He, who had been tortured nearly to death in his uncle’s dungeon, who had survived the ugly sea crossing from Boritania, followed by a decade of living dangerously as a cutthroat mercenary, was shaken to his soul by one woman whose ice turned into flame. Flame he wanted to be burned in. Flame to make him forget, even if only for one night. Even if only for one hour. By Deus, he would pitch himself into a raging fire for one second with her. That was how strong his need for her was.
Theo lowered his head and buried his face in the fragrant hair at her temple. Unbound, the burnished waves glinted in the warm glow of the candles. He took a moment to inhale, to savor her.
“I saw you,” she murmured, fingers toying with the ends of his hair that he’d thought to cut until he’d known how good it felt for her to tangle her dainty hands in it. “In the entry hall when we arrived home this evening.”
He had seen her too. It hadn’t been his intention; he’d been committing a final tour of Hunt House before turning the reins over to his men for the night. What he’d meant to do was avoid her. To return to his room and think about what he must do with the information Stasia had imparted.
But the commotion in the front hall had told him that someone was arriving, and he’d lingered stupidly and recklessly in the hope that it would be her. When their gazes had met and clung across the space, he had known that he wasn’t going to his chamber. There was only one place he could go, given the torment eating him from within, and it was to her.
“You looked beautiful,” he told her, lifting his head to survey her anew. “But you are even more glorious now, like this.”
She gave him a small smile. “I’m not nearly as beautiful as Lady Virtue. She is young and innocent.”
He hadn’t had eyes for the lady accompanying her. She may as well have not been present for the attention he had paid her.
“You were all I saw,” he told Pamela. “You’re all I want to see.”
There were other ways he could elaborate, other means of explaining himself to her. And yet, the emotions inside him were too strong, too overwrought, and the only words he could find were Boritanian. So he held his tongue.
“You needn’t woo me,” she said softly. “You’ve already won me.”
But had he? Not truly. He’d won her for this night. Fate had never been kind to Theo St. George, and he knew that cruel, fickle mistress had no intention of changing her ways now. He would seize the night. Make her his while he still could.
“I’m not wooing.” He kissed her lips lightly, just one chaste buss before ending it. “I’m telling you the truth.”
Her hands slid from his nape to cup his face, her palms smooth and warm. “Who are you, Theo? Who are you truly?”
He could never tell her that. If he did, there was the very real possibility that she would be in danger. If what Stasia had said was true, then there were already Boritanian spies infiltrating London, and they knew who and where he was. But he wouldn’t think of that now. Not with Pamela caressing his face. Tomorrow, he would contemplate the repercussions. He would make decisions. Tonight, he was where he needed to be.
He turned his head, kissing her palm. “I’m your lover.”
“Oh,” she whispered, lower lip trembling.
She likely hadn’t expected such a frank response. She’d wanted more, his full name, his past. Perhaps calling himself her lover had been careless of him. She was akin to a shying horse just now, and he had no wish to spook her further and send her bucking and galloping away.
“If you wish it,” he added quietly. “Or the man who holds you in his arms whilst you sleep if you wish for that instead.”
He didn’t tell her that he would be fully clothed whilst he did so, in either event. It wasn’t a subject he’d broached with lovers in his past for there’d been no need then; he’d been unscarred. But with Pamela, it would be different. She would want everything from him, and he could not give it. Anything else, yes. But not that last part of himself, the part he loathed, the part where his demons lurked.
“I don’t want to sleep,” she said.
“You are certain?” he pressed, because her words had made his cock throb.
She licked her lips, the sight somehow innocent and alluring all at once. “Yes. I want… I want what happened last night, only more.”
The lust coursing through him was instant and intense.
He took her lips with his, telling himself that he would kiss her slowly and failing the moment she opened for him. The kiss turned hard and hungry, their tongues tangling. He poured himself into the movement of his lips over hers, telling her everything he couldn’t put into words.
She tasted like wine, and he wondered where she’d been this evening. Whom she had spoken with, danced and flirted with. For a moment, he wished he’d been a guest there. Wished he was the suave courtier he’d once been, just so that he could meet her in a setting where they were equals. So he could bow over her hand and sweep her into a waltz and woo her as she deserved, instead of with stolen kisses and furtive touches, hidden away from the world.
At least this evening, they would have the comfort of a bed, though he hadn’t minded being on his knees for her. Not for a single second. She deserved to be worshiped, not just because of how lovely she was, but because she had ignored her own needs and desires for far too long. Perhaps they were well matched in that, for he had grown accustomed to isolating and denying himself.
Her hands slid to his coat, pulling at the lapels, trying to work it from his shoulders. This, he allowed, shrugging it away. But when she moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, he stopped her as before, catching her fingers in his.
Theo raised his head, his breathing ragged. “It stays.”
Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t question him. “Your boots?”
