The reality of this sank in like teeth into a forbidden apple. Sweet but so, so fleeting. He devoured her like this really was the last time.
He’d almost said,You and I may never be together, regardless.
He’d almost said,Just because you don’t marry Lusk, does not mean you will marry me.
He’d almost said,I am a mercenary and you are a gentleman’s daughter, andwe have no future.
But the words would not come.
Every true thing did not need to be said.
The strange tangle of regret and longing dulled his desire—a good thing, ultimately, because he’d almost said too much.
“I want you to know,” he finally breathed, “I’ve never taken advantage of a client. Not ever.”
This truth. It was easier. He tucked her closer and breathed in.
“And I want you to know I’ve never kissed a servant,” Helena said blithely, far less serious about honor and professionalism.
He chuckled into her neck and pulled her tighter still; he wanted to imprint her on his body, the searing outline of one last embrace.
“We’ll need more of the lofty heiress charade,” he said into her hair.
“What?”
“You fooled even me, and it’s exactly what everyone expects. You were correct. Every inch the future duchess, issuing orders to your groom.” He dropped a line of kisses on her neck.
“I’ve noticed you enjoy it,” she mused, dropping her head back.
“Have you?” he rumbled, but he thought,Oh God, yes.
She laughed and craned to reach his mouth again. He kissed her hard, trying to swallow her whole, and she kept up, tilting her head and digging her fingers into his hair. His body was as hard as granite. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted to pull Helena Lark to the floor and finish this. It was a dangerous want, more dangerous than their plan and her future and his freedom.
He pulled his mouth away and gasped for breath. “The end,” he panted, and she made a little sobbing noise.
“Helena,” he breathed, kissing her once more, hard and final. “My lady. The end.”
He stepped away. It felt like rolling from a warm, soft riverbank into a cold, hard current. It felt like more than he could take.
She stared at him through blinking eyes. “Then go,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
Helena arrived in New Bond Street with a full contingent of sisters, her mother, and a matronly cousin of Lusk’s called Maude. Declan Shaw clung on the outboard runner of the second carriage, one of four grooms.
A day had passed since the armory and they’d not spoken again. Declan Shaw had kissed her like a man sentenced to death and then gone.
He was good, she told herself, very good. As cold as the Thames in February. He’d gone so far as to affect a mix-up, pretending he couldn’t distinguish her from her sisters.
Helena had played along, making a show of exasperation, ignoring him with equal opaqueness. It was part strategy, part self-preservation. There was nothing small about her flourishing desire for Declan Shaw. She wanted him almost as much as she did not want the Duke of Lusk. As desires went, it was reckless and disruptive and dangerous to both Declan and herself. He’d been correct to remove himself from the kiss in the armory; it was right to pretend he could not distinguish her from her sister Joan.
And now she would do her part, and win Lady Genevieve Vance to Helena’s side.
But first, they must locate her.
New Bond Street clattered with carriages and the snorts and whinnies of horses. Shopgirls swept stoops and wiped broad windows on the parallel rows of smart shops. Shoppers in colorful silks and fluttering hats moved with a sort of choreographed formality. They seemed to browse for the benefit of each other as much as commerce.
When they were out of the carriage, Helena embarked upon immediate separation from her mother and Lusk’s cousin.
