Daffin put his hands on his hips. “I never realized the amount of pressure put on ladies of your social set to make a good match.”
“It begins at birth, I’m afraid, but I can’t help but wonder if it would all have been different had my parents remained alive.”
“What happened to your parents?” Daffin asked. He couldn’t help himself. She looked so vulnerable and pretty. He told himself he should stay away from her, but seeing her attacked by that damned marquess had brought out not only his protective side, but apparently his sensitive streak, too. He truly wanted to hear about her parents. Truly wanted to learn more about her.
“They died in a carriage accident when I was twelve,” Regina replied. “Grandmama raised me after that.”
He studied her profile for a moment, his gaze tracing the curve of her cheek, her tender mouth, her stubborn chin. Then he inwardly shook himself, stepped closer, and said in a low voice, “My mother was dead by the time I was twelve, too.”
“Really?” She lifted her face and peered up at him with those bright blue, assessing eyes.
“Yes.” Why was he telling her this? He’d never told anyone. Why had he told her any of the things he’d already shared with her? Something about her made him feel as if he could trust her. Made him feel as if she wanted to know about him, too. Made him feel noble.
“What happened to your mother?” Regina asked.
He paused for a moment, only a moment. Tonight apparently, here in the rose arbor, was a time for confessions. “She was murdered.”
Regina gasped. “No!” She lifted her hand and grabbed athis wrist. A spark shot down his arm. “I’m sorry, Daffin. That is awful.”
He briefly closed his eyes. He’d never admitted that to anyone, either. His life. His past. His family. They were subjects he kept tightly guarded. He moved away from her and took a seat on the stone bench.
“Did your father raise you then?” Regina asked, tiptoeing toward him.
“No,” Daffin said, “I barely knew my father.” She might have been enamored of him for a moment, thinking he was dashing and charming and handsome, but once she learned the truth about his family, she’d realize her mistake. Perhaps that’s why he was reluctant to tell her.
Her eyes bright with unshed tears, Regina leaned toward him and placed a warm hand on his arm, just above his elbow. Her touch simultaneously burned him and comforted him. “Is that why you’re a Bow Street Runner?” she asked. “Because your mother was murdered?”
Just like that, she’d cut to the heart of who he was, why he did what he did. But she didn’t know the truth. She didn’t know why his mother had died or who his mother had been. If she knew that, she’d recoil from him. She’d make her excuses and return to the ballroom as quickly as possible. Instead, she was watching him with real sympathy in her eyes. Real tears. He’d seen enough fake ones over the years from criminals who were only sorry they’d been caught to know real from fake. And she’dtouchedhim. Even now, her hand rested on his. His instinct was to move away. He did not do well with sympathy. It made him want to shrug out of his own skin.
She finally drew her hand away and stared up at him quietly. She was obviously waiting for him to answer the question she’d posed. A question that burned in his gut. Yes, that was why he was a Bow Street Runner. Because he’d found his mother dead at the bottom of the stairs in their elegant town house, and even at the tender age of eleven, he’d known immediately it hadn’t been an accident. But he damned sure didn’t want to talk about it.
His answer was a curt nod. He moved to the side of the bench, giving her space to sit next to him.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked, squeezing into the tight space. Her hip brushed against his.
“No.” It was the best and only answer he would give. None who would claim him. None he would claim.
“We have that in common then,” Regina replied, “growing up without parents. Without siblings. Were you lonely?”
Daffin stared unseeing at the canopy of bright pink roses that adorned the nearby white trellis. He’d meant to escort Regina back to the ballroom by now. Why was he still here? Why had he sought her out to begin with? He’d assumed her life had been perfect. She came from one of the best families in the country. He assumed she had been raised by loving parents in a loving household rife with servants and money and cousins and friends and happiness. All things he knew nothing about. He’d been mistaken about her—she’d known sorrow—and he wasn’t used to being mistaken about anything. His instincts were usually dead-on.
She’d asked if he was lonely. Why did that cause a lump to form in his throat?
“I suppose so,” he replied quietly.
“I was, too,” she admitted softly.
Daffin turned to her. He’d made a mistake, sitting this close to her where he could smell her scent. All he had to do was reach out and touch her, and oh, how he wanted to.
His mouth lowered toward hers slowly, so slowly, giving her plenty of time to move away. But she didn’t move away. She stared up at him with those big blue eyes and when his lips touched hers, she melted against him. Her arms moved up, pushing his coat off her shoulders, twining around his neck.
His lips pushed hers apart and his tongue invaded her mouth. She clung to him, making moaning sounds in the back of her throat, while he went rock hard in his breeches. She was responsive and delicious and all the things that made kissing someone good. He kept up his lips’ gentle assault. He couldn’t stop. He was mindless. His hands moved up to cup her face, to keep her mouth melded to his. His lips shaped and molded hers, as if he could never get enough. Minutes later, he finally dragged his mouth from hers. Breathing heavily, he pulled her arms from his neck, clasped her hands, and touched his forehead to hers.
“What was that?” she breathed.
“That… was a mistake.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
