Wicked and the Wallflower

Chapter Twenty-Three

For the rest of her life, Felicity would remember his warmth. His warmth, and the way he slid a hand into her hair when she kissed him. His warmth, and the way he scattered her hairpins across the roof and pulled her into his lap to afford them both better access to each other and to the caress.

She slid her hands inside his open coat, loving the dark, luxurious heat she found there, the breadth of his chest, the rise and curve of the muscles of his sides and back, the way he allowed her access to him, a low growl of pleasure rolling through him, vibrating against her as he opened his delicious lips and reseated them on her own.

His kiss was slow and deep, as though they had the rest of time to explore. And it seemed, in that long, drugging caress, as though they did—as though that rooftop in Covent Garden, under the moon and stars, was for them alone, as private and perfect as the kiss itself. When he released her lips, she opened her eyes and found his, watching her, seeing her pleasure, taking his own in it. And then, he said, “You never had to be taught to be the flame, Felicity.”

And she reached up to pull him down to her again.

“It was always in you,” he whispered against her lips, and she sighed her pleasure, letting him capture the sound for a long moment before he added, “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known, and if I have only this moment—this present—with you, then I wish to make you burn until you’ve made the stars jealous of your heat.”

The words were fire through her, fast and furious, making her head light and her breath shallow as he brushed his lips across her cheek, leaning down to her ear. “Would you do that? Would you burn for me? Tonight?”

“Yes,” she replied, a shiver of pleasure sighing through her as he worried the lobe of her ear. “Yes, please.”

“So polite,” he said, low and delicious. “Shall we go inside? I have barely slept in my bed for the memory of you upon it.”

She pulled back and met his eyes, unable to keep surprise and delight from her tone. “Really?”

He gave her a little smile. “Really. Your hands on my counterpane, your pretty pink slippers dangling from your toes. I imagine—”

“Tell me,” she said when he stopped himself.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Please.”

He leaned in with a little groan, stealing a kiss. A lingering lick. “I cannot deny you.”

“You deny me all the time.”

He shook his head. “Not this. Never this, love.” He kissed her again, slow and perfect, and then he put his forehead to hers and said, “I imagine coming to my knees there, at your feet, removing those slippers and exploring my way up your body.” His hand traced the line of her leg beneath her skirts. “I am tired of imagining what is under these pink gowns, my lady. And when I lie in bed and chase sleep, I imagine stripping you of your clothes and basking in you, soft and curved and silk and perfection.”

She let out a long, trembling breath. “I want that.”

“I shall give it to you, my wicked flame. I shall give you whatever you wish.”

He stood, reaching down to her, pulling her up to standing, above him on the roof, just high enough that their lips were even. He kissed her again, then whispered, “I shall always give you whatever you wish.”

It was a lie, of course, and she knew it.

Tell me something true.

He lifted her in his arms to give her what he promised, but she set a hand to his chest. “Wait.”

A gust of wind swirled around them as Devil stilled, whipping his coat behind him and wrapping them both in her skirts. He stilled, unmoving, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all, his eyes on hers as he waited for her to continue. “Anything.”

“I don’t want to go inside.”

He closed his eyes at the words, his grasp tightening around her for a heartbeat before he nodded and said, softly, “I understand. Let’s get you home, my lady.”

Felicity’s heart skipped a beat as he moved to set her down. “No,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to go inside . . .” She ran her fingers over his tightly shorn hair, loving the way it feathered over her skin. “Because I want to stay here.” Her fingers toyed at his ear, and she loved the way he dipped his head toward her touch, as though he couldn’t resist her. Lord knew she could not resist him. “In your world,” she whispered. “In the darkness. Beneath the stars.”

He remained still for another moment, the muscle in his cheek the only evidence that he’d heard her. And then he climbed down from the peak, not releasing her until they reached the flat roof below. He set her down and stepped back, shucking his coat and swirling it away, spreading it wide at his feet.

Once that was done, he extended a long, strong arm to her, palm up. An irresistible invitation.

She moved instantly, coming down the tiled roof into his waiting arms, and the next time he lifted her, it was to lie her down on the soft wool of his coat, which enveloped her with his warmth and his scent before he lowered himself down atop her, set his lips to hers, and began to slowly strip her of her sanity. And her clothes.

“That first night, on the balcony at the Marwick ball . . .” He stripped her of her pelisse. “It was too dark to see the color of your gown . . .” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at her jaw. “And I imagined you were cloaked in moonlight.”

Her hands were stroking over his head. “You make me feel like that’s possible.”

“Anything is possible,” he promised, stealing her lips again.

Between long, languid kisses, he untied the ribbons at the front of her bodice, separating fabric to reveal her corset, her breasts rising above it. He released her lips, his tongue tracing the cords of her neck to nip at her shoulder. She gasped her surprise and pleasure to the stars.

“You like that?” he said softly to her skin.

“Yes,” she said, her fingers curling at the back of his head, holding him there.

And then he’d worked magic at her corset, and her breasts spilled into the night, the cool air rushing across her imprisoned skin. Another gasp, this one drawing a little laugh against her shoulder as he moved, stroking and circling the straining tips before he lifted his head, his searing gaze finding hers for an instant before flickering lower. His lips softened as he took her in, and she arched toward him, asking for more of his attention. More of his touch.

More of him.

He gave it, lowering his head, circling one peaked nipple before his lips closed around it and he sucked gently, working the hardened tip until she cried out, her fingers flexing against the perfection of his head, holding him there, as though she might never let him go.

She might not have let him go, not if he hadn’t growled through his long, rhythmic sucks. Not if he hadn’t slid his hand higher beneath her skirts. Not if she hadn’t lifted her hips to meet his touch, rocking against him. Not if the movement hadn’t shaken him from his task, caused him to release her from his kiss, panting wildly. “Christ, Felicity. You taste like sin.” His hips rocked against her, and an ache pooled in her core—an ache made worse and better by his nearness.

“Devon.” She sighed. “I need . . .”

“I know, love.” He lifted his weight from her and made quick work of her dress and his waistcoat before returning to her, his hands sliding over her bare skin. “Are you cold?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The idea of being cold with him—“No,” she said. “I’m burning.”

His lips found hers again. “God knows that’s true.”

She caught his hand in hers, sliding her fingers over his, pulling away when she found the cool metal there. Running a thumb gently over each of the cool silver bands, she said, “Where did these come from?”

He followed her gaze down, surprise on his face, as though he hadn’t thought about the rings in years. He smiled. “There was a man in the Garden, used to make them. No one had the money for gold—but silver, a man could buy that. All the fighters wore these rings . . . a show of their might. Of their success in the ring.” He pointed to the one on his thumb. “That one is from the first time I broke a nose.” To the second on his ring finger. “That one is from the first time I knocked a bloke out.” And he pointed to the third, on his forefinger. “That one is from the last bout I ever fought because I had to.”

He flexed his hand once, twice, curling his fingers into a heavy fist. “I don’t even think about them any longer.”

She lifted her hand to her lips, pressing a kiss on each of the silver rings. “Proof of your mettle.”

He growled, pulling her to him for a proper kiss then, and she took the opportunity to trace her own hands over his shirt, tugging it from the waistband of his trousers, itching for him. She slid her hands beneath the hem, finding his warm, smooth skin, desperate to be closer to him. Immediately. “Devil.”

“I know,” he repeated. And he did. He knew her body better than she could dream. He knew the places that ached for his touch, the skin that wanted his kiss. His fingers plucked at the hard tip of one breast as he licked at her neck, once, twice, sending thick arcs of pleasure through her.

She cried into the night, frustrated and eager and desperate for him.

He stilled at the noise, and she opened her eyes. He watched her, something magnificent in his beautiful amber gaze. “The roof was an excellent choice.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

He leaned down and sucked the tip of her breast into his mouth, hot and warm and wonderful. And when she was crying her pleasure, he released her, pressing his forehead to hers as he replied, “Because when you scream your pleasure to the night, you can be as loud as you like.”

She flushed at the words. “I shan’t scream.”

He lowered his hips to hers, notching his hard length against the softest part of her. “Perhaps not. Perhaps you’ll laugh.”

The flush turned to flame. “I didn’t mean to laugh . . .”

Devil shook his head. “Don’t you dare apologize for that, love. I will die with the sound of that laughter in my ears. The pure pleasure of it. It was glorious.” He kissed her again. “All I want to do is summon it again.”

She closed her eyes at that, embarrassment and desire warring in her.

Desire won out. “I want you to summon it again.” She lifted her hips again, enjoying the hissing curse that came from him at the movement. If it was possible, the hard length of him grew harder. Longer. “But you are wearing legions more clothes than I would like.”

He growled his pleasure at that, rolling off her and coming to his feet to remove his shirt, following it with boots and trousers. The movements lacked any artifice, as though he was immensely comfortable with his body—and how could he not be? He was perfection. She could spend hours watching him.

When he stood once more, nude, and turned to return to her, she held out a hand. “Wait.”

He stilled, his gaze hungry and hot. “What is it?”

She sat up, pulling his coat around her. “I want to look.”

The words changed him. He dipped his head, running a hand over his tightly shorn hair, the movement at once deeply endearing and a striking display of the perfection of his arms and shoulders. Felicity’s mouth went dry as his hand wrapped around his neck and slid over his chest, rubbing back and forth before dropping to his side. “Look your fill, then, my lady.”

She waved a hand lazily in the air, like a queen, indicating that he should turn, and like a miracle, he did. A smirk on his lips as he returned to his original position. “Have you decided what to do with me?”

The memory of the first night, in her bedchamber, teased over her. I’ve never quite understood what one does with exceedingly perfect men.

She met his eyes. “I’m still not sure what one does, but I find I’m willing to brazen it through.”

He raised a brow. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

Dear God. He was splendid—the play of moonlight over his skin, the dusting of hair over his chest. The sculpture of his muscles, ridges at his hips, the delicious curve of his backside, the heavy cords of his thighs. And between them, the straining length of him, hard and beautiful and throbbing. “When I saw you in your bath . . . below . . .” she began, unable to tear her gaze from the hard length of him. “I wanted to look at you . . . It was all I could do not to come to the edge of your bath and see . . .”

“Fuck, Felicity.” He groaned.

Her gaze flew to his face at the groaning curse. “What?”

He looked to the sky, letting out a long, beautiful breath. “Forgive me,” he said, so softly that it occurred to her that he might not wish her to hear it. And then he looked back to her. “You licked your lips, love.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “I did?”

He grinned, his white teeth flashing, and her first look at his wicked smile was enough to steal her breath. “Don’t you dare be ashamed of it. I just—Christ—I just want this to be perfect for you, and when you look at me like that—like you want it . . .” He trailed off as her gaze lowered again, to the straining length of him, and then—dear God—his hand moved, and he was taking himself in hand, caressing that magnificent length, and her mouth was watering and there was only so much a woman in her position could manage.

She stared at his hand, at his slow, languid movements, and swallowed. He was so perfect. “I do want it.”

The sound he made—low and dark—sent desire coursing through her, pooling deep in places she had only just discovered. And when he moved, coming toward her, her heart began to pound. “I’m going to make you say that a thousand times before we are through,” he growled, coming to his knees beside her, reaching for the coat she’d wrapped around her nudity.

She clutched it tighter.

He tilted his head. “Felicity?”

Her gaze flickered over him again, taking in his raw beauty. “I’m—” She stopped.

Devil waited with infinite patience.

She tried again. “I’m—not like you.”

He sat back on his heels, as though he were entirely comfortable. As though he could live his whole life without clothing and never think twice. His gaze softened. “I know that, love. That’s a large part of why I’d like to remove this coat.”

“I mean—” She swallowed. “I’ve never been nude before. With a man.”

He offered her a little smile, crooked and gorgeous. “I know that, too.”

“I’m not—I don’t—”

He let go of the fabric. Waited.

“You are perfect,” she said. “But I—I am all flaws.”

He watched her for a long time. An eternity. Seconds stretched between them like miles. And then, just when she thought it was all over, he said, quiet and certain, “Here is something true, Felicity Faircloth, wallflower, lockpick, and wonder; there isn’t a single thing about you that is flawed.”

She blushed. And somehow, for a fleeting moment, she believed him.

“Please, love. Let me show you.”

As though such an offer could be denied. She dropped the coat. Revealed herself.

He studied her like she was a master’s painting, eventually coming to her side and bringing her down so that they lay together, hands and mouths exploring, his hands on her skin, her fingers raking through the dark hair on his chest. His lips seeking out the dimples in her round belly as her legs parted in a slow slide along his straining length.

“Tell me again,” he whispered to her stomach, one hand sliding along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

She understood instantly. “I want you.” She explored the curves of his muscles, the hills and valleys of his body.

He rewarded the words with another kiss. A suck. A lick. A slide.

And all the time, his hands moved closer to his goal.

Hers, too.

“Where do you want me?”

She squirmed against him, embarrassed by the question, and he nipped at her skin again, a little sting, enough to make her gasp and want him even more. How did he know that? That a delicate bite could seduce as well as a kiss? Before she could ask, he parted the folds beneath her thighs and said, low and delicious, “Here?”

Another gasp. “Yes.”

He stroked against her pulsing flesh, soft, then firm, swirling and stroking. “Tell me again. I’ll give you everything you want—all you have to do is ask for it.”

“I want it,” she panted. She rocked against him, aching for more of his touch. “Please. I want—”

His thumb worked a tight circle, setting her ablaze. “Shall I give you the words, love?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want every word. All the wicked ones.”

He exhaled on another curse. “You are going to destroy me, Felicity Faircloth.”

“Not before you give me the words.” She sighed, loving that he was as moved as she was.

“You want to come,” he said. “You want me to make you come.”

Another press, another stroke. And another, and another. “Yes.”

“You want my fingers here.” He moved, and she cried out as he began to fill her, magnificently, her hands coming to his head, pushing him lower and lower. He growled again. “And wicked girl, you want my mouth, too.”

“Yes,” she said again. “Yes, I want it.”

He gave it to her, setting his tongue to her soft heat, savoring the taste of her as his fingers continued their movement, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes, his free hand lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her to him. She could not stop herself from pressing her hips to him, and did not wish to—crying out that single word again and again, her only purchase her hands in his hair, holding him to her until she found her orgasm, shouting his name to all the world as he worked her with hands and mouth and tongue until all she knew was pleasure.

As she came down from her pleasure, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling as she pulsed against him, she pulled him up to her, his name hoarse on her lips, eager for more.

Eager for all of it.

He followed her touch, climbing over her, stealing her lips in a long, sweet kiss that stoked fire once more before she pulled back and set her hands to his torso, sliding them down over the ridges and planes of his body to find the part of him that had transfixed her.

When her fingers touched his straining length, he jerked his hips away from her. “Wait, love.”

She opened her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, let me touch you.”

He growled and kissed her again. “I don’t think I can have that, sweet,” he said at her lips. “I don’t think I can bear it. I don’t want it to be over.”

She stilled. It couldn’t be over. She wanted the rest.

She wanted all of it.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement that would tie them together.

She nodded, refusing to relinquish his gaze, and smiled.

His eyes flickered to her lips, then back again. “That’s a wicked smile, my lady.”

“I am your lady,” she said softly, her hand moving slightly, just enough to encircle him. To tentatively explore.

He hissed his pleasure. “Yes. Fuck. Yes.” And then he reached for that roaming hand and returned it to his chest, a safer place.

“Someday,” she said, “you’ll let me touch you.”

He looked away, then back. The movement was barely there. Less than a second. Less than that. And still, it was enough. Felicity knew the truth. There would be no someday. No tomorrow, no next week, no next year. There wouldn’t be another night here, on the roof of his offices, or in his rooms, or in the ice hold at his warehouse. Tonight was it. She’d played her game, and tonight was it.

Tonight was all they’d have.

And tomorrow, he would be gone.

She lifted her hips to him again, loving the way his length stroked through her wet folds, slick and smooth and hot as the sun. Her cry of pleasure was met with his low groan, until he pulled away, lowering himself once again. “You wish to come again, love?”

Where was he going?

“Wait,” she said.

His lips, again on her torso. Felicity tried to sit up. “Wait, Devon.”

He rubbed the rough shadow of his beard over her skin. “I shall take care of you. Lie back. I intend to taste your pleasure a dozen times tonight. A hundred.”

But not the way she wished. Not with his whole self.

“Wait,” she repeated, this time lifting her knee, pressing it against him. Pushing him away as she scrambled to sit up. “No.”

He stopped instantly at the word, reeling back, his warm hand on her thigh. “What is it?”

“I don’t want that.”

His thumb stroked at the warm, soft skin of her thigh, and her breath caught in her chest, followed by a flood of warmth when he said, low and dark, “You don’t?”

Of course she did. My God, the man was magnificent. “I mean, I don’t want it alone. I want it with you. I want us . . .” She hesitated. And then, into the breach. “Together.”

He released her, instantly. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because if I touch you like—” He stopped and looked away, to the buildings in the distance, dark against the starry sky. And then back to her. “Felicity . . . if I fuck you . . . you’re ruined.”

The coarse language was meant to scare her. It only made her want him more. “You told me you would give me what I want. I want that. I want tonight. With you. All of it. All of you.”

“Not that. I shall give you everything but that.” He looked hunted.

“Why?”

“Felicity.” He began to rise. “I am not for you.”

She came up on her knees, following him. “Why not?”

“Because I was born in God knows where, and was reborn here, in the Covent Garden filth. I am soiled beyond repair. And I am so far beneath you that I have to strain to look at you.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, reaching for him, not knowing what else to do. He pulled away. “You’re wrong.”

“I assure you—I am not. The things I have done . . .” He paused, running a hand over his head. “The things I will do . . .” He backed away from her. “No, Felicity. We are through. Get dressed, and I will bring you home.”

“Devil,” she said, knowing that if she left that rooftop, she’d lose him forever. “Please. I want you. I . . .” Another hesitation. And then, the only words she could find. “I love you.”

His eyes went wide, and the hand at his side moved. Reaching for her? Please, let it be reaching for her. “Felicity . . .” Her name was ragged on his lips. “No . . .”

She resisted the tears that threatened. Of course he did not love her back. He was not the kind of man who would love her. And still, she could not stop herself from adding, “You are all I wish for. You. This. Whatever is to come.”

He shook his head. “You think London will have you back if you tie yourself to me? You think you’ll resume your place in Mayfair ballrooms? Have tea with the queen or whatever it is you people do?”

“I don’t want to have tea with the queen, you idiot man,” she replied, letting her frustration take hold. “I am tired of having my life chosen for me. My family decides where I go, what I do, whom I should marry. The aristocracy tells me where I belong in a ballroom, what I can hope for as a woman, where the limitations are for my desires.

“Don’t ask too much, they caution. You are too old, too plain, too strange, too imperfect. I shouldn’t want more than what I should be grateful to receive—the scraps of the rest of the world.”

He reached for her then, but she was busy with her rage. “I am not too old.”

He shook his head. “You are not.”

“I am not too plain.”

“You are nothing close to plain.”

“And we are all imperfect.”

“Not you.”

Then why won’t you have me?

She hugged her knees to her chest and confessed her sin. “I don’t want to save them.”

“Your family.”

She nodded. “I am their last hope. And I should want to sacrifice everything for them. For their future. But I don’t. I resent it.”

“You should resent it,” he said.

“They care nothing about me,” she whispered to her knees. “They love me, I suppose, and they tolerate me, and they would miss me if I were gone, but I’m not sure they would notice for quite a while, honestly—my mother hasn’t noticed I’ve taken to spending my evenings in Covent Garden, and Arthur’s so worried about his own marriage, he hasn’t time to think for a second about mine. And my father . . .” She trailed off. “He’s barely a character in this play. He’s deus ex machina, popping in at the end to sign the papers and take the money.”

She looked up at Devil. “I don’t want that.”

“I know.”

“I never wanted to win the duke. Not really.”

“You wanted more than that.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You wanted the marriage, the man, the love, the passion, the life, the wide world.”

She considered the words—perfectly encapsulating what she wanted. But not Mayfair. No longer Mayfair. Here. Now. Covent Garden. With its king.

More than she could have. Always more.

“Shall I tell you something true?”

He exhaled on a long, harsh breath, her name in it like a prayer. “No.”

“Well, I’m going to, considering I’ve already told you the worst of it,” she said, unable to stop the words from coming. “I hate tea. I want to drink bourbon. The kind you won’t admit to smuggling in from America with all that ice. I want to make love to you in your ice hold and bathe in your enormous bathtub. While you watch. I want to wear trousers like Nik and learn every inch of Covent Garden. I want to stand by your side here on the roof and there in the street below, and I want you to teach me to wield a cane sword as well as I wield a lockpick.” She paused, enjoying the dumbfounded look on his face nearly as much as she hated it. “But more than all that . . . I want you.”

“This world is all sin, Felicity, and I am the worst of it.”

She shook her head. “No. This world is locked away. You are locked away. Like something precious.” She met his gaze. Held it. “And I want in. Tonight.” Always.

“There is no way this ends without your ruin.”

“I am already ruined.”

He shook his head. “Not in any way that matters.”

She thought that was rather a semantic argument. And then, like a promise, memory surged. Wild and mad, just as she was when she grasped it. “I’ll never win the duke, you know. The banns are posted, yes, but even if I were to marry him, I wouldn’t win him. I don’t want him. And he doesn’t want me. Not with passion. Not with purpose.”

“It’s not important to him,” Devil said. “He doesn’t know about passion.”

“But you do,” she replied.

He cursed in the darkness. “Yes, dammit. Yes, I know about passion. It’s consuming me here, tonight, naked on a roof in Covent Garden where anyone could stumble upon us.”

She smiled at the words, pride and love rioting through her. This magnificent man. She reached for him, and he let her, let her touch his thigh, let her come closer, even when she softened her words and said, “And if someone were to stumble upon us?”

“I’d have to kill them for seeing you naked.”

She nodded. Dear Lord. She would never love anything the way she loved him. “Devil . . .” she whispered, her hand sliding up his bare chest, flirting with the skin there.

He caught it in his own. “Felicity . . .” She hated the resignation in his tone.

“We made a deal all those nights ago,” she said, leaning in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his full, beautiful lips. “I was promised slavering.”

He saw where she was going. Shook his head. “Felicity—”

“No. That was the deal. You wouldn’t renege, would you?”

He considered it. She watched the battle wage on his beautiful face, his scar gone stark white on his cheek as he fixed his gaze over her shoulder on a faraway rooftop. She took the opportunity to lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Devil,” she whispered at his ear, loving the shudder that went through him at the word. “By the details of our arrangement, you still owe me a boon.”

His hands settled on her. His arm encircled her. Pulled her close. “Yes.”

“That’s a marvelous word.”

He laughed at her ear, low and graveled and without humor, his hands. “Indeed, it is.”

“My boon, then?”

Pleasure washed over her as he stroked the bare skin of her back. “Ask.”

She put her lips to his ear. “I want tonight.”

Before the words had disappeared, Devil was turning her, laying her down again, looming over her, cradling her face in his strong hands and ravishing her with his kiss—long and lush, making her body sing—her breasts, her thighs, that soft place between them that he’d loved so well and still ached for him.

Felicity lifted her thighs and rocked against him, and he tore his mouth from hers with a hiss, throwing his head back to reveal the long cords of his neck. When he looked down at her again, his beautiful amber eyes were filled with desire and something close to pain. “One night,” he said. “One night and then you leave me. One night and you take your place in the world where you belong.”

As though one night would ever be enough. “Yes,” she lied.

“I shall make it right,” he whispered. “I shall keep you safe.”

She nodded. “That’s what you do.” This beautiful man, who had spent a lifetime as a protector.

He met her gaze. “You’ll have it all.”

Not you, though.

She pushed the thought from her head, reaching for him. “Please.” She lifted her hips to him. “Don’t stop.”

He exhaled on a breathless laugh, leaning down to suck on the tip of one breast until it was hard and straining. “I have no intention of stopping, my greedy girl.” His fingers found their way to her core, stroking and lingering, stretching and petting, her breath coming faster and faster, pleasure coursing through her. She strained to keep his hand against her, even as his touch gentled.

“More,” she said. “I want it all.”

“I do, too,” he whispered, putting his forehead to hers and kissing her once again. “God, I am going to love being inside you when you come.”

“Yes.” She kissed him. “Please.”

“So greedy.”

She nodded. “Wanton.”

He huffed a little, strained laugh. “You shouldn’t know that word.”

“You have taught me worse,” she said.

“That’s true,” he replied, the words sounding strangled as he rocked against her.

“You can’t have them back,” she said, spreading her thighs wide to accommodate him as the tip of him settled at the opening of her, hot and smooth and, “Oh . . .”

“Mmm,” he said harshly. “Oh . . .”

And then he was sliding into her with perfect control, slow and smooth, and it occurred to her that the sensation might make her mad. He was so hard, and so full, stretching her beyond anything she could have imagined, not pain or pleasure but some unbearable, glorious combination of the two. No. Pleasure. So much pleasure. She gasped.

He froze. “Felicity? Talk to me.”

She shook her head.

“Love . . .” He kissed her gently. “Sweetheart, say something.”

Her eyes flew to his. “Oh . . .”

“Something more than oh, love. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She flexed against the full shape of him, and he sank deeper into her channel. He groaned, his eyes sliding closed.

“Oh, my . . .” she said.

He laughed again, hoarse and perfect. “Sweetheart, if you don’t say something other than some variation on oh, I’m going to stop.”

Her eyes flew open. “Don’t you dare.”

His brows rose. “Well. That’s something other than oh.”

She reached for his shoulders, smoothing her hands over his muscles, each one more tense than the last. “You wish more words?”

“I need them,” he said softly. “I need to know it’s good for you.”

She smiled at that, and then leaned up and stole his mouth for a lingering kiss. When it was over, she curled her hand behind his neck, looked into his eyes, and said, “I want it all.”

And he began—blessedly—to move. Long, slow strokes sent pleasure curling through her, again and again,

“Tell me how it feels, love.”

She wanted to, but it was impossible—she’d lost her words again. He’d stolen them with his kiss and his touch and the delicious length of him, stroking, guiding, pleasuring her. His movements were slow and delicious, enough to chase away the last hints of pain that had lingered, leaving only sighs and gasps and a perfect rhythm—one she was happy to match.

And when she did, he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze, and she lost her words again at the pure, unadulterated desire in them. She reached for him, running her fingers along his jaw, where his scar ran jagged and white. “You want it all, too.”

“Yes . . .” He hissed his pleasure. “Fuck, yes, I want it all.”

And then his hips rolled beautifully and she cried out as he knocked against a magnificent place. He stilled, raising a brow. “There?” He repeated the movement.

She clasped his shoulders. “Yes.”

Again.

“Please.”

Again.

“Devil,” she gasped.

“Tell me again,” he growled, driving her higher and higher. “Give me the words again.”

Her eyes flew open to find his on hers. “I love you,” she whispered as he thrust into her.

“Yes.”

“I love you.” She clung to him, the words a prayer. A litany. “I love you.”

“Yes.” He held her gaze through it all, whispering that single, beautiful word, again and again, as he gave her everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d ever dreamed. As she whispered her love and they careened toward pleasure, hard and fast and perfect, like truth. And when pleasure coursed through her like a wave, he captured first her cries and then her laugh with his kiss. And only then, the sound of her riotous pleasure in his ears, did he find his own release, deep and powerful, her name on his lips.

Minutes later, hours, perhaps, they lay in silence beneath the stars in the stunning wake of what they’d done. Devil had reversed their position, draping Felicity across his chest, where her head lay and her fingers danced circles on his skin.

He held her tight against him, his arms and coat keeping her warm, his fingers sifting through her hair in a delicious, rhythmic caress, and for that brief eternity, she imagined that the night had changed him as much as it had changed her.

She closed her eyes, the steady beat of his heart against her thoughts—the quiet, domestic fantasy that ended with his taking her hand in his and pledging himself to her, forever. She inhaled, overcome with the scent of him, tobacco flower and juniper and sin, and she imagined that, forever, any hint of it would summon the false memories she wove in his arms.

A Covent Garden wedding, a raucous celebration filled with wine and song, and a night to follow on this very roof—a repeat of tonight, but better, because it would not end with him leaving her.

It would end with a life together. A marriage. A partnership. A line of children with beautiful amber eyes and strong shoulders and long, straight noses. Children who would learn that the world was wide and good, and the aristocracy was nothing compared to the hardworking men and women who built the city in which they lived and made it better every day.

Men like their father. Women like the one she hoped to become by his side.

She closed her eyes and imagined those children. Wanted them. Loved them, already.

Just as she loved their father.

“Felicity.” He said her name, low and perfect, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Dawn approaches.”

Dawn, ready to burn away the dark and with it, those precious, unmade memories.

Don’t send me back. Keep me here. I belong here.

She didn’t say the words, but he seemed to hear them anyway. He exhaled, the sound broken. “You deserved more than this,” he said. “You deserved a wedding night. With a man ten times what I am. With a man who can give you ton and title, name and fortune, a Mayfair townhouse and a country estate that’s been in the family for generations.”

Anger flared. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t want those things.”

He watched her for an age. “Tell me again why you were crying in that bedchamber, the day you picked the lock. The day your friends turned their backs on you. Tell me again what you mourned.”

Hot embarrassment flared. “It’s not the same,” she protested. “I’m not the same. I don’t care about Mayfair and balls.”

“If I believed that . . .” He looked away, back to the stars. “I’d crawl to you without hesitation, but if I did, you would never have that life. Nor the acceptance.”

“Would you love me?” she whispered, the sound barely there, barely different than the wind rustling over the tiles on the rooftop. The sound of skin brushing against skin. The sound of their breath mingled.

The sound of hope.

He exhaled, long and jagged. And then he told her something true. “Not enough.”

And there, under the stars in this place she had come to love, Felicity resolved to prove him wrong.