Sam didn’t meet her gaze as he set his hands on her knees. “I’m supposed to steal something from someone.”
Daisy gasped so hard she felt a sharp sting in her throat. “What if you get caught?”
His gaze rose to hers. “I won’t get caught.”
“Are you a master thief?”
He reached under her skirts. “I stole your heart, didn’t I?”
The touch of his hands around her calves stole her wits, but Daisy wouldn’t let him distract her from this. “I stole yours.”
He chuckled. “How do you figure that?” His hands reached the backs of her knees, and he gave a sharp tug. Her bottom nearly slipped off the chair.
Daisy didn’t know how to answer. “You were engaged.”
“As were you.” He began to gather her skirts, and her belly tightened as her suspicion about what he wanted to do rose. Delicious heat spread over her skin.
Daisy bit her lip as she tried to gather her thoughts. “But you didn’t know that. You only knew thatyouwere engaged.”
“Undercontractto be engaged. I think of you as my one and only betrothed, because you are the only woman I proposed to.”
Her heart fluttered at that. The air touched her thighs, and he pushed them wider, his focus now between her legs and intensely hot.
“Sam,” she said on her next breath.
“Mm, yes Daisy?” he said huskily.
She was melting, she could feel her body slickening under his gaze and forgot what she was about to say.
“I think you’re right,” he continued when she remained silent. “You did steal my heart. I had no intention of giving it to anyone, not after I learned Amelia had bound me to a stranger, but then you arrived, and you took it right out of me. Claimed me for yourself.”
Daisy liked the sound of that. “What happened to the good luck kiss?”
He licked his lips—his sinful, talented lips—and she squirmed, spreading her legs further.
“I didn’t say it would be on your mouth, did I?”
Daisy tossed her head back against the plush back of the chair and she swore she heard a growl as his mouth closed over her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sam made itto the mews by seven, his blond curls stuffed under a plain brown cap. Chase stepped from the shadows, examining Sam’s attire of brown trousers and heavy black coat.
“Your boots are too clean.”
Sam scoffed. “Who’s going to be looking at my boots?”
“You’d be surprised how a little thing like clean boots can stand out amongst the lower class. Scuff them a bit. Tarnish that shine.”
Sam had never been a dandy, but he knew Petrov was going to be cross about the boots. Sam kicked at the ground, scuffing the toe. Chase kicked dirt and hay over his feet and Sam glared at him.
“Crease the toe. A working man wears the same boots day and night.”
“You’re not a workman. How would you know?” Sam said. Usually, Chase had a rather ambiguous wardrobe. Lord knew what his actual station was—or his name, for that matter—but his regular clothes were not the tattered rags of a pauper. They were just as fine as Sam’s, if rather drab. But tonight, he did look the part of a delivery man.
Sam rolled his eyes as Chase wrinkled his jacket.
“What’s next? Should I roll in horse shite?”
