Page 150 of Heartbreaker

And Henry could not believe his luck—this beautiful,brilliant, magnificent woman . . . his. Forever. With another kiss, he whispered, “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you.”

Adelaide arched up to him. “I am not sorry you woke me.” Tangling her fingers in his hair, she met his gaze and said, “What were you doing?”

“I was...” He paused, running a fingertip down her cheek. Down her neck. Down her chest to where a fiery red curl circled the tip of one breast. “Noticing you.”

She smiled. “You always notice me.”

“I do,” he agreed, softly, sinking into her velvet gaze. “When you laugh with your friends, in your carriage like a charioteer, as we do battle together...” Because they did do battle together. When they wrote his speeches and stood her ground, though for the moment they were doing slightly more of the first and less of the latter, until the babe came. “And today... as you slept, wrapped in the beauty of the morning. My wife.”

She pulled him close, hesitating just before she kissed him. “My husband.”

Rolling her over, rising up from the caress, Henry stared down at her, so full of her... of his love for her, that he could barely make sense of it—this feeling that he had never expected. This partnership he’d never dreamed of.

“How lucky I am,” he said softly. “To love you so well.”

“How luckyIam,” she replied, her hand coming to his cheek. “To be loved so well.”

Another kiss, long and lingering. She broke it this time, sliding from the bed to the sound of his protest as she pulled on her pristine, white silk dressing gown and crossed the room.

“It’s early, my love. Come back,” he called, even as he leaned back against the pillows and watched her, the light casting golden stripes across her lovely, long body. Teasing him with what was hidden beneath the garment.

Ignoring him, she opened a drawer and retrieved a boxfrom within, turning to bring it to the bed. “Do you not want your gift?”

His eyes lit with delight. “A gift?”

She laughed. “You look like a boy, desperate for a new toy.”

“You are the only toy I require,” he retorted, reaching for her as she neared, pulling her down over his lap and reveling in her little shout before adding, “but I would not like to be considered rude.”

When she set the mahogany box on the bed next to him, he stilled. It was flat—perhaps ten inches long and only two deep, decorated in beautiful filigree. Two letters, gilded among a stunning amount of woodwork: A and H.

“Adelaide and Henry,” he said, running his fingers over the design before realizing what he held. He met her eyes with another smile. “It’s a puzzle.”

She nodded. “Not nearly as complicated as the one that brought us together, but I thought you would—”

He was already working at it, finding buttons and levers and false bottoms and magnets, and within ten minutes he’d slid a hidden drawer from within to discover a familiar blue file, marked in indigo ink with an intricately detailed bell. And there, across the bottom, a clear label that read:Clayborn, Duke of.

His brows rose in recognition. It was a dossier from the Hell’s Belles, one that might have been collected and prepared by the Matchbreaker herself. He slid Adelaide a sly look. “How long have you had this?”

She met his gaze briefly before returning her attention to the folder in his hands. Were her ears turning red?

“Adelaide?”

She spoke to the dossier in his hands. “I compiled it as I returned to... my father. I intended to give it to you that night. To have it delivered to your home, once I had dealt with him. With everything.”

“Oncewedealt with everything, you mean.” After thatnight, Havistock had been tried and convicted of murdering a peer, Danny had been delivered to a surgeon and then to the docks, where he was given the choice to stay in Lambeth and battle Alfie or head to Australia and try a new life. And Alfie—he remained the head of The Bully Boys—a thorn in the side of Adelaide and Henry, but easier to manage now that he was looking for respectability . . . and heirs.

“Once we dealt with everything,” she allowed. “But it never seemed the right time to reveal... what is inside.”

He watched her with a curious gaze. “And today is?”

She smiled. “It is. It feels... appropriate.”

“Fair enough.” With no hesitation, he opened the file, discovering two pieces of paper within. The first he recognized instantly, a small gasp catching in his throat as he lifted his father’s letter to his mother from within, running his fingers over the years-old writing. “How did you—” he started, then stopped. “Alfie Trumbull had this. I gave it to him that night.”

She smiled, a cat with a bowl of cream. “And I picked his pocket.”

His brow furrowed. “When?”

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