“I recall you, Miss Cosgrove.” Roxboro leaned over, smelling of clean linen, mint, and something else. The soft low rumble of his voice plucked at her skin. “Very well.”
Flames brushed Helen’s arms and legs, sparking along her breasts and settling somewhere in her mid-section, dipping low and swirling about like a bit of honey. The rhythm of her heart refused to set a calm pace, or maybe it simply could not. Roxboro was dangerous in so many ways, tempting in all the others. Helen could feel the air thickening between them, fraught with all sorts of possibility.
Roxboro’s shimmering eyes, blazing with the sort of heat that had Helen’s knees grow weak, drew slowly down her entire body, even taking in her battered half-boots, before rising slowly once more to linger on her mouth.
“Hmm.” He seemed to consider something before saying, “To hell with it.”
Then his mouth firmly and blissfully claimed hers.
Chapter Six
Fletcher hadn’t cometo the park with the intention of annoying Miss Cosgrove, or kissing her for that matter, but flirted with the idea as he caught her walking towards this circle of trees. He’d only wanted to escape The Devil’s Acre, dressed in his “Roxboro” clothes, not the formal wear, but coat and trousers. If he kept in the shadows of the trees, where no one would see too clearly, he might be mistaken for Roxboro at a distance, which was fine. He had no intention of speaking to the fine lords and ladies walking about though he’d considered picking a pocket or two.
The gentleman who approached Miss Cosgrove and that nitwit earlier had a splendid stickpin stuck in his cravat. An emerald the size of his thumbnail. But now was not the time to be greedy.
As of late, he’d stayed close to Mrs. Bean and The Dancing Swan, dread swelling larger in his stomach every day. So, he kept an eye on the brothel and Ripps. Tossed out a drunk patron who was running about naked save for a pair of boots. And made a great show of drinking too much gin all while doing his best to avoid a confrontation with Lark.
Suffocatingis how Fletcher would best describe the current situation.
There was also the matter of Miss Cosgrove who he thought about far too much.
So today, he’d declared loudly to Ripps that he was going to visit his non-existent widow for an imaginary fuck and made his way to Cheapside. Doubling back several times, Fletcher made sure he wasn’t followed, said good day to Mrs. Baldwin, and checked on the strongbox holding Bean’s Book.
Perfectly safe.
After changing his ratty, somewhat flashy clothing to something more suitable, he came to Hyde Park to think. Providence gave him Miss Cosgrove.
The object of his obsession. Alone. Wandering about the trees while that stupid chit she followed about fawned over some gent at the edge of the Serpentine. She was such a tiny thing, Miss Cosgrove. A scathing little bit of fluff who he hungered for far more than he should.
Miss Cosgrove pretended displeasure at his arrival, but her cheeks pinked and her eyes sparkled. He dearly wished to rip the bonnet off her head and allow all that lovely golden hair to fall over his fingers like a waterfall. Miss Cosgrove reminded him of a tiny soap bubble about to burst, seething rebellion begging to be set free.
Fletcher wanted to pop that bubble.
But realistically, he wanted to assess whether the emerald pendant taken from around the cabbage head’s throat had been noticed as missing. Or if there were any suspicions hovering over Roxboro. Miss Cosgrove had seen them together. She might sound the alarm. Not only would Fletcher be accused of theft but also impersonating a duke. He’d hang for sure.
All valid reasons for kissing her.
A groan left him as their lips met, his mouth swallowing her surprised gasp. Fletcher expected to be slapped. Kicked in the shin once more. Both of which shouldn’t have aroused him nearly as much as it did. But Miss Cosgrove pressed into him,her lovely mouth softening beneath his own, teasing his lips like a woman starved.
Bloody hell, she was kissing him back.
Fletcher cupped her head, fingers tangling in the strands of her hair, tilting her chin so that he could…consumeher. They were ravenous for each other, her delicate hands grabbing at his coat, twisting the fabric to bring him closer.
Miss Cosgrove smelled of sunshine. Fresh grass. Clean, vibrant things that a denizen of The Devil’s Acre had no right to taste. Licking at the crease of her mouth, Fletcher begged her lips to part and allow him entry.
A whimper. A tiny thrust of her hips at Fletcher.
Tongues twisted together, mimicking what he wanted his cock to do to her.
A trembling Miss Cosgrove gripped him tighter.
Spinning about, Fletcher pushed her back against the trunk of the tree behind them, suddenly uncaring if the entirety of Her Majesties’ army might descend upon them. This was more than a kiss; it was a spark to a flame. An explosion of heat. A gin-soaked cloth set too close to the fire which suddenly bursts into a searing blaze.
A sound of complete surrender wracked her small form.
“You make my mouth water,” he whispered at the corner of her lips as desire for her lashed between his thighs until he thought of nothing but her. “As if I’ve been starving and someone’s set a plate of bread and drippings before me.”
Miss Cosgrove stiffened. Her lips left his. “I taste like drippings?”
