He’d made it clear he wasn’t an earl, but she wouldn’t quibble. Now that he was so close to her and the space was dim and small, she knew what she’d said was foolish. The time she spent with him was the most real she could be. He didn’t expect her to be a perfect young miss or to conquer Society and be the success her older sister wasn’t.
“I don’t pretend with you,” she said softly. She also didn’t tell him the complete truth, such as her name, and neither did he totally reveal himself to her. “You see who I am. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” His answer thrummed in her chest.
“And I see you.”
“No.” The word came hard and fast. “You see what I want you to see.” He put his palm on the wall above her head and to her left as he pressed his body against hers. He tipped his head down and looked into her eyes. “What do you see?”
Anne lifted her hand and touched his cheek. She glided her fingers down to his jaw. “I see a man. A man who makes me feel important and valued. A man I want.”
A soft but guttural sound lodged in his throat. “You can’t know what that means.”
“Can’t I?” She slipped her hand between his collar and his neck and moved it back to his nape. Pulling him toward her, she stood on her toes and touched her lips to his.
What on earth was she doing? This was utter madness. It was one thing to traipse all over East London in a stranger’s company, but to kiss him?
Only, he wasn’t a stranger. She might not know his name, but she knew him—his character, at least.
And now she was kissing him.
He clasped her waist and pulled his lips from hers but didn’t retreat. “Brazen,” he whispered against her mouth. “Beautiful.”
She looked up into his eyes. “Kiss me. Please?”
“I should decline, but fortunately for you, my judgment is questionable.” He slid his hand between her and the wall, flattening his palm against the small of her back. Holding her fast, he pressed against her as his other hand cupped the side of her neck, his thumb stroking along her jaw. “Ready?” At her nod, he added, “Remember, I am not who you think me to be.”
His mouth crushed over hers, his hands pressing into her, capturing her for the onslaught of his lips and tongue. For that’s what it was—a tumult of desire and desperation that echoed her own. She had no idea what he was doing as his tongue slid into her mouth, but she wanted every part of it.
Sensation soared and spiraled, igniting little fires of need throughout her body. But it was the lush beauty of his kiss that captivated her. He tasted of that bitter coffee but there was something else, a masculine flavor and swagger that threatened to sweep her away if the sudden wobbliness of her legs meant anything.
His tongue swept against hers, exploring and teasing, provoking her to respond. She met him with a gentle thrust, and it must have been right because his thumb pressed into her cheek just in front of her ear.
His body was big and solid against her, making her feel both small and secure in his embrace. She never wanted to leave it. Or him.
The kiss gentled, slowing until he pulled back. But he didn’t move away. “That was unwise.”
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “That was heavenly. Please do it again.”
The edges of his mouth curved up. “What am I going to do with you?” he murmured.
“Anything you like.” She trailed her fingertips along the underside of his jaw toward his throat.
“Brazen temptress.” He abruptly let her go and clasped her hand, leading her to a door. Once they were outside in a narrow alleyway, he wound around the row of buildings and back onto Paternoster Row. “Time to return to Hatchard’s.”
Anne sighed. “Pity.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Anne worked to organize her jumbled thoughts—and tamp down the persistent desire she felt toward him. “Would it be bad if we told each other who we are?”
“Yes.” He didn’t pause or even slow. “I meant what I said before—I am not the man you think me to be. If you hope I can court you, know that I cannot. Ever. I should not have kissed you.”
Anne hadn’t realized until that moment that she had been hoping for something. Perhaps not courtship, but if not that, what? Was she hoping he would tup her in the back corridor of a coffee shop? The idea sent a shameful heat blazing through her. “Then what are we doing together?”
“I don’t know.”
They went silent again, and it wasn’t until he steered her toward his parked cabriolet that she finally stopped, tugging on his arm to do the same.
She looked up at him and put her palm against his chest. “I don’t know what we’re doing, but it’s the thing I look forward to the most. I like you.” I love you. Yes, that was what she wanted to say, but wouldn’t. “I like our adventures. I don’t want them to stop.”
He stared past her, his pupils narrowing and the orange in his right eye becoming larger. “I don’t either.” His gaze moved to hers. “But there will come a time when this—us—must.”
Us.
How she loved that tiny word.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to make the most of every moment.” She stood on her toes and brushed her lips against his. “When we get to the cabriolet, I’m going to kiss you again because I can. Prepare yourself.”
He chuckled low in his chest, his eyes glittering. “I’m learning that I’m not sure I can ever adequately prepare myself for you.”
Pleasure flushed through her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it at as such.” He put his hand over hers, which was still against his chest. “Be warned that I plan to kiss you back.”
Anne couldn’t wait.
One week later…
She was late.
More than a half hour.
Rafe Blackwell stood across the street from Hatchard’s, just outside the Burlington Arcade, which had opened only a few days prior. His cabriolet was parked nearby, his tiger in command of the vehicle so they could quickly be on their way to Aldersgate Street.
She was never late.
Had something terrible prevented her from coming? Perhaps she was ill or hurt. The thought sent a shaft of stark panic piercing straight through him. And that scared him. Four years ago, he’d promised himself that he would never, ever open himself up to such heartache again.
Yet here he was, waiting for a slip of a woman who made his heart race in a way he’d never expected. Not after what he’d endured—what he’d found and lost.
After another quarter hour, he accepted that she wasn’t coming. Muttering a curse, he walked into the arcade. London’s elite mingled amongst the expensive shops. He wandered into a jeweler and browsed the display cases, stopping when his gaze fell on a cameo carved from oyster shell. He instantly thought of Mrs. Dazzling, because the woman’s curls rioted about her shoulders. Mrs. Dazzling’s hair didn’t quite do that, but one or more of her blonde locks often went astray, despite her best attempts to keep them tamed beneath her hat.
And of course the oyster shell reminded him of her. Would he ever eat another oyster without thinking of their time together?