“That is hardly ancient, Miss Cosgrove,” He laughed. “A decent wedge of cheddar must be aged. Or a good vinegar.”
“How wonderful to be considered in such company. First drippings and now cheddar.”
“I enjoy both. Come here.” The bits of silver gleamed at her. “I want to touch you.”
She absolutely should not move from this bench.
Make an assignation. Return to the house. Send word to the duchess.
Standing, her feet moved of their own accord beneath her skirts, towards him. A low-born thief. An imposter. A man who might very well hang for his crimes. That is where Helen’s poor battered heart led her.
To him. To disaster.
Why couldn’t he just be a bloody butcher? Or a…wine merchant? A mason?
“We’ll discuss escape.” He nodded at the grass beside him.
Her pulse picked up. He was entirely serious. Desire for him, his touch, and everything encased in those too tight trousers roared hungrily inside her. This was only to gain his trust further. Coax him to meet with her later.
Oh, Helen. You are a terrible liar.
“Go away,” she whispered to the insistent ache between her thighs.
“I don’t think so.” He sighed as if Helen were being difficult and beckoned her once more with the flick of his wrist. “You haunt my thoughts, Miss Cosgrove. My dreams. That is why I am here.” Another smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “What is your given name? I can’t believe I’ve not asked you before now.”
“We hardly know each other,” she breathed.
He gave her a look. “Really.”
“Helen.” She capitulated.
“Helen, the length of the acquaintance has nothing to do with how well you might know someone. I knew you the moment we first met.”
“You couldn’t.”
“You long for home to call your own, one that cannot be given then taken away. Freedom, from dancing to the tune of others. You, Helen, wouldn’t want anything grand.” He waved at the ornate fountain. “Although you have a lovely color scheme in mind. Wealth isn’t important to you, at least not as someone like Galway sees it. To you, it means freedom. You only want to be comfortable, nothing more.”
“Stop,” she breathed, hating that he did know her.
“You merely wish to be Helen. Tea and toast would make you happy. A warm fire. A chair where you can read a book. No one to order you about.”
He was very good at reading others. A useful talent for a man who lured the rich into his orbit so that he might steal fromthem. Charming to a fault. No wonder he could steal a necklace right from a lady’s neck in the middle of a ball.
He’s a thief. A miscreant.
Sadly, neither Helen’s heart nor the soft ache across her body seemed to care.
She came closer, until she stood beside him, smelling sunshine, grass and a scent that belonged only to him. Herbs and clean linen. A bit of lye soap.
No bergamot. Not like Roxboro.
“There isn’t any escape, at least not with you, Your Grace,” she choked out. “You are a duke. And married.”
“Hmm. But what if I were neither of those things, Helen? Would that matter to you?”
The way he said her name, in that voice drenched with wickedness, did something to Helen’s insides. A large hand, knuckles covered in scars no duke would ever have, tugged at her skirts, coaxing her to come closer. The hand moved to slide over the top of her half-boot, trailing over her ankle and squeezed.
She kicked out at him. Futilely. “Stop that.”
