of Hathaway’s personal set of rooms, for he went unerringly to one door to the left and cracked it
open to disappear inside.
Alex stood at a vantage point where he could see the top of the staircase rising up from the main
floor, feeling an amused disbelief he was a deliberate intruder in someone else’s house, and had
enlisted Michael’s aid to help him with the infiltration. Friendship however was friendship. He’d
known Michael since Eton, and when it came down to it, no one was more reliable or loyal. He’d
go with him to hell and back, and quite frankly, they had accompanied each other to hell in
Spain.
They’d survived the fires of Hades, but had not come back to England unscathed.
Time passed in silence, and Alex relaxed a little as he made his way down the stairs into the
darkened hallway, only barking his shin once on a piece of furniture that seemed to materialize
out of nowhere. He stifled a very colorful curse and moved on, making a mental note not to take
up burglary as a profession.
The study was redolent of old tobacco and the ghost of a thousand glasses of brandy. Alex moved
slowly, pulling the borrowed set of picklocks again from his pocket, rummaging though the
drawers he could open first, and then setting to work on the two locked ones.
Nothing. No silver case. No blasted key.
Damn.
The first sound of trouble was a low, sharp excited bark. Then he heard a female voice speaking
in modulated tones—audible in the silent house—and alarm flooded through him. The voice
sounded close, but that might be a trick of the acoustics of the town house. At least it hadn’t
sounded like a big dog, he told himself, feeling in a drawer for a false back, before replacing the
contents and quietly sliding it shut.
A servant? Perhaps, but it was unlikely, for it was truly the dead of night, well past midnight with
dawn a few good hours away. As early as most of the staff rose, he doubted one of them would
be up and about unless summoned by their employer.
The voice spoke again, a low murmur, and the lack of a reply probably meant she was talking to
the dog. He eased to the hallway to peer out and saw that at the foot of the stairs a woman was
bent over, scratching the ears of what appeared to be a small bundle of active fur, just a puppy,
hence the lack of alarm over their presence in the house.
She was blond, slender, clad in a fashionable gown of a light color. . . .
Several more hours, his arse. One of Lord Hathaway’s family had returned early.
It was a stroke of luck when she set down her lamp and lifted the squirming bundle of fur in her
arms, and instead of heading upstairs, carried her delighted burden through a door on the opposite
side of the main hall, probably back toward the kitchen.
Alex stole across the room, and went quickly up the stairs to where Michael had disappeared,
trying to be as light-footed as possible. He opened the door a crack and whispered, “Someone just
came home. A young woman, though I couldn’t see her clearly.”
“Damnation.” Michael could move quietly as a cat and he was there instantly. “I’m only half
done. We might need to leave and come back a second time.”
Alex pictured launching himself again across more questionable, stinking yawning crevasses of
London’s rooftop landscape. “I’d rather we finished it now.”
“If Lady Amelia has returned alone, it should be fine,” Michael murmured. “She’s unlikely to
come into her father’s bedroom and I just need a few more minutes. I’d ask you to help me but
you don’t know where I’ve already searched, and the two of us whispering to each other and
moving about is more of a risk. Go out the way we came in. Wait for her to go to bed, and keep
an eye on her. If she looks to leave her room because she might have heard something, you’re
going to have to come up with a distraction. Otherwise, I’ll take my chances going out this way
and meet you on the roof.”
With that, he was gone again and the door closed softly.
Alex uttered a stifled curse. He’d fought battles, crawled through ditches, endured soaking rains
and freezing nights, marched for miles on end with his battalion, but he wasn’t a damned spy. But
a moment of indecision could be disastrous with Miss Patton no doubt heading for her bedroom.
And what if she also woke her maid?
As a soldier, he’d learned to make swift judgments and in this case, he trusted Michael knew
what the hell he was doing and quickly slipped back into the lady’s bedroom and headed for the
balcony. They’d chosen that entry into the house for the discreet venue of the quiet, private
garden, and the assurance no one on the street would see them and possibly recognize them in
this fashionable neighborhood.
No more had Alex managed to close the French doors behind him than the door to the bedroom
opened. He froze, hoping the shadows hid his presence, worried movement might attract the
attention of the young woman who had entered the room. If she raised an alarm, Michael could
be in a bad spot, even if Alex got away. Luckily, she carried the small lamp, which she set on the
polished table by the bed, so he assumed his presence on the balcony would be harder to detect.
It was at that moment he realized how very beautiful she was.
Lord Hathaway’s daughter. Had he met her? No, he hadn’t, but when he thought about it, he’d
heard her name mentioned quite often lately. Now he knew why.
Hair a shimmering gold caught the light as she reached up and loosened the pins, dropping them
one by one by the lamp and letting the cascade of curls tumble down her back. In profile her face
was defined and feminine, with a dainty nose, delicate chin, and though he couldn’t see the color
of her eyes, they were framed by lashes long enough he could see the slight shadows across her
elegant cheekbones as she bent over to lift her skirts, kicked off her slippers, and began to
unfasten her garters. He caught the pale gleam of slender calves and smooth thighs, and the
graceful curve of her bottom.
There was something innately sensual about watching a woman undress, though usually when it
was done in his presence it was as a prelude to one of his favorite pastimes. Slim fingers worked
the fastenings of her gown and in a whisper of silk it slid off her pale shoulders. She stepped free
of the pooled fabric wearing only a thin lacy chemise, all gold and ivory in the flickering
illumination.
As a gentleman, he reminded himself, he should politely look away.
The ball had been more nightmare than entertainment, and Lady Amelia Patton had ducked out as
soon as possible, using her usual—and not deceptive—excuse. She picked up her silk gown,
shook it out, and draped it over a carved chair by the fireplace. When her carriage had dropped
her home, she’d declined to wake her maid, instead enjoying a few rare moments of privacy
before bed. No one would think it amiss, as she had done the same before.
It was a crime, was it not, to kill one’s father?
Not that she really wanted to strangle him in any way but a metaphorical one, but this evening,
when he had thrust her almost literally into the arms of the Earl of Westhope, she had nearly done
the unthinkable and refused to dance with His Lordship in public, thereby humiliating the man
and defying her father in front of all of society.
Instead, she had gritted her teeth and waltzed with the most handsome, rich, incredibly boring
eligible bachelor of the haut ton.
It had encouraged him, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen.
The earl had even had the nerve—or maybe it was just stupidity—to misquote Rabelais when he
brought her a glass of champagne, saying with a flourish as he handed over the flute, “Thirst
comes with eating . . . but the appetite goes away with drinking.”
It had really been all she could do not to correct him since he’d got it completely backward. She
had a sinking feeling that he didn’t mean to be boorish—he just wasn’t very bright. Still, there
was nothing on earth that could have prevented her from asking him in her most proper voice if
that meant he was bringing her champagne because he felt, perhaps, she was too plump. Her
response had so flustered him that he’d excused himself hurriedly—so perhaps the entire evening
hadn’t been a loss after all.
Clad only in her chemise, she went to the balcony doors and opened them, glad of the fresh air,
even if it was a bit cool. Loosening the ribbon on her shift, she let the material drift partway down
her shoulders, her nipples tightening against the chill. The ballroom had been unbearably close
and she’d had some problems breathing, an affliction that had plagued her since childhood. Being
able to fill her lungs felt like heaven and she stood there, letting her eyes close. The light
wheezing had stopped, and the anxiety that came with it had lessened as well, but she was still a
little dizzy. Her father was insistent that she kept this particular flaw a secret. He seemed
convinced no man would wish to marry a female who might now and again become inexplicably
out of breath.
Slowly she inhaled, let it out. Yes, it was passing. . . .
It wasn’t a movement or noise that sent a flicker of unease through her, but a sudden, instinctive
sense of being watched. Then a strong, masculine hand cupped her elbow. “Are you quite all
right?”
Her eyes flew open and she saw a tall figure looming over her. With a gasp she jerked her
chemise back up to cover her partially bared breasts. To her surprise, the shadowy figure spoke
again in a cultured, modulated voice. “I’m sorry to startle you, my lady. I beg a thousand
pardons, but I thought you might faint.”
Amelia stared upward, as taken aback by his polite speech and appearance as she was by finding
a man lurking on her balcony. The stranger had ebony hair, glossy in the inadequate moonlight,
and his face was shadowed into hollows and fine planes, eyes dark as midnight staring down at
her. “I . . . I . . .” she stammered. You should scream, an inner voice suggested, but she was so
paralyzed by alarm and surprise, she wasn’t sure she was capable of it.
“You swayed,” her mysterious visitor pointed out as if that explained everything, a small frown
drawing dark arched brows together. “Are you ill?”
Finally, she found her voice, albeit not at all her regular one, but a high thin whisper. “No, just a
bit dizzy. Sir, what are you doing here?”
“Maybe you should lie down.”
To her utter shock, he lifted her into his arms as easily as if she were a child, and actually carried
her inside to deposit her carefully on the bed.
Perhaps this is a bizarre dream . . .
“What are you doing here? Who are you?” she demanded. It wasn’t very effective since she still
couldn’t manage more than a half mumble, though fright was being replaced rapidly by outraged
curiosity. Even in the insubstantial light she could tell he was well dressed and she caught the
subtle drift of expensive cologne before he straightened. Though he wore no cravat, his dark coat
was fashionably cut, and his fitted breeches and Hessians not something an ordinary footpad
would wear. His face was classically handsome with a nice straight nose and lean jaw, and she’d
never seen eyes so dark.
Was he really that tall or did he just seem so because she was sprawled on the bed and he was
standing?
“I mean you no harm. Do not worry.”
Easy for him to say. For heaven’s sake, he was in her bedroom, no less. “You are trespassing.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, inclining his head.
Was he a thief? He didn’t look like one. Confused, Amelia sat up, feeling very vulnerable lying
there in dishabille with her tumbled hair. “My father keeps very little money in his strongbox
here in the house.”
“A wise man. I follow that same rule myself. If it puts your mind at ease, I do not need his
money.” The stranger’s teeth flashed white in a quick smile.
She knew him, she realized suddenly, the situation taking on an even greater sense of the surreal.
Not a close acquaintance, no. Not one of the many gentlemen she’d danced with since the
beginning of her season, but she’d seen him, nevertheless.
And he certainly had seen her. She was sitting there gawping at him in only her thin lacy chemise
with the bodice held together in her trembling hand. The flush of embarrassment swept upward,
pressed against her chest. “I . . . I’m undressed,” she said, unnecessarily.
“Most delightfully so,” he responded with an unmistakable note of sophisticated amusement in
his soft tone. “But I am not here to ravish you any more than to rob you. Though,” he added with
a truly wicked smile, “perhaps, in the spirit of being an effective burglar I should steal something.
A kiss comes to mind, for at least then I would not leave empty-handed.”
A kiss? Was the man insane?
“You . . . wouldn’t,” she managed to object in disbelief. He still stood by the side of the bed, so
close if she reached out a hand she could touch him.
“I might.” His dark brows lifted a fraction, and his gaze flickered over her inadequately clad body
before returning to her face. He added softly, “I have a weakness for lovely, half-dressed ladies,
I’m afraid.”
And no doubt they had the same weakness for him, for he exuded a flagrant masculinity and
confidence that was even more compelling than his good looks.
Her breath fluttered in her throat and it had nothing to do with her affliction. She might be an
ingénue, but she understood in an instant the power of that devastating, entirely masculine husky
tone. Like a bird stunned by smoke, she didn’t move, even when he leaned down and his long
fingers caught her chin, tipping her face up just a fraction. He lowered his head, brushed his
mouth against hers for a moment, a mere tantalizing touch of his lips. Then instead of kissing her,
his hand slid into her hair and he gently licked the hollow of her throat. Through her dazed
astonishment at his audacity, the feel of his warm lips and the teasing caress caused an odd
sensation in the pit of her stomach.
This was where she should imperiously order him to stop, or at least push him away.
But she didn’t. She’d never been kissed, and though admittedly her girlish fantasies about this
moment in her life hadn’t included a mysterious stranger stealing uninvited into her bedroom, she
was curious.
The trail of his breath made her qui
ver, moving upward along her jaw, the curve of her cheek,
until he finally claimed her mouth, shocking her to her very core as he brushed his tongue against
hers in small sinful strokes.
She trembled, and though it wasn’t a conscious act, somehow one of her hands settled on his
shoulder.
It was intimate.
It was beguiling.
Then it was over.
God help her, to her disappointment, it was over.
He straightened and looked more amused than ever at whatever expression had appeared on her
face. “A virgin kiss. A coup, indeed.”
He obviously knew that had been her first. It wasn’t so surprising, for like most unmarried young
ladies, she was constantly chaperoned. She summoned some affront, though strangely, she really
wasn’t affronted. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“Oh I am, if a somewhat jaded one. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be taking my leave lest your reputation
be tarnished by our meeting, because it would be, believe me. My advice is to keep my presence
here this evening to yourself.”
True to his word, in a moment he was through the balcony doors, climbing up on the balustrade,
bracing himself for balance on the side of the house. Then he caught the edge of the roof, swung
up in one graceful athletic motion, and was gone into the darkness.