arms.
They had fallen for one another.
Mark’s chest ached with the knowledge that he loved her. He recognized that same depth of feeling brimming in Eliza’s eyes. The words weren’t something he felt comfortable saying just yet, though he was wonderstruck at the intensity of this emotion.
“Eliza,” he whispered, “I…”
She muffled his mouth with hers. She must have known! She must’ve sensed what he wished to say, for she was in his arms, cradled against his chest. Her fingers clutched at his lapel and stroked over the stiffly starched collar of his shirt.
Her lips slanted against his, seeking and needing, giving and wanting. She took his tongue into her mouth, nursing it sweetly. Nipping him eagerly. Mark had never experienced such a kiss, and he reveled in it. He’d never known such a passionate lady, unashamed of her desire for him.
Clever hands bracketed his jaw as she pulled away, looking breathless and beautiful.
“Mark,” she laughed against his cheek. “This is where we first met!”
His mind flashed back to that night, remembering that little minx who’d stowed away in his landau. She had been so brave, so determined to survive. Her brazenness had almost killed them both when his horses bolted, and his well-ordered life had been on a crash course since the moment he clapped eyes on her.
How far they had come since then!
He would not have turned back for anything in the world.
***
She loved him and she loved kissing him! She delighted in the way he held her, and adored the security that she found in his embrace. Eliza reveled in the racing rhythm of Mark’s heartbeat as it thundered against her breasts.
He was overcome with his need for her, yet—ever the gentleman—he stole nothing but kisses from her lips. He would never take more than she was willing to give, though he underestimated how desperately she wanted him.
Eliza would have lain with him on the first night they met. She’d told him that she wasn’t a virgin and that she would be glad to take a kind, good-looking man between her thighs. Mark knew her to be unchaste, but did he know her to bein love?
She longed for him to feel how fierce, how hungry her desire was—for him.
She wanted to draw him into her mouth. To taste him, and take him inside her. She wanted to devour him one breath at a time until he wept from wanting her. Then he would understand the power she felt in his arms and by his side. He would know that he was her dearest friend, her heart’s own mate, and the missing piece that made her whole.
Eliza would have faced a thousand frozen-fingered, empty-bellied, sleepless nights for the pleasure of loving Sir Mark van Bergen.
She felt the ridge of his erection jutting through the sumptuous velvet of her skirts. They had only a few minutes to spare until the carriage reached Green Street, but she was grateful for the jammed-up traffic on Piccadilly. On a busy night, carriages, carts, and hackney cabs fought for space along the street and moved together at a snail’s pace.
Eliza slid from his lap. She knelt between Mark’s taut, muscular thighs, which felt lean, and firm, and strong beneath her touch. She raked her fingernails over the soft wool of his evening trousers, blazing a trail toward his straining manhood.
His hands caught hers, stilling her. “I am not your landlord or your butcher, Eliza. You don’t have to do this…”
Withhim, she needn’t do anything. Her bold gaze met his, and their eyes blazed with desire. “I want to do it, Mark. I want you.”
He nodded once, quickly, before decorum and good sense got the better of him. Eliza doubted that he’d ever done anything so reckless, so sensual, so deliciously erotic—and neither had she.
Yet Mark wanted her, too. He yearned to share this moment between them.
He raised his hips to loosen his trousers. Tearing at the buttons of his fly, his waistband gaped to reveal the bottom of his white dress shirt and crisp, clean under drawers. He drew his erection through the opening and offered himself to her.
