She brushed her finger over the crease between his eyebrows, like she could polish his concerns away. “I quite like the way you tupped me.”
“Cassandra.” He hesitated. “What we have….”
She brought her hand down to his chest, scratching her fingers through the light mat of hair. She’d never explored a man’s chest before. It was quite nice. “Let’s not worry about that. Can’t we just enjoy what we have now and fret about how that might have changed our categories later?”
If they waited long enough, Charles might never have to rearrange her into a new box. One way or another, she’d be gone from his life.
“Move forwards without any thought to our relative positions?” He pursed his lips. “I…can try.”
“That’s all anyone can do.” Her skin tingled as he slid his hand down her side, over her hip. Every place he touched came alive under his fingers. She bit her bottom lip. “Um, are we moving forwards right now?”
He flipped her to her back. “If what we did was wrong, I’m already damned.” A rare smile curved his lips. Her heart stalled at the sight. He was beautiful. And for tonight, he was hers.
He prowled over her body. “Might as well make the most of it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Viscount Hereford, heir to the Warwick estate, was a right sod. Charles slammed one of his desk drawers shut, opened another. He’d known this, of course. A man who stole from others was naught but a shitstain on society. But the way Hereford made calf-eyes at Cassandra, his Cassie, pushed him into another level of shitstain-edness altogether.
Cassie threw her head back and laughed at something the fuckwit said, something that had even earned a chuckle from Hurst. The three of them were seated around Hurst’s desk chatting as if they were old friends.
Charles slammed another drawer shut. It had been less than twelve hours ago that he’d taken his leave from Cassie’s bed. Taken her damn maidenhead. Shouldn’t she be turning those smiles, those sparkling eyes on—
“Lose something?” Wilberforce stood beside his desk, his piercing gray-green eyes staring down at Charles.
“No.” He hadn’t been looking for anything, just wanted to slam drawers. But since he didn’t want to appear out of sorts in front of his employer, he opened his top drawer and reached in for a piece of paper.
And came out with his hand smeared in ink.
“Your ink well broke.” Wilberforce peered into the drawer. “Your paper is ruined.”
Charles pressed his lips together. The man excelled at stating the obvious. He sent a sharp glance at Cassie, the person who had to be responsible for the mess. She must have felt it, because she met it with a smile.
Some of the tension in his shoulders released. It was a different smile than the one she gave Hereford or Hurst. Sweeter and more sensual all at the same time. Special. And it was his.
“Have the owners decided what to do with him?” Charles jerked his chin at the viscount.
“First we’re trying to recover all the stolen property.” Wil cocked his hip on the desk. “Unfortunately, he’s keeping it in three different homes. His London townhouse, his father’s estate up in Derbyshire, and his own country house out by Cambridge. He also says he’s given some of the items away.”
“You don’t believe him?”
Wil shrugged. “I think he likes to keep trophies. But we’ll get everything returned. Hereford won’t like what happens if we don’t.”
“And then?” Charles shot the viscount a dour look. The man was standing on Hurst’s desk now, waving his coat about like a bloody matador, playing up to his clearly entertained audience.
Charles really didn’t like the man.
“Summerset wants him to work off his misdeeds, as restitution.” Wil glanced at the spectacle on Hurst’s desk, wincing when Hereford knocked over an unlit oil lamp. Hurst caught it an inch before it struck the floor.
The hair on the back of Charles’s neck rose. “Working where? On what?”
“Yes, well, that’s the thing.” Wil brushed at his sleeve, his gaze focused on an invisible speck. “The owners rather think his skills could be put to good use here. As an investigative agent.”
“I see.” Charles didn’t see at all. The man was a criminal. A thief. He had no business working at an agency dedicated to solving crimes.
“He will be working without pay, of course.” A grim smile spread over Wil’s face. “I do believe Summerset especially enjoys the thought of putting the young viscount through his paces.”
Being an inquiry agent was a job Charles had worked hard to obtain; one many people would feel fortunate to have. He didn’t care how hard the owners worked Hereford, the man was getting off easy. Too easy. “He deserves prison. Public condemnation.” Charles pressed his palms against the cool wood of his desk. “But I guess such things don’t apply to Polite Society.”
