Isobel curled her shoulders and pulled up the hood of her cloak.
Jason listened again. The footsteps grew closer. He leaned behind her on the bench, trying to see through the vegetation. Clouds obscured the moon, draping the path in shadows. He eased lower still. The clouds slid eastward and—
“It’s the night watchman,” he whispered.
“Oh God. That will be Matthews.” Her voice was tremulous, barely audible. “Icannotbe seen. Matthews is a neighborhood friend. He goes out of his way to be generous and thoughtful. I cannot—He mustn’t see me.My respectability depends on me not being discovered in dark parks with strange men.”
She shrank deeper into her cloak and slid to the darkest end of the bench.
The footsteps grew closer. The watchman whistled a tune and then stopped. Jason heard the strike of a match. The smell of burning tobacco filled the air.
The footsteps and whistling resumed.
Isobel spoke just below a whisper. “I must hide, or run, or...hide. I cannot—”
“No, no, no,” Jason breathed slowly. “Do not move.Movement will only draw his eye.”
From outside the alcove, a nervous voice called out, “Who’s there?”
Jason swore in his head. Isobel made a barely audible sound of distress, a heart-wrenching half whine, half hiss.
Another curse. Jason whispered to her, “Would you allow me to pretend to kiss you?”
Isobel Tinker stared at him from deep within her hood.
“It’s an old trick,” he whispered, “but it can work if you keep your face averted.” He held his breath, waiting for her answer. He hadn’t lied; it was an old trick, reliable too. It also happened to be his most fervent wish at the moment.
Still, she could say no. She could slap him. She could call for the watchman and claim abduction. He put his odds at fifty-fifty.
Do it, she mouthed.Hurry. Do it, do it, do it.
Right, Jason thought. He bit the notebook and pencil in his mouth to free his hand and reached for her.
In one, cloak-fluttering movement, he scooped up Isobel Tinker and plunked her into his lap. She settled on his thighs in a puff of green skirts and emerald cloak. She weighed almost nothing. She stared over the notebook into his face, her blue eyes huge.
He removed the notebook from his mouth and whispered, “Sorry.” He settled his hands on her waist.
“I say, who’s there?” the night watchman called again.
Isobel’s eyes bored into his.
Jason mouthed,We needn’treally—
She kissed him.
One moment she was staring at him as if he’d grown horns, the next her mouth was on his.
It was not the faux effort he’d meant to offer. It was her head tilted just so, her mouth fitting perfectly against his, partly open; it was her tongue swiping once, twice, against his bottom lip. And just like that, he was plunged into a pool of sensation. The smell of her enveloped him, warm and herbal; the feel of her slight body, teetering on his thighs; her soft lips, firm and insistent.
Jason’s consciousness departed the leafy square and he floated somewhere above them. Music swelled in his head and lights popped behind his eyes.
There were kisses, he thought vaguely, and then there wasthis.
Isobel Tinker, he realized, knew how to kiss. And she kissed exceptionally well. There was no shyness, no coquettishness, no ploy for him to draw her out. She fastened her lips to his and feasted.
He had the random thought that Drummond Hooke would be completely out of his depth with this woman. Jason himself, kissing her as if his life depended upon it, strove to keep up. It was exhilarating and sensual and all-consuming. It was quite possibly the best kiss of his life, and he’d enjoyed some rather exceptional kisses.
Only by some miracle did he remember the bloody night watchman. Blinking his eyes, he squinted into the distance. The watchman stood at the mouth of the alcove, lifting a creaking lantern.
