Regency Rogues and Rakes. Anna Campbell

      “Lord Longmore?” she said.

      He gathered what was left of his wits. “The hook is either mangled or tangled,” he said. “I can’t see what the problem is.” Because he was going crosseyed, from the scent and the warmth of her body and the consciousness of his hands and how he needed to keep them at their job.

      His pulse was racing, sending heat flooding downward.

       Christ.

      “She caught it in the seam stitching, probably,” she said. “She was in a fearful hurry. Couldn’t wait to be done with me. I’m surprised she didn’t leave it to the Frenchwoman. Ecrivier. You saw what that was all about, I don’t doubt.”

      “I should have made the boy do this,” he said. “His hands are smaller.”

      “Go ahead and pull, and don’t worry about breaking the thread,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky. “We can easily mend it. Or better yet, leave it. All you need to do is fasten enough to keep the bodice in place.”

      “It’s only one confounded hook,” he said. “I’m not surrendering to a bit of metal—especially not with Mad Dick looking on, composing Cockney mockery.”

      He squared his shoulders.

      He peeled off his gloves.

      This time, when he touched the back of her dress, she shivered.

      His palms were sweating.

      He bent closer, squinting. He found the bit of thread the hook was tangled with. He pulled it free.

      He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

      He heard her suck in air.

       Well, then.

      She’d noticed.

      And not in the way of noticing a fly landing on her skin, or a dog thrusting his nose into her hand but in that special feminine noticing way.

      The siege machinery had advanced.

      At great sacrifice. But still.

      He cheerfully did up the other hooks and buttons, pulled the cloak up over her shoulders, and turned away to pull on his gloves.

      He’d fought a terrific battle with himself, with his very nature, and he’d emerged victorious.

      He’d advanced.

      “You can come back, you little coward,” he said to Fenwick. “She’s decent again.”

      Lord Longmore drove back to St. James’s Street at death-defying speed.

      As they plunged into knots of traffic, Sophy heard people scream and curse, but they got out of the way.

      She only clung to the side of the carriage and wished he could go faster.

      She could still feel his hands at her back and his warm breath on her neck. She could still hear his voice, so low and husky, at her ear.

      Her willpower had oozed away.

      She’d actually felt her brain melting, and her muscles going the same way, and she had very nearly leaned back into his hands and let him do whatever he wanted to her.

      He hadn’t, apparently, wanted to do anything, luckily for her.

      Luckily, too, she was done with him. He’d served his purpose, and she hadn’t done anything catastrophic, and now all she had to do was get home and pour herself a glass or four of brandy and tell her sisters what she’d learned.

      When they reached the shop, she practically leapt from the curricle.

      She turned to run into the shop when she remembered the boy. Good grief! How could she forget him?

      She turned back. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come along, Fenwick.”

      He eyed the shop warily, but he started to climb down.

      “No, you don’t,” Longmore said.

      The boy paused, looking from her to him.

      “You’ll come along with me,” Longmore said. “I’ll see that you get fed and find a berth. There’s a fine pie shop over—”

      “Absolutely not,” Sophy said. “I was the one who made the promise.”

      “She did, yer highness,” Fenwick said.

      “Would you trust her before you’d trust me?” Longmore said. “You know what that is?” He nodded toward Maison Noirot. “A dressmaker’s shop. All women.”

      “Maybe I better stay with him, miss,” said Fenwick. “He’s bigger than you.”

      “No, you won’t,” she said. “I found you first.” She strode toward the curricle. The boy drew back to the far corner of the seat.

      “No offense, miss, but he saved me from being drug to the workhouse,” said Fenwick. “Not to mention he could squash me like a bug if he took it into his head.”

      “I saved your life by pulling you out of that fight before one of them accidentally stepped on you,” Sophy said. “And if his lordship was meaning to squash you, he would have done it right after you tried to rob him. Now come along, and stop being ridiculous.”

      She reached up to grab Fenwick’s arm. He shrank back.

      “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Longmore said. “Good day, Miss Noirot.”

      Then she had to back away because he signaled the horses and they started eagerly.

      He drove away. Hands clenched, she watched him go.

      Longmore knew it wasn’t a good idea to leave her fuming on the pavement. It was a far worse idea, though, to let her harbor young felons. Who knew who the boy’s confederates were? Who knew how hardened in crime he was? Hardened or not, he could be intimidated by more calloused individuals, and unlock the shop’s back door to a gang of thieves and cutthroats.

      After a moment, Fenwick spoke. “I thought her name was Gladys.”

      “She has a hundred names, as suits her convenience,” Longmore said. “Don’t try to keep track of them. You’ll only hurt your head.”

      He heard a high-pitched cry.

      He looked in that direction. Sophy/Gladys was trotting alongside the vehicle. “You give that boy back!” she cried.

      “Go home!” he shouted.

      She let out an unearthly shriek. Then she swayed and sank into a heap on the pavement.

      Instantly, people hurried to the spot.

      Longmore stopped the carriage, threw the reins to Fenwick, and thrust through the rapidly gathering crowd. “Get out of the way, confound you! Are you trying to trample her?”

      He scooped her up. She lay completely limp in his arms.

      He told himself not to panic. Women always fainted. They were used to it. It hardly ever killed them.

      Yet he knew she worked long hours, and she’d been in a fight only a short time ago—a fight that had left him winded. She’d thrown herself into the fray and she’d done splendidly, demonstrating unusually quick thinking, especially for a female.

      His conscience smote him. As smitings go, it wasn’t much, his conscience being in poor fighting condition.

      “Damn me, damn me, damn me,” he muttered.

      He carried her down St. James’s Street, a small parade following, and turned into Bennet Street. At that point he looked over his shoulder at the gawkers. “Be off,” he said.

      The parade melted away.

      He carried her into the narrow court and kicked the private