Chapter Thirty-Three

That night, Oscar paced the length of his chamber for hours, in a wrestling bout between the man he'd always been and the

man he thought he should be.

A gentleman, he decided, wouldn't plot a path to Honoria's bed. Wouldn't think of skulking down the servants' stairs to the

floor below. Or imagine keeping to the shadows of the winding corridors in case Babette might be returning from a tryst with

Cardew. Or know exactly which creaking floorboards to avoid outside Millicent's chamber. And he certainly wouldn't steal into

Honoria's bedchamber with every intention of pleasuring her in a plethora of wicked ways.

A gentleman would be reprimanding himself for losing control in the first place, for behaving like the randy jackanapes who'd

taken her on an old stone altar out of doors. A gentleman would feel guilty, if not sated. He certainly wouldn't be craving

her like the desert craved rain.

But the man Oscar was could only think about the taste of her, the feel, the scent of her that still lingered on his hands

and might very well be the cause of his death by asphyxiation if he continued to cover his face and breathe her in.

Lowering those hands, he walked to the door, curled a fist around the knob.

He told himself that he was only going to bid her good-night. Press a kiss to her forehead. Perhaps lie next to her for a

moment or two, just to hold her.

But he didn't believe his own lying arse for an instant.

He could already imagine all the machinations. The soft words. The I only want to hold you ploy. Followed by the I just want to make you feel good massage.

Oh, he knew all his own tricks. Bloody scoundrel.

But gentleman or not, Oscar wouldn't be the kind of man who'd use her twice in a single night. She'd been a virgin, after

all, and her tender flesh would need time to heal.

So he released the doorknob, his ring scraping over the brass with a snick.

He looked down at it, wondering, speculating as he crossed the room again and sat on the edge of his bed.

The book. The miniature. The missing letters. And this ring. They were like cards in a deck: the Ace, the King, the Queen,

and the Jack.

He still didn't know what the next card would be. Still didn't know if this was all nothing more than a coincidence. Or if

John Flintridge and Titus Fairfax were one and the same.

Though, surely, his mother would have told him if that were the case. Especially if he was heir to an estate. And Cardew would

have mentioned something as well. He certainly wouldn't have been chasing John Flintridge for the last twenty years if he'd

known the man was dead.

Which led Oscar back to being a mere charlatan, pretending to be the man betrothed to Honoria. The man who had every intention

of continuing this charade for the rest of his life, if he could convince her to have him.

But what did he have to offer her?

All his life he'd been little more than a thief, and he would continue to be just that if he forced her hand. Which was the

reason he hadn't spilled his seed inside her.

After she'd told him about her brother, he understood that she'd avoided romantic entanglements because she was afraid to love, to give her whole heart and risk it breaking. Having a child—his child—needed to be her choice, not his. And he would do his best to ensure it remained that way.

So he wouldn't force her hand. But if he could win her hand by way of her heart... now, that was another matter altogether.

He was fully prepared to use whatever skills he possessed to woo and pleasure her endlessly until her heart simply fell into

his open palm.

And when she was ready, he would—

The lock on his door turned, jolting him.

But he'd been so distracted that he barely had time to plant one foot on the floor before he saw a chamberstick, held by the

nimble fingers of a fine-boned hand, emerge through the opening.

Honoria stepped inside. Wearing nothing but a white cambric nightdress.

He swallowed. Now would be an excellent time to say something chivalrous and remind them both that he had no intention of

taking her a second time in a single night, his conscience told him.

But his throat was dry as dust. In fact, speech altogether was unlikely considering that all the blood from his brain had

just descended south in a great exodus of want and lust.

The door closed with a soft click as she leaned back against it. The light of the candle flame shimmered in her eyes as she

studied him shrewdly. "Since I've found you still dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers, I imagine that you were considering

a visit to my bedchamber. And yet, because you are sitting on your bed, you were likely dissuaded by one of those gentlemanly

impulses that have been a recent affliction with you. Do I have the right of it?"

"Something to that effect."

She padded silently across the room to set her lamp on the mantel, turning in a way that made her garment transparent in the

crackling glow of the fire. The tantalizing silhouettes of her curves were on full display.

His mouth watered. As his cock swelled, pressing against the front fall, he made a quick adjustment to ease the discomfort.

She slid an impish glance over her shoulder, a slow feline grin on her lips. The minx knew precisely what she was doing. "What

about now? Still thinking gentlemanly thoughts?"

"I..." He swallowed again, the pulse thick on the side of his throat as his heart sent another glut of blood south. "It

would be better for both of us if you went back."

"Hmm... perhaps. But there's only one problem with that plan. You see"—she paused to prowl closer, then stopped at the

foot of the bed as she toyed with the little white ribbon at her throat—"I'm not finished with you, Mr. Flint."

She gave the ribbon a tug and, with a sinuous shrug, the garment slipped off her shoulders, slid down her body and pooled

at her feet.

He cursed under his breath. It was unfair. No woman should be that exquisite. There ought to be a law against it.

"For four days you kept me in a pillowed prison," she said, stepping out of the fallen garment, prowling toward him. Then

she paused between his spread knees, her rosy tipped breasts enticingly close to his mouth as she stroked a hand under his

chin, lifting his face. "I think it's only fair that I return the favor. I am your gaoler now."

A breath left him as she bent down to kiss him. But, taking him off guard, she shoved at his shoulders so that he flopped

back onto the mattress instead.

Even before her laugh of triumph... Even before she straddled him and her hair fell in a curtain around him... Even

before she pressed her smiling mouth to his, he knew that he had been imprisoned by her since the very beginning. And, quite

possibly, had loved her since then as well.

"Aye. You are mine." As he slid a hand to her nape to welcome her soft plundering, he vowed to make it true.

Her fingers skimmed down his throat to the open collar of his shirt, over his shoulders and chest, every touch a caress that drew sensation to the surface and heightened the desire already thumping, hard and heavy, inside of him.

So he slid his hands down the silken sleek skin of her back to the firm globes of her buttocks and urged her hips down as

his own lifted, arched, pressed. A shudder moved through both of them.

She raked her teeth over his bottom lip, then shook her head. "As tantalizing as it is to feel the friction of your clothes

against my skin, I would much rather feel you. All of you, for I have some plans of my own."

Obliging her efforts to tug the shirt from his trousers, he lifted it off the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor.

"And just what do you aim to do to me?"

"Wicked things." She grinned down at him as she took hold of his wrists and set his arms over his head. "Now, keep these here

while I see to the rest."

She took her time, humming with approval as her hands assessed every muscle along his arms and shoulders before splaying over

his chest. When she brushed her thumbs over the flat discs of his nipples, the flesh gathered to small peaks.

Emboldened by this response, she bent to kiss him there, circling him with her tongue before flicking the center, her eyes

studying the way his lips parted on a breath, searching for his tell. But there was no need. He couldn't hide anything from

her if he'd wanted to.

Exploring the dark furring over his chest, she observed that it formed a T of sorts with an enticing trail down the center

of his abdomen. His breath caught, the ridges of his muscles rippling, as she ran a solitary fingertip down that trail, all

the way to where it disappeared at the waist of his trousers.

"You are being an exceptional prisoner," she mused as she outlined the shape of him. "But what, do you suppose, should I do

about this?"

With plenty of ideas of his own, he began to lift his arms to surround her.

"Uh, uh, uh," she said, clucking her tongue as she set his arms back against the coverlet once more. "Not yet."

But her actions put her breast in proximity far too tempting for him to resist. So he didn't. And when he took the tender,

ruched flesh into his mouth and suckled her, she arched her back on a gasp and let him feast. After a moment, she fed him

the other.

Then she kissed him again, her hands still locked on his wrists, her luscious curves fitting the hard planes of his body like

wax melting in the sun. And when the heat of her sex pressed against the engorged flesh restrained behind the front fall,

a deep groan of yearning vibrated in his throat.

She made her way down his body. Worked the fastenings free. Explored him at length as she looked up at him through her lashes.

But there was still something innocent in the way she regarded him. The flush of heat on her cheeks was not only from her

desire but from shyness.

But the woman he knew, the woman who'd dared to come into his chamber, who'd dared to dress like a man or a servant to live

a life of her choosing, the woman who had every intention of being in control, likely didn't want to admit that she was uncertain

and didn't know how to proceed.

"As your prisoner, I would beg you to wrap your hand around the base... yes, like that... and a long, smooth stroke...

aye, that's the way," he gritted, eyes screwing shut from exquisite pleasure. "And if you would but take me into your—"

He broke off, his back bowing as he felt the wet heat of her tongue, her mouth closing around the head of his cock. A shower

of sparks traveled down his spine, gathering in a tight coil deep inside him, wanting release.

"Mmm... You taste like salt," she murmured as her pink tongue flicked the glossy dew at the tip.

Sweat beaded on his brow, his fists gripping the coverlet as her innocent ministrations continued. Hers was a simple exploration, but she was wholly absorbed in her task, trailing kisses down his shaft, gliding her tongue all the way up his length before taking him into her mouth again. And he was dying from pleasure, his throat constricting on choked sounds he couldn't contain.

In response, she moaned against his flesh, suckling him and swirling her tongue in a way that nearly sent him over the edge.

Unable to withstand any more without embarrassing himself, he drew her up and sealed his mouth to hers. As his hand delved

between their bodies, he found that she was already wet and swollen from wanting.

He laid her flat on her back. With her arms above her head, he threaded their hands together. Then he entered her, the passage

warm and slick but still impossibly tight.

Mindless from the pleasure of it, he thrust deep, filling her until he was buried to the hilt. Then he cursed himself for

being too rough and held still, whispering endearments and contrition against her lips. "I'm a brute."

"No. This is better," she panted. "I felt too empty... aching for you."

The words were like oil on a hearth fire, adding flames to an already potent desire, but also kindling a new hope within him.

They could have a life like this, he thought. All he had to do was convince her, wear her down if he must.

So when their mouths met again, tongues twining, Oscar matched the slow, sinuous rhythm to the mating of their bodies. He

took her, thrusting in and in, showing her how good it could be—would be—between them.

"Then, wrap your legs around me and take more. Take all of me," he murmured, low in her ear and felt her heart quicken under

his.

Tentatively, she vined her legs around his waist and gasped, neck arching as the position drew him deeper still. He felt the change in her, the grip and pull of her body as he drove in, drove her to the first rise, then slowed again, drawing back on a mewl of protest.

He plundered her mouth and took her to another rise, higher, closer. Then slowed again, feeling her body tremble with unleashed

desire.

He was shaking, too, restraint balanced on a knife's edge. But when he began another climb, another rise to the summit, her

hips tilted, lifting to meet thrust after thrust. A garbled plea fell from the lips she coasted over his jaw, seeking his

mouth with hers.

He felt it coming over her, ready to break apart. "Look at me."

And as their eyes met, her body arched and shattered on a hoarse cry.

Her pleasure went on and on, rippling around him in a torrent of spasms, nearly taking him over the edge. But he held on through

the last tremor before he wrenched himself out of her body and spilled in volcanic rivulets, before collapsing to the side

and pulling her, breathless, against him.

Within minutes, Miss I'm Not Finished with You was fast asleep. And he soon discovered that she burned as hot as a blacksmith's forge as she slept, her body draped half

over his own and her head nestled on his chest. But he didn't mind. After all, she'd scorched the inside of him the night

they'd met; why not let her brand the outside, as well?

Smiling from sheer contentment—whether he deserved it or not—he pressed his lips to the wild disarray of her flaxen hair and

breathed in her baked-in-sunlight scent. She shifted, curling around him, her hand drifting to cover his heart as she let

out a sleepy sigh.

"Nee too mah mimms , " she murmured incoherently, but he understood it as her need for two more minutes of sleep.

He chuckled softly to himself. Tracing the outer edges of her fingers, over the neatly manicured tips, he remembered something

his mother had once said. Love is a flame in the palm of your hand. It can warm or blister. But if you snuff it out, it could be gone forever. So you keep the flame alight no matter how much it burns.

Hers, he knew, had been a one-sided love with his father. He had been remote and distant to her in ways that he'd never been

to Oscar. In ways that he'd never understood. And when his father had left them both, the pain he'd caused had turned those

short happy memories into bitter ones.

Yet, even through all the suffering that followed, she had still loved John Flintridge until her last breath.

Oscar had never comprehended her utterly foolish devotion to a man he'd come to hate. But if what she'd felt for his father

was even half of what he felt for Honoria, then he might have an inkling, after all.

He only hoped that his wasn't one-sided.

Not long after, she stirred awake on a sound that was part hum, part snort. And when she lifted her head and shoved back a

fall of disheveled hair from her blinking eyes, he saw a glistening drop of drool at the corner of her mouth.

Without putting on any airs, she swiped at it with the back of her hand. "How long was I sleeping?"

"A full day. Everyone in the abbey knows, and we'll have to marry. It's an anvil wedding for us, I'm afraid," he said with

a put-upon sigh as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She rolled her eyes. "Think you're amusing, do you?"

"I have my moments." He kept his response nonchalant with a lift of his shoulders. But in his mind, he noted that her usual

alarm—that look of a rabbit flushed from a warren—was absent from her face.

Did he dare hope that she might be leaning toward the idea of a life with him?

"This isn't one of them," she said flatly and glanced to the mantel clock herself, missing the way he shook his head in answer to his own question. "I should leave soon. Return to my own bed. The problem is, you've turned my limbs to jelly. And you're terribly comfortable."

"I should be flogged for these crimes."

"At the very least," she said, turning back to grin at him through her lashes.

As she remained draped over him, he stroked lightly down her back and wanted a life like this so badly he could taste it.

Not stolen moments. He was tired of being a thief. He wanted a whole life, where he belonged to her and she to him.

Yet, for now, he would take whatever she willingly gave. And told himself that he still had time to woo her.

Lifting his other hand, she studied the jagged scar between his thumb and wrist.

"First attempt at pickpocketing," he answered to her silent query. "I was so frightened of being caught that I didn't pay

attention to where I was going. Which, as it happened, was directly into the path of a better pickpocket who snatched the

satchel from me with such force it nearly wrenched my arm clean off. But I held on as long as I could. The pain served as

an excellent motivator to hone my craft."

She pressed her lips there as if to heal it, even after all these years. "And were you good after that?"

"Aye. But I always felt guilty, taking what didn't belong to me. So I chose my marks with care, stealing only from the wealthy

nodcocks who flaunted their status while demeaning those around them," he said distractedly as she shifted over him, trailing

kisses along his chest. "But I was grateful when I learned how to gamble. Because then, at least, men knew that they might

lose. It seemed... fair, in a way."

"As long as they didn't see the way you counted cards, you mean?"

A wry smile tugged at his mouth. "Little good it did me in Paris."

She hummed, pleased with herself. Her lips coasted over his shoulder and to the side of his throat, lingering tenderly at the silvered edge of a crescent-shaped scar. The memory of the cut felt distant, as if her kiss were a healing balm.

He realized that was what she was doing: healing him by accepting all that he was. Every part of him, from beggar to pickpocket

to gambler to charlatan to... whatever he was now. And if he didn't love her already, he would have fallen for her all

over again.

"I heard about Mr. Price," she said as he wrapped his arms around her. "It was nice of you to intervene on behalf of the widows."

"I had little choice in the matter. He'd been stealing from them for years," he said, carefully avoiding taking any credit

as he hadn't had any noble intentions when he'd nearly strangled the man.

"But you did have a choice, and you chose to help them. The Oscar Flint I used to know might have caught Price in his scheme

and chosen to blackmail him. You could have turned a tidy profit, I imagine. But instead, you chose to expose him and help

the dowager and the widows. That's something family does for each other."

He issued a noncommittal grunt.

"That being said, one could easily see the correlation of how assisting someone who'd never turn to you, either for reasons

of pride or sheer stubbornness, is actually better for everyone involved."

His scalp prickled with a sense of warning.

He knew Honoria too well to imagine she was still talking about Mr. Price. He felt the light brush of her fingertip along

the horizontal pink scar beneath his Adam's apple. And then it struck him.

Oscar stiffened. "No. Absolutely not."

"You haven't even heard my plan."

"Whatever it is, put it out of your mind. I'm not having anyone else deal with Ladrón. He is my problem."

"Because of me. If it weren't for that night in Paris—"

He silenced her by pressing his mouth to hers. "Stop. It is not your fault."

"That isn't what you said in the beginning."

"As much as I wanted to blame you, the truth was you and your nimble fingers distracted me. You ended up with the better hand.

Besides, if we were to go back to that very moment, you and I both know that nothing would be different. You would still have

wanted to best me, and I would still be wondering what was behind your mustachios."

"You're wrong. If I could go back, I might have..." She frowned, although pouted was more accurate.

He knew that self-blame was one of the ways she kept herself safe and hidden. But it irritated him and made him want to bash

down all those walls.

"Still trying to rewrite history, I see."

"No. I'm just—"

He kissed her again, rolling on top of her. "We are writing a new page. And I, for one, would much rather be here in bed with

you than tussling in the Count du Maurice's garden."

"If you don't stop kissing me to distraction when I have a point to make, we're going to have that tussle regardless," she

groused, narrowing her eyes even as her body softened beneath him.

His flesh responded. As much as he knew he would enjoy her delivering on that threat, he decided that now was not the time

to test the theory. They had made love twice, and any additional bedsport would likely lead to... well... more bedsport.

After all, there might have been an inch of her that he hadn't yet tasted. Unlikely, but possible.

Instead of embarking on another pleasure quest, he rolled to his back, tucking her against him, and drew the coverlet over

her. "Very well. What is the point you'd like to make?"

She issued a mollified sigh, then rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers absently drawing patterns in the thicket of chest hair above his heart. "Perhaps you don't have to run."

"Forgive me, but aren't you the same woman who risked her own neck to dash over here and tell me to do just that?"

"That was in the past. As you just pointed out, there's nothing we can do about the fact that you were being an utter clodpole,"

she said, and her shapely behind earned a playful swat. "All we can do is hope you've come to your senses and see that there's

no need to handle this on your own. You have people who care about you. People who would intervene on your behalf."

"Why, Miss Hartley, are you actually asking me to stay?"

She scoffed but ruined the dismissive denial by pressing her lips to his skin. Perhaps he'd made more progress than he knew.

"I'm only saying that if you let someone help you, then you wouldn't need to rush off. Not straightaway. After all, it must

be exhausting, running all your life. Never having a home. But you could, perhaps, have a home here. The real Vandemere isn't

knocking on the door at the moment. And perhaps"—she paused, drawing another filigree over his heart—"you and I could write

more pages like this one."

Oscar knew that look. No matter how soft her words, the determination in her eyes and in the set of her jaw were clear enough

to him. She was still thinking about Ladrón.

He needed to get her mind off this topic and away from danger. So he slipped the ring off his finger.

As predicted, she went still as a statue, her eyes round as saucers. He felt the hammering of her heart against his rib cage

and wondered if he'd gone too far in his method of distraction.

But there was no backing down now. Even so, he was careful with his words so she wouldn't bolt for the door.

"I'd like to ask a favor of you." He heard her swallow as he turned the ring, the stones glinting in the glow of firelight. "Someone has been in my rooms recently. I'm not certain who or what they were after, but I think it might have been this. Since it was entrusted to me, I don't want anything to happen to it. I'm wondering if you would take it, keep it with you."

"I... I'll be going home tomorrow." She cast a nervous glance to the mantel clock. "Or rather, later this day."

He nodded. "All the better, then."

She was quiet for a moment, her expression inscrutable.

Then, without a word, she sat up and reached across him to the night table for her locket. She opened the chain's clasp, gesturing

for him to slide the ring onto the chain. When that was done, she refastened the necklace and slipped it over her head.

At the moment, it likely weighed heavily on her, where it rested over her heart with the lock of her brother's hair tucked

inside the locket. But it would serve its purpose.

If she were to make a plan, then let it be for a life with him.