Page 68 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
Twisting slightly, she smiled up at him, tentatively, almost shyly. “But you’re more likely to get your money’s worth.”
He cradled her chin, tilted her head a fraction so he could look directly into her eyes. “Not if something—anything at all, even something as small as a splinter—happens to you.”
Then he lowered his mouth to hers, another reason he’d tipped up her chin, so he could reach her lips easily. He’d been terrified and useless standing by that lamppost, when he couldn’t see precisely who was at that door, who wouldn’t open it fully in order to be seen. He’d almost immediately crossed over but had known this courageous woman would have never forgiven him if he’d given the impression he didn’t believe her capable of protecting herself.
He didn’t know if he possessed the words to make her understand how precious she’d become to him, and so he struggled to convey his feelings with another sort of language, one that cavemen had no doubt used before they’d ever learned to utter a word. As gently and carefully as he could, he’d taken her mouth as though it were made of spun glass.
Her sigh, along with her body melting againsthis, had desire flaming unbidden and uncontrollably through him. More roughly than he’d intended, he pulled her onto his lap before reestablishing his dominance over his needs and yearnings. Not that she seemed to have minded his handling of her because her fingers were scraping along his scalp, tangling in his hair, tugging and directing his head to a different angle that allowedherto take the kiss deeper.
She began trembling again, but this time it wasn’t fear. A subtle difference existed between the tremors before and those now. These were born of want and desire; these carried ecstasy over skin to nerve endings. These spoke of advancing, not retreating. These were the sort one experienced when sitting on the edge of the seat, waiting for the final move on the chessboard that would declare a winner—and already knowing who the victor would be.
He stroked his hands down her back to her hips, cradling them, incredibly tempted to turn her so she straddled his thighs, but they would soon be stopping, and it was daylight. They might not have a chance to right themselves before a footman opened the door.
He trailed his mouth over her neck, her throat. “Have dinner with me this evening?”
“I’ve already arranged to dine with my aunt.”
“Maybe I could see you afterward.”
Leaning back slightly, she held his gaze and nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
“What’s your favorite flower?”
A lovely smile spread over her face. “Tulips.”
Chapter 20
Naturally he’d insisted his carriage remain with Daisy after it delivered him to his residence. She’d almost gone in with him then, for a little private time together. But she feared he was very much like opium: addictive.
If she wasn’t careful, she was going to want to be in his company every moment of every day.
But she needed to tend to other matters as part of her investigation. She was grateful he wasn’t going to observe, confirming it was truly his concern about her trek to Whitechapel and her knocking on a stranger’s door that had led to him accompanying her that morning. It warmed her to the core to know he cared enough to want to protect her and understood her well enough to grant her freedom to go about her business without him.
“For someone who hasn’t a client, you seem remarkably at peace,” her aunt said now as they sat across from each other at the dining table. She was well aware that it usually took Daisy a couple of weeks to land another assignment.
“Actually, I have been hired by someone, and he is paying me rather well for my services.”
“Oh, and what are you to do this time? Catch a thief, an errant husband, a stray cat?”
Her aunt provided more support and loyalty than most, but at times even she made light of Daisy’s choice for an occupation. Not out of meanness, but rather a lack of understanding regarding how much it meant to Daisy to do what she did. The idea of working had never entered her aunt’s head and wasn’t something in which she’d have ever considered engaging. “A murderer.”
Aunt Charlotte gasped and pressed a hand to her throat. Then she relaxed and laughed. “You almost had me there, but you’re joshing. You’re referring to a book you’re reading. What is the title?”
“No, I’m serious. A man was killed, and my client is a suspect.”
Her brow furrowed deeply. “What if he is the murderer? He could kill you next.”
“He’s not. I’m certain of it.”
“Is it his carriage in which you arrived?”
“Yes, he’s made it available to me.”
Sipping her wine, her aunt studied her over the rim. Finally, she set down the glass. “Who is he, then, this man who has hired you?”
“I’d rather keep his name confidential.” While she trusted her aunt implicitly, she also knew the news might be too tantalizing to keep to herself, and Daisy didn’t want gossip running rampant that Bishop was being investigated.
She’d managed to catch a couple of Mrs. Mallard’s servants while they were outside taking a few minutes to themselves. They’d never known Mr. Mallard tostrike his wife. They believed her facial injuries were a result of running into a door. Daisy supposed it was possible that servants were unaware of everything that went on inside a residence—a marriage. Especially if those occurrences happened behind closed doors or during the wee hours. “I’m perfectly safe, Auntie. Scotland Yard and I are working together to resolve this situation.”
