“Yes,” she said, not knowing to which “right thing” hereferred. She could agree on so many fronts. It had been the right thing to marry; it had been the right thing to make love. It wasn’twrongfor him to now leave her bed. He had an errand.
After a moment of staring at her face, his expression enigmatic, he leaned down and kissed her. It took her so very by surprise, her mouth fell open as she watched him descend. He caught her lips apart and kissed her thoroughly, deeply, possessively.
The kiss was so disparate from his speedy farewell, she almost bit him, trying to puzzle through it all.
But she did not bite him, she kissed him back, and closed her eyes, and coiled her arms around his neck.
He made a growling noise and pulled back, grinned at her—a grin that could have no other purpose but to crack open her heart—and then kissed her once more, hard and fast. After that, he turned away.
“Careful, Duchess,” he called, walking to the door. “I might slip back into bed and then where would we be?”
Yes, where?she wanted to ask.Where would we be if that happened? Where are we now?
She said none of this. She turned her head on the pillow and watched him cross to the private door through which he’d come. There he hovered a moment longer. Again, she held her breath.
“Should I send the maid to attend you?” he asked.
She turned away. “No, thank you. Good night, Your Grace.”
He tapped the door frame twice with his hand and was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ian was halfway to Whitechapel when he realized he was being followed.
He swore, cocking his ear to the sound of intermittent hoofbeats behind him, and turned off his planned route. Naturally it would come to this. First he’d been forced to leave the warm bed of his new wife to muck about in Blackwall, and now—a stalker.
Ian wasn’t given to intrigue, not compared to someone like the Duke of Northumberland, but hehadserved in the bloody army, and he knew the cautious,clip-clopof a lone rider, just out of view.
Keeping his gait even, he reined his horse eastward, winding down one unexpected street, then another. In addition to putting him off schedule, the new route made no sense; but it would be impossible to follow except by the most devoted tail.
And follow they did. Hewasbeing stalked.
Ian swore again and kicked into a cantor, then a gallop. Finally, he rode full-out, as fast as the cobblestones would allow, burning up the road until a dark alley came into view. Reining hard, he whipped into the shadows and spun his horse. He leaned against the animal’s neck, whispering into his ear, bidding him to keep calm and quiet. He held his breath.
Within moments, the scrambling hoofbeats of the lone rider clattered into earshot. Ian’s horse shook his mane and whinnied, agitated by the frantic energy of the approaching animal. Ian bit off his glove to stroke his neck heavily, trying to quiet him.
The stalker tore up the street, slowing only briefly at the mouth of the alley. When he was five yards beyond, the hoofbeats slowed again; this time they came to a stop.
Keeping close to the wall, Ian slowly nudged his mount to the precipice of the alley. Carefully, he leaned in his saddle to peer around the corner.
The other horse was stopped, spinning and stomping in the center of the road. The rider, clothed in a voluminous black cloak with a deep hood, whipped his head about, looking right and left.
Ian squinted into the moonlight, trying to discern the rider’s face. He was a small man, nearly as small as a child, but he handled the horse with expert—
Ian froze.
He stared harder.
A wheat-colored lock of hair fell loose from the cloak, so long it nearly touched the horse. Tiny black gloves maneuvered the animal—a mare, Ian now saw—by tugging on her mane.
There was no bridle. And no reins.
Ian swore, dropped back into his saddle and, forgetting concealment, kneed his mount from the alley.
“Imogene,” Ian called.
The rider spun around and...
