“And you came here to . . .” He trailed off, knowing the answer. Wanting her to say it.

Wanting to hear it.

That blush again. Then, magnificently, “To take my virginity.”

The words rang in his ears.

And somehow this woman laughed. “Well, I can’t take my own virginity, obviously. It’s more a metaphor. Nelson was to do the deed.”

He let silence reign for a moment while he collected a riot of thoughts. “You relieve yourself of your virginity and you become free to live your life.”

“Precisely!” she said, as though she was delighted that someone understood.

He grunted. “And what’s the second reason?”

The red wash again. Who was this woman, somehow both bold and also blushing? “I suppose—” She stopped. Cleared her throat. “I suppose I want it.”

Christ.

She could have said a thousand things he would have expected. Things that would have kept him quiet, unmoved. And instead, she said something so fucking honest, he had no choice but to be moved.

But to move.

He stopped it before it began, holding back his desire, sliding the hand that reached for her into his pocket and extracting the paper sack there, fetching a candy from within. He popped the sweet into his mouth, lemon and honey exploding over his tongue.

Anything to distract him from her words.

I want it.

Hattie squinted at the pouch. “Are those—sweets?”

He looked down at them. Grunted his acknowledgment.

She tilted her head. “You shouldn’t partake in treats if you are not willing to share, you know.”

Another grunt. He extended the sack toward her.

“No, thank you,” she said with a smile.

“Then why ask for one?”

Another grin. “I didn’t ask for one. I asked to be offered one. Which is a different thing altogether.”

She was incredibly frustrating. And fascinating. But he didn’t have time to be fascinated by her.

He returned the candy to his pocket, trying to focus on the lemon, a tart, sweet pleasure—one of the few he allowed himself. Trying to ignore the fact that it was not lemon he desired in that moment.

Trying not to think about almonds.

He required the woman’s knowledge. And that was it. She knew who was attacking his men. Who was stealing his cargo. She could confirm the identity of his enemy. And he would do what he must to get her to do just that.

“You’re not going to tell me I’m wrong?” she asked.

“Wrong about what?”

“Wrong to want . . .” She trailed off for a moment, and a thread of cold fear went through Whit as he considered the possibility that she might say it again. When this woman said it, a man wanted to fill the space between those two minuscule letters with a score of filthy things. “. . . to explore.”

Good Christ. That was worse.

“I’m not going to tell you you are wrong.”

“Why not?”

He had no idea why he said it. He shouldn’t have said it. He should have left her there in that room and followed her home and waited for her to reveal what she knew. For there was no way this woman kept secrets well. She was far too honest. Honest enough to be trouble.

But he said it nonetheless. “Because you should explore. You should explore every inch of yourself and every inch of your pleasure and set your course for your future.” Her lips fell open as he closed the space between them, speaking a longer string of words than he’d offered another in an age. In a lifetime.

He reached for her. Lifting his hands slowly, letting her see him coming. Giving her time to stop him. When she didn’t, he removed her mask, revealing her wide, kohl-darkened eyes. “But you should not hire Nelson.”

What was he doing?

It was the only option.

Lie.

She caught the mask in her free hand, lowering it between them. Fiddling with it, her fingers brushing against him. Singeing him. “It will be difficult to find another man to assist me without repercussions.”

“I assure you it won’t,” he said, leaning in, lowering his voice.

She swallowed. “You intend to find me such a man?”

“No.”

Her brows shot together and he ran his thumb over the furrow there. Once, twice, until it smoothed. He traced the lines of her face, the sweep of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her jaw. Her plump lower lip, as soft as he remembered.

“I intend to be him.”

Chapter Five

As she’d come to 72 Shelton Street with the intention of ruination, Hattie really should have considered the possibility that the business of virginity losing might be pleasurable.

She’d never thought of it in such a way. Indeed, she’d thought it would be a perfunctory business. A ticking-the-boxes kind of business. The kind of business that was a means to an end.

But when this man touched her—mysterious and handsome and unsettling and more welcome than she’d like to admit—she was unable to think of anything but the means.

The very pleasurable means.

Very pleasurable means that took hold of her when he suggested that he be the one to assist her in losing her virginity.

But the combination of his low growl and the slow sweep of his thumb over her lower lip made Hattie think that he might do more than that. Think that he might burn her down. Think that she might allow it, incineration be damned.

And then it made Hattie think very little but yes.

She’d arrived earlier in the night to the promise that she would be met by an exceedingly thorough man who would prove a stellar assistant. But this man, with his amber eyes that saw everything, with his touch that understood everything, with his voice that filled her dark, secret corners, was more than an assistant.

This man was dominion—the kind that Hattie hadn’t imagined but now couldn’t not imagine.

And he was offering to make everything she imagined real.

Yes.

He was so close. Impossibly large—large enough to make Hattie feel small—and impossibly handsome—handsome enough to have given her pause on another, less heady night—and impossibly warm in the cold room.

And impossibly, he was going to kiss her.

Not because she was paying him; because he wanted to.

Impossible.

No one had ever . . .

The slide of his hand into her hair pushed the thought aside before it finished. “You will—”

Silence.

“—assist me—”

His fingers tightened.

“—with . . .” He held her hostage with his touch and his silence. He was making her finish the thought, dammit. The sentence. What was the thought? “. . . it?”

He met the word with a growl, a rumble of sound that she wouldn’t have understood if she weren’t so rapt. If she weren’t so eager for it. “All of it.”

Her eyes slid closed. How was it that a man could turn so few words into such pleasure? He was surely going to kiss her. That was how it began, wasn’t it? But he wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving? He was supposed to move, wasn’t he?

She opened her eyes again, finding him there, so close, watching her. Looking at her. Seeing her. When was the last time someone had seen Hattie? She’d spent a lifetime becoming so good at hiding, she’d never be seen.