She smiled at him, the beautiful smile that always made him feel like a king and not a scarred disaster. He didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. Sidonie loved him. Now, he prayed, he had a daughter to love him, too. Because he loved both of them more than he could ever say.
“Jonas, come and see. She’s perfect.”
He’d ventured in earlier after an excruciating day of waiting downstairs. His wife had been tired and drawn but happy. The baby had been small and black-haired and inclined to scream. The nurse had chased him out, insisting she needed to prepare Lady Hillbrook before she saw her husband.
Good thing he was used to difficult women.
As he looked down into his daughter’s tiny face, he knew that here was another stubborn female to trouble his peace. The baby yawned without opening her eyes and settled to sleep. Jonas’s heart lurched with an astonishingly powerful tug of love. He’d protect this child as long as he lived.
“You’re both beautiful.” When he leaned down to kiss his wife, Sidonie stroked his scarred cheek. The caress had become so familiar, he hardly noticed it anymore, although the first time she’d touched his scars without revulsion it had moved him so deeply, it nigh broke his heart.
“You’ve had a terrible day, haven’t you?”
He laughed softly and turned his head to kiss her hand. The ruby signet ring glinted in the lamplight. The sight of his ring on her hand always filled him with satisfaction. She was his heart’s blood after all. “I suspect yours was worse.”
“I’m not sure.” She spoke quietly so as not to wake the baby. “At least I was busy.”
“You were, at that.” He looked down at his daughter again. “With good purpose.”
“I’m rather proud of myself.”
Jonas kissed her again. “So you should be. She’s quite the masterpiece.” His voice lowered. “I love you, Sidonie.”
She stared at him, her eyes glowing. “I love you, Jonas.” She blinked. “Curse these tears. I hoped once I had the baby, I wouldn’t be such a watering pot.”
Very carefully, Jonas perched on the edge of the mattress, never shifting his gaze from his wife and child. Who would think he’d turn into a family man? Who would think love could transform a life as barren as his? Sidonie had created a miracle when she arrived in his life—turned a desert into a lushly flowering oasis. He’d never been so happy as he’d been since she’d forced her way into his house last February and fought for her love.
He thanked God every day for difficult women.
“Have you thought about names?”
She contemplated the baby with a tenderness that made him ache. “Of course. Haven’t you?” Her eyes glinted with teasing humor as she looked up. “Richarda? Camdenette?”
“No.” Although among the rich threads in this new life was the privilege of calling fine men like Camden Rothermere and Richard Harmsworth his friends. “And not Roberta.”
When it became apparent that Roberta’s offer to stay and care for Sidonie during her pregnancy translated into a return to the gaming tables, Jonas had denied her room in Merrick House. Roberta had retired in high dudgeon to her villa in Richmond, where apparently she now dazzled a rich merchant. Over the last months, she and Sidonie had re-established a frail connection that he hoped, for his wife’s sake, would strengthen over the years. As far as he was concerned, he and Roberta would never be friends, but he wished her well. As long as she didn’t intrude into his life, he was happy to let her go to hell her own way.
Sidonie muffled a huff of laughter. “Not Roberta.” She paused and her expression sobered. “I thought we’d call her Consuela after your mother.”
The breath wedged in his throat. One by one, Sidonie healed his old injuries. Now she healed another. He tried to smile but was too moved to succeed. “That’s… that’s perfect, bella.”
To prove his true birthright, Sir Richard Harmsworth must steal a medievel relic—now in the hands of the beautiful, scholarly Genevieve Barrett who hates nothing more than a thief…
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A Rake’s Midnight Kiss.
Chapter One
Little Derrick, Oxfordshire, September 1827
Damnation!”
A loud thud followed by a low masculine curse stirred Genevieve from deep sleep. Even then she needed a few seconds to realize she was slumped over her work table in the vicarage library, her candles had gone out, and the only light in the room was the dying fire. By that low glow, she watched a dark shape below the windowsill lengthen and rise until she recognized a man’s form blocking faint starlight from outside.
Choking fear held her motionless. Fear and outrage. How dare anyone break into her home? It felt like a personal affront. Her father was out, dining with the Duke of Sedgemoor at his local estate. She’d been invited too but she’d wanted to stay and work on her latest article. The servants were away for the evening.
The man at the window remained still, as if confirming that the room was empty before he started his nefarious activities. The charged silence extended. Then she saw the tension ease from his long, lean body and he stepped across to the fire. From her dark corner, Genevieve watched him bend over the coals to light a candle.
Blast his impudence, he’d soon learn he wasn’t alone.
Quickly her hand slipped down to the desk’s second drawer and tugged it out, not bothering to mask the noise as she reached for what lay hidden inside. The candle flared into life, and he turned his head sharply in her direction. Genevieve lurched to her feet. As she stepped toward him on shaky legs, she forced a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “You’ll find nothing worth stealing in this house. I suggest you leave. Immediately.”
Instead of reacting with the horrified dismay she desired, the man took his time straightening. He raised his candle to illuminate Genevieve where she stood beside the desk. His face was mostly covered with a black silk mask such as people wore to masquerade balls. Not that she had any experience of such events. “You’re dashed well protected if there truly is nothing worth stealing.”
Her hand steady, she raised the gun. “We live on the edge of the village, as you no doubt noted when you chose this house for your depredations.” A horrible thought struck her and she waved the pistol at him. “Are you armed?”
He stiffened with apparent shock, as though the question offended him As if to demonstrate his lack of violent intentions, he spread his hands wide. “Of course not, dear lady.”
This rapscallion was a most bizarre burglar. Her knowledge of the criminal classes was limited, but this man’s easy assurance in her company struck her as remarkable. He spoke like a gentleman and didn’t seem particularly concerned that she pointed a weapon at him. Her lips tightened and she firmed her grip on the pistol. Nerves made her hands slippery. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. In your line of work, you must be prepared for opposition from your victims.”
“I make sure the house is empty before I start work.”
“Like tonight,” she said coldly.
He shrugged. “Even master criminals make the occasional mistake, Miss Barrett.”
Her belly lurched with dread and this time not even her strongest efforts kept her voice steady. “How do you know my name?”
The lips she could see below the mask twitched and he stepped closer.
“Stay back!” she snapped. Her heart banged so hard against her ribs, surely he must hear it.
Ignoring her pistol with insulting ease, he lifted the candle higher and subjected her to a lengthy and unnerving inspection. Genevieve’s sense of unreality grew. Everything around her was familiar. The shabby comfort of her favorite room. The jumble of articles spread across the desk. The pile of pages covered in her writing. All was as it should be, except for the tall masked man with his indefinable air of elegance and his smile of indulgent amusement. She had an irritating inkling that the reprobate played with her.
Sucking in a shaky breath, she made hersel
A most bizarre burglar indeed.
“A good thief does his research first,” he said, answering the question she’d forgotten she’d asked. “Although research sometimes lets one down. For example, village gossip had it that you attended a soiree at Leighton Court tonight.”
“I wanted to…” She realized she responded as she’d respond to any polite enquiry. The hand holding the gun showed a lamentable tendency to droop, pointing the barrel harmlessly at the floor. She bit her lip and raised the gun in what she prayed was a menacing gesture. “Get out of this house.”
“But I haven’t got what I came for.”
He shifted even closer and with that movement, she felt more at risk than she had since he’d appeared. At risk as a woman was at risk to a man. She hadn’t missed how his shadowy gaze had lingered when he’d inspected her. She started to back away before she recalled any show of vulnerability would give him the advantage. She pointed the gun directly at his chest. “Get out now or I’ll shoot.”
He frowned as if her threat of violence pricked his sense of decorum. “Dear lady…”
She stiffened. Somewhere she’d lost control of this encounter. Which was absurd. She was the one with the gun. “I’m not your dear lady.”
He bowed as if acknowledging that she’d scored a point. “As you wish, Miss Barrett. I’ve done you no wrong. It seems excessive to menace me with murder and mayhem.”
Shocked amusement almost made her laugh. “You broke into my house. You threatened me with…”
He interrupted her. “Doing it too brown. So far, any threats have emanated from your charming self.”
“You mean to steal,” she said in a low, vibrating voice.
“But I haven’t. Yet.” The expressive mouth above the intriguingly firm jawline curved into a charming smile. “Temper justice with mercy. Let me go free and seek redemption.”
“Let you go free and find some other poor innocent to rob,” she said sharply. “Better I lock you in the cellar and summon the local magistrate.”
“That would be unkind. I don’t like small, confined places.”
“In that case, you’ve chosen the wrong profession. Somewhere someone’s going to catch you and lock you up.”
Disregarding the gun, he took another step toward her. “Surely your compassionate heart smarts at the thought of my imprisonment.”
She retreated and realized he’d boxed her against the side of the desk. “Move away or I swear I will shoot.”
He lit one of the candles on the desk and blew out his own, dropping it smoking to the blotter. “Tsk, Miss Barrett. You’ll get blood on the carpet.”
“I’ll…”
Words escaped her on a gasp as he reached out with surprising speed and strength to grab the hand gripping the gun. A few nimble turns of that long body and he caught her against him, facing the open window he’d climbed through. With her back pressed hard to his chest, she was overwhelmingly aware of his casual masculine power. His leanness was deceptive. There was no denying the muscles in the arms holding her captive or the firm breadth of the chest behind her. He embraced her firmly across her torso, trapping her arms. She still held the weapon but couldn’t shift to aim it at him.
The barbed but oddly flirtatious conversation had calmed her immediate dread, but now fear surged anew. What in heaven’s name was she thinking, bandying words with this scoundrel? Almost as if she enjoyed herself, when if she despised anything in this world, it was a thief.
She caught her breath and began to struggle against him. “Let me go!”
His arms tightened like straps, controlling her with mortifying ease. Genevieve was a tall, strong girl, no frail lily, but the thief was taller and stronger. She’d never before had to measure her strength against a man’s. It rankled how easily he restrained her. “Hush, Miss Barrett. I give you my word I mean you no harm.”
“Then release me.” She was panting and her writhing had achieved nothing but the collapse of her never very secure coiffure.
“Not unless you put the gun down.”
She struggled to elbow him in the belly but the way he held her made it impossible. “Then I’ll be at your mercy,” she said breathlessly.
He gave a grunt of laughter. “There’s that to consider.”
His body was so close that his amusement vibrated through her. The sensation was uncomfortably intimate. A couple more of those blasted deft movements and she found herself without her weapon. He placed it out of reach on the desk.
“I’ll scream.”
“There’s nobody to hear you,” he said carelessly, and in that moment, she truly hated him.
“You’re despicable,” she hissed, trying and failing to free herself. Her heart galloped with fright and anger. With him, and with herself for being a stupid, weak female, victim to an overbearing male.
“Sticks and stones, dear lady.”
He drew her tighter into his body and took a sliding step backward. She was suddenly conscious not just of his size and strength—those had been obvious from the moment he caught her up against him—but also of his enveloping heat and the fact that he smelled pleasantly of something herbal. Fresh. Tangy.
This was clearly a ruffian who took the trouble to wash regularly.
He reversed another step and opened the library door with a rattle, holding her under one arm with humiliating ease. She wrenched against him and tried without success to sink her fingernails into his powerful forearm.
“No, you don’t,” he huffed, pressing her closer to his tall body.
“I’ll have your liver for this,” she hissed, even as his pleasant scent continued to alert her senses. What was that smell?
“You’ll have to catch me first,” he said, and she wished she didn’t notice how laughter warmed that deep, musical voice. Any angry response died in furious shock as he brushed his cheek softly against the wing of hair that covered the side of her face.
“Au revoir, Miss Barrett,” he whispered in her ear, his breath teasing nerves she didn’t know she possessed, then he shoved her hard away from him.
By the time she’d regained her footing, he’d slammed the door and locked it from the outside with the key he must have palmed when he fiddled with the latch.
“Don’t you dare ransack the house, you devil!” she shouted, rushing forward and pounding on the door. But the vicarage doors were of good solid English oak and hardly shook under her determined assault. “Don’t you dare!”
Panting, she stopped and pressed her ear to the door, desperate to work out what he was up to. She heard a distant slam as though someone left by the front door. Could her mere presence have daunted him into abandoning his plan to rob the vicarage? She couldn’t imagine why. He’d had the best of the conflict from the first.
Her hands closed into fists against the door as she recalled his barefaced cheek in holding her so… so improperly. “Improper” seemed too weak a word to describe the sensations he’d aroused when he’d captured her like a sheep ready for the shears. Like that sheep, she was about to be well and truly fleeced. She was in no position to stop the villain from taking what he wanted from the house. There was no hope of help until her father returned from the duke’s, and heaven knew when that would be. The Reverend Ezekiel Barrett adored hobnobbing with the quality. He’d be there until breakfast if Sedgemoor didn’t throw him out first.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes and she felt as jumpy as a cat on a stovetop. It was illogical, but she could feel the radiating heat of his body against hers. It was as if he still touched her. She wasn’t afraid anymore, at least not for her person. If the burglar had wanted to hurt her, he’d had plenty of opportunity. Her principal reaction now that fear and unwilling fascination ebbed was disgust at her behavior. She’d acted the complete ninnyhammer, the sort of jittery female she despised. She’d had a gun. She should have been able to force him out of the house. Blast him, even now she wouldn’t surrender so easily. She could climb out the way the knave had got in, using the old elm tree outside the window. Once she’d caught her breath, by heaven, she would.
The ominous silence extended. What was the blackguard up to? Would there be anything left by the time he was finished? She glanced over to the desk and thanked the Lord that the only genuinely valuable items in the house had escaped his notice. For a sneak thief, he wasn’t very observant, although he hadn’t struck her as a man deficient in intelligence. Or, she added with renewed outrage, impudence. Nevertheless, any professional would have immediately pocketed the gold objects scattered over the blotter, objects she’d been sketching for her article.
Something landed on the carpet near the open window. Curious, Genevieve grabbed the candle from the desk and lifted it high. Lying on the floor was the key to the door. She rushed to the window, but darkness and the elm’s thick foliage obstructed her view. In the distance someone started to whistle. A jaunty old tune. “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Appropriate for an absconding thief, she supposed. Not that he seemed in a panic to flee. Again, his confidence struck her as puzzling. The music gradually faded as the whistler wandered into the night.
With shaking hands, Genevieve scooped up the key and balanced it on her palm, her thoughts in turmoil. One completely unimportant fact threw every other consideration to the wind. She’d finally identified the smell that had tantalized her when he’d held her close.
Lemon verbena.
THE DISH
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