Grimm.
His friend? Perhaps not.
Dash rose from his crouch and drifted across the street, closing the distance by a house. When the door opened wider…
Dieu. He hadn’t imagined it. Not her beauty, not that indefinable magic that floated around her. Two years later and here he was—skulking like a common thief—and still she struck him with the same force as before… only sharper, as though time had honed the edge.
Her hair was swept up, gleaming in the afternoon light, and the gown she wore was cut in the latest fashion.
Then Grimm set his hand at the small of her back.
She turned to him, smiling.
Thunder roared in his ears, but he didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe, until the barouche driver flicked the reins, and the horses shifted into motion.
Feeling like a ghost, Dash stepped forward onto the walk, eyes following the departing carriage. A flicker of movement drew his gaze—Carrington, standing in the doorway, meeting his eyes with the faintest, knowing salute.
Well, hell. So much for the gardener’s cap and dirt under his nails.
Still, he returned the next afternoon, taking up his post a few houses down. Nothing. Not so much as the twitch of a curtain.
The morning after, his patience was rewarded. She stepped out into the sunshine in a pale green day dress—the color tugged at memory, calling up the gown she’d worn that last evening they’d spent together.
This time, she was alone.
Or nearly. She held tight to a leading string while good old Mr. Dog waddled faithfully at her side, his gait as dignified as ever.
But Dash’s satisfaction at seeing her without company soured quickly.
What the devil was she doing strolling about Mayfair without a proper escort? If some footpads decided to make trouble, her “son” was hardly the sort to drive them off.
Grumbling under his breath, he kept to the shadows and followed at a measured distance. Every so often her voice carried back to him as she greeted a passing neighbor—sweet, bright, almost songlike. And each time the sound caught him off guard, his feet faltering on the pavement. How many times had he heard that same voice in dreams, soft with laughter, calling his name?
She walked with a lightness that spoke of contentment, her step buoyant. It didn’t take long for him to guess her destination—Hyde Park.
The sight of her so carefree, wrapped in sunlight and unburdened by the past, pricked him. Who was he to shatter her peace? After what he’d done, he’d be lucky if she offered him so much as a civil word.
A sudden gust tore down the street, snatching the cap from his head and sending it skittering along the cobblestones. He hesitated, torn between chasing it down and walking away entirely. Would she recognize him from a distance?
In the end, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. He let the cap go, allowing some of his hair to fall forward, and continued on, keeping to the edges of the walk. Once she entered the park, it became easier—trees and hedgerows offered cover, and he could draw closer without fear of being noticed.
Additionally, she seemed quite intent upon Mr. Dog’s antics. The dog showed interest in nearly every bird he caught sight of, especially the ducks at the edge of the water. Occasionally he let out a low bark and was quickly chastised by his mistress.
From this closer distance, he could see the soft flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. Memory hit him so hard he had to remember to breathe—the silk of her jaw beneath his mouth, the delicate shiver when he’d dragged his tongue along its curve, the taste of her welcome when she’d parted those lips.
He was so intent on her that the rest of the park might as well have vanished.
A mistake.
“Your Grace! Yoo-hoo! Dasborough, is that you?” A shrill voice rang out far too brightly for his liking.
His head snapped around, eyes searching for cover—a bench, a tree, a hole in the ground. Anything.
Nom de Dieu. Not today.
If he turned his back quickly enough, kept his face down, perhaps?—
No such luck. The two ladies who’d spotted him bore down with determined cheer.
