“Yes.”
Her brows rose, then she winced, as if in pain. “When?”
“Is your head paining you?” he asked.Damn it, she ought to have listened to him. She should have remained at Lark House, lying abed and plied with lemonade. She had worked hard enough, and suffered enough, for her dedication to her cause. The woman deserved a respite.
“My head is fine.” She frowned at him. “When?”
“A few days ago,” he admitted. “The day after…”
And then he realized what he had been about to say, so foolishly, and promptly stopped.
But Miss Montgomery pressed the matter. “The day after?”
“My study,” he bit out, hating to even acknowledge what had occurred between them, because the mere thought of their heated session upon his desk was enough to make him as hard as coal. He had thought about it in all the intervening moments since. Especially when he was alone. In bed. Naked.
Fuck.
“You finally read my notes the day after what happened in your study,” she repeated, her voice thick, her eyes dipping to his mouth, before jerking back up to meet his gaze. “Was it because you felt guilty, Arden?”
“Guilty over what transpired between us?” He paused, considering his response, weighing his words. “Yes. I felt immeasurably guilty. I took advantage of you, and I dishonored you, without a thought for the consequences. You are my partner and worthy of my respect. A respect which I did not give you.”
He meant what he said. As much as he had initially resented both her and the mere notion he was to be saddled with a partner, he could not help but to see she was an asset. She was intelligent and driven, compassionate and brave, loyal and fierce. The information she had gleaned in New York was valuable, and though they had not been able to stave off yesterday’s bombings, he had no doubt she had provided them with information that would prove vital moving forward.
“You did not take advantage of me,” she said then, interrupting his whirling thoughts and sending him reeling once again.
“Miss Montgomery,” he protested, for he was still mired in confusion over what had happened between them.
Of course he had taken advantage of the situation. He had wanted to kiss her, and she was beautiful, and he had pressed his suit, without thought for the repercussions which would inevitably follow. He knew better than to dally with an unmarried female. His honor was important to him, and he deeply regretted allowing his lust to overrule his mind. And yet, there was also another part of him that knew, if given the opportunity, he would kiss her senseless all over again.
“You did not,” she repeated, her voice low. Rife with an emotion he could not define. Husky, almost. Alluring, to be sure.
He had to resist his base impulses. “Regardless,” he forced himself to say, “my actions that day were inexcusable.”
“I wanted you to kiss me,” she blurted. “You cannot take advantage of someone who is willing. And not just willing, butlonging. That is how I would describe the way you make me feel, Arden, in spite of myself, and in spite of all the rules I have created over my years working as a Pinkerton agent. I would forget my rules for you.”
Her words resonated, sinking deep inside him, the blossom of something which felt a whole bloody lot like joy unfurling. Or perhaps it was lust. Or blind, sheer stupidity. He knew not, nor did he care to examine it. Hazel’s words had settled within him, and the sudden urge to possess her seized him anew.
I would forget my rules for you.
God, yes.
He moved, shifting himself to her end of the carriage. He settled upon the bench at her side, cupping her face in his hands and looking into her eyes. What he saw glistening within those endless depths shook him.
Terrified him.
There was only one way to answer the fear and the need both.
He lowered his lips to hers and claimed hers in a kiss. She was soft, so soft; her cheeks in his palms, her lips beneath his. He forced himself to go slowly, to savor her. Just yesterday, she had been savaged, and he wanted to banish the memory of her lying helpless and lifeless on the floor with his mouth.
She did not hesitate, kissing him back, opening to him on a sigh. Her tongue played against his, and she tasted of sweetness and citrus and nothing had ever been more delicious. A fierce pulse of desire tightened his ballocks, testament to how badly he wanted her. One kiss, one meeting of lips, and he was hard and ready, even in a cramped carriage on his way to the bloody railway station.
He knew he should stop. Strike that—he knew he never should have begun—but he was helpless, a slave to his need for her. When she sucked on his tongue, he groaned, kissing her harder, deeper. They struggled over control. She kissed the way she did everything, with brazen vigor, and he could not get enough.
He tore his mouth from hers, hungry for more, for the taste of her skin, for the breathy sounds she made when she liked what he was doing to her. He dragged his mouth down her throat, kissing his way to the place where her neck and shoulder met. And there, he could not resist biting gently into her skin.
Lucien had never wanted another woman more than he wanted her.
“Hazel,” he murmured, against the pounding of her pulse.
