“Jacobsen,” he whispered in her ear.
Cecilia’s heart leaped, for she did not recognize the name, but Ned’s breath, so warm and heavy in the darkness, ignited something a great deal warmer, farther down her body. They listened for a while as footsteps sounded along the corridor, dwindling finally into silence.
“My apologies,” Ned whispered, lowering his hand. “That was one of Morvath’s men. I didn’t expect to see him here.”
“We must have been traced.”
“Obviously Morvath doesn’t trust me after all.”
“Does anyone?”
He did not reply, and Cecilia’s heart unexpectedly cringed with regret at having asked. She certainly did not trust him, whoever he was. She remained in his company only to keep him where she could see him—not that she waslookingat him, mind you, noticing the bunching of muscles beneath his skin, the slow glide of his eyelashes when he blinked so purposefully at her, the way he cocked his gun, the strong—er, which is to say,no trust there at all.Nevertheless, his silence seemed almost wounded, and reminded her that beneath hisseveral names, he was a real person, just as beneath his shirt and trousers he was—
She shoved the thought away, but too late. Her wits held up several illustrations of it, some of which were animated. Thank goodness for the darkness within the closet, because she felt herself blush scarlet.
“Don’t worry, Cecilia,” he whispered. His voice grazed her mouth.
“I know,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady. “We can easily evade this Jackersen fellow.”
“I didn’t mean that.” He set a hand on the wall beside her head. Which was reasonable, she supposed, since the space was very small.
“I am not frightened my father will capture me,” she added. “If he does, I will be better located to save the Society.”
“I didn’t mean that either.” He leaned toward her, which she allowed as a practicality, for with their whispering he might not be hearing her well.
“And I am unconcerned about Lady Armitage, whose house should prove easily obtainable.”
He sighed, leaving her bemused. “I confess myself at a loss as to what you did mean,” she said.
“I meant,” he whispered, “that when I kiss you for the first time, it will be in a drawing room or a garden, someplace much finer than this.”
“Oh.” Her pulse trembled—no doubt a normal physiological reaction to being shut up in a narrow closet. But then she frowned. “Why?”
There was a small moment of silence. “Why what?”
“Why a drawing room or garden? How is a fine place relevant in such matters?”
He chuckled. “Shall I kiss you now, in that case?”
She gasped and slapped his cheek, although in the darkness she missed and slapped his ear instead.
“Ow,” he said, sounding more amused than pained. Turning away, he opened the door and peered out. “I think it’s safe to leave.”
“Oh. Well, excellent. I’m certainly glad you’re not going to kiss me. Yes, indeed, goodness me.”
Ned closed the door, turned back, caught her face in his hands, and pressed his lips against hers with a sudden intensity that startled a sound into her throat. Immediately he softened the kiss, easing his passion into tenderness, feeling his heart sink into her warmth as she gentled beneath him. He was surprised to discover she didn’t kiss like a storm after all, nor even with prudishness. She welcomed him, her hands clutching at his coat sleeves, pulling him closer, but her mouth was unsure what to do. The feather touch of it thrilled him.
Clearly no one had kissed her before. Yet beneath that innocence he sensed a ribald longing, and wondered if it was for him in particular or just a general interest in kissing. He wished it was for him. He longed for her. She was smart and strong, and, God, just the way she held a gun made his toes curl with lust. Having her in his arms, against his mouth, felt so good he almost could not bear it. But in the next moment, she would either swoon or stab him, so finally he drew away, and she swayed against the wall.
“Well, I never,” she murmured dazedly.
Ned grinned. His pulse crashed as if he had scaled a mountain, which he supposed made a good metaphor for having kissed Cecilia Bassingthwaite, considering he’d been working toward it since the moment he saw her on the doorstep of Darlington House. He most definitely intended to do it again. But this was a smelly broom closet, and she was naive in ways he sometimes forgot, considering her cool gaze and ability to kill him with a hairpin. So he turned away, fumbling forthe door handle, almost hitting himself in the face as he yanked the door open.
“We should probably hurry in case there are any other henchmen about.”
“Yes. Right. True.” She did not move.
Ned looked at her. The light streaming in from the corridor touched her face, illuminating its blushed mouth. The sight was so arousing, he had to take a deep breath to calm himself. “Are you all right?” he asked.
