Elizabeth couldn’t help it.
She laughed.
It was a nervous sound, one that grated in her ears as Lord Penderdale released her with gentle care. Immediately, she noticed the loss of his touch, and against her will, her body mourned it.
“You are well?” he asked, for the second or third time. She’d lost track.
“Yes, as well as can be,” she answered, proud of herself for stringing together a full sentence. Dear Lord, her wits must have been addled.
His scrutiny sharpened. “Can you tell me what happened?”
She took a deep breath. “I was coming home from the Finches’ when I rounded the corner and some man ran into me, sending me backwards, and then he ran off with my satchel. He’ll be disappointed when he finds only parchment notes and a book within it, but it’s valuable to me,” she said dejectedly.
“What did he look like?” Lord Penderdale asked.
“He was of medium height, modest dress and cap, and a bruised left eye, purple-ringed.”
Lord Penderdale eyed her curiously. “You gathered all that information and remembered it?”
She gave him a withering glare. “I want my satchel back, and he has it. If I’m to help the authorities find the knave, they need to know who they are searching for.”
He nodded once. “Yes, but that was rather descriptive. I’m impressed is all.”
“Oh.” She relaxed her glare. “Were you chasing him? Is that why you were running? I must say I’ve never seen a peer of the realm in a sprint before.”
He eyed her with a bemused expression. “Yes, I was pursuing him, and I’m terribly sorry he not only injured you but stole your satchel. I’ll do my best to recover it for you. And I’ll have you know, I’m quite swift on my feet.”
“I believe you,” she answered. However, that left her with one question. “Why were you chasing him?”
Lord Penderdale glanced behind her and around as if expecting the rogue to come back to the scene of the crime. “He has something of mine as well.”
Elizabeth tipped her chin. “Oh?”
Lord Penderdale regarded her unrelentingly, his expression holding her captive as he said, “Yes, he has my name.”
Eleven
Everything that deceives may be said to enchant.
—Plato,The Republic
Collin’s heart finally slowed to a normal cadence. When he’d rounded the corner and seen a woman struggling to her feet, he’d leapt into action. When he’d heard his name and seen Elizabeth’s face, his blood had gone cold.
Elizabeth.He’d used her Christian name, and it had been far too natural. He hadn’t obeyed any rules of propriety; he’d have cheerfully hanged them all in that moment. All he could think was:not her.He’d canvassed every inch of her in observation, making sure there was no lasting damage, no injuries seen or unseen. His mind had been a flurry, forgetting about his single-minded purpose to chase the man and only concerned that Elizabeth was unharmed. He’d cataloged her features, supported her as he drew her in, gently probed her head and found that one small bump that gave him a momentary panic until she’d finally responded, reminding him that she was well or, at least, well enough.
But then everything shifted. He was aware of how close she stood, of how she smelled like beeswax candles and lemons, of how perfectly she fit into the lee of his body and how perfectly tempting her lips were to kiss.
And he’d eat his left boot if she hadn’t felt the same thing. Those intelligent, logical, and maddening eyes had seared through him, bewitching him until all he could do was lose himself in the moment.
He’d never wanted to kiss a woman this badly in all his life.
And he would have, if not for that one single sound that still echoed in his mind.
Laughter.
Nervous laughter that sounded anything but amused, more a terrified noise that he understood the moment he heard it.
He felt it too.
