Outside, it had begun to snow, heavy, wet flakes that were already collecting on the cold cobblestones, and Imogen turned her face to the fast-darkening sky, breathing in the crisp January air, feeling oddly on the precipice of something as Tommy came to stand at her shoulder.
“That dinner . . . your family . . .” She shook her head and peered up at him, feeling breathless, something bursting in her chest. A fizz-whee. “How wonderful they are.”
“Not the calmest of meals,” he offered. “But I should have expected you to enjoy their particular brand of chaos.”
“Oh, I did!” Imogen replied with instant breathlessness. “I did. So very much. It’s just . . . things feel different now. Like there was a before tonight and an after. Does that make sense?”
Say something, she wanted to say to him. Show that you noticed it, too. That you feel it, too.
Silence stretched out between them, snow falling at a pace all around them as he guided her toward the hack he’d gone to fetch by himself and paid to wait—refusing her offer to join him with a stern insistence that he did not wish her to be too long in the streets.
A shout sounded in the distance, angry and deep, words impossible to make out, and she turned toward it as Tommy flinched next to her, quickly yanking the door to the hack open. “Let’s get you home, my lady.”
My lady.
No more Miss Loveless, the woman he’d introduced to his mother and sister. The woman who’d pulled on her coat and said her goodbyes upstairs, his mother and sister and Annabelle making her feel like a queen, thanking her for coming and urging her to return.
The woman who’d fallen into Esme Peck’s embrace, lingering perhaps a touch longer than might be encouraged for a woman she’d only met. But it had been a lifetime since Imogen had received anything approximating maternal affection, and Mrs. Peck smelled of rosemary and thyme, and for a heartbeat, Imogen imagined that she would be back here, in this house, with these lovely people again. Soon.
That Tommy would invite her back.
She was Lady Imogen again. That strange, aristocratic oddity whose brother had begged Scotland Yard to keep out of trouble while he found her a suitable husband.
Still, she couldn’t help the little thread of hope that she might be wrong. That he might have enjoyed himself there, too. That he might have enjoyed her there.
And that little thread of hope was why, when they were both settled in the carriage and it had begun its slow ride back to Mayfair, and Tommy was staring out the window as though there was something fascinating in the snowy night beyond, she couldn’t keep herself from adding, “That was the loveliest dinner I’ve ever attended.”
He did not look away from the street beyond the window when he replied, “It almost sounds like you mean it.”
Imogen’s brows snapped together. “I do mean it.” When he did not reply, a whisper of irritation curled through her. “I do mean it, Tommy.”
“Mr. Peck,” he said. “Or Detective Inspector.”
The correction was icy, and set her cheeks blazing with embarrassment. “What?”
“You shouldn’t call me Tommy.”
“I—” She shouldn’t. She knew it. And still, the idea that he would choose now, as they rode in the dark away from that place where she’d seen so much of his world—the place he’d taken her so that she would think of him as more than a detective inspector—to correct her familiarity . . . The sting was undeniable. “I see,” she said. “Of course.”
Silence stretched between them, the only sound the carriage wheels on the cobblestones outside, muffled by the snow. She watched his profile in the darkness, marveling at the straightness of his spine, of the sharp edges of his beard, the hard angles of his face, the straight slash of his lips, pressed together, as though he had nothing more to say.
Was it possible that he had nothing more to say? When she had so very much she wished to say? And how could he be so still when she was so desperate to move? When she was resisting the urge to fidget with her skirts, or her gloves, or the sleeves of her coat. Or to lift her bag from where it sat at her feet and rummage through it—anything to distract from his resolute disinterest.
When she thought she might go mad, he said quietly, “We should not be so familiar.”
The words were a blow. “What?”
He shook his head, just barely. “We would do well to remember our stations.”
Their stations? Imogen’s heart pounded in her chest. The reminder of their arrangement. The reminder that he was there only because of an arrangement with her brother. That he tolerated her only as a means to an end, in pursuit of the promotion he wanted so badly.
“It was a mistake to bring you there.” How was it that she had just moments earlier wished he would speak? Now she wished he’d shut up.
He regretted introducing her to his mother. To his sister. To his niece.
Regretted giving her a look at his life—a look she had treasured. A look she feared she would keep locked away forever, bringing it out on high days and holidays when she wondered what her life could have been if only she’d been the kind of woman Tommy Peck might choose.
The kind of woman Tommy Peck might—
But she wasn’t.
That was the problem with her, wasn’t it? She wasn’t the kind of woman any man would choose, which was how she’d landed in this place, with a brother who couldn’t stomach her searching for a man who would suffer her, all while this man—this perfect, glorious man whom she couldn’t stop looking at, or thinking of, or talking to—regretted her.
Regretted kissing her.
Regretted bringing her pleasure.
Embarrassment and frustration and shame and no small amount of anger coursed through her, and as she considered each of the emotions, she cast them aside, refusing to allow them purchase. Until the last.
“What right do you have to decide what is a mistake when it comes to me?” she asked, the question cutting through the dark carriage. She saw it hit him. Recognized the barely-there straightening of his spine. The hardening of his jaw. The tightening of his muscles beneath the sleeve of his coat.
Good. Perhaps he would be angry, too. In this, she would not be alone. “What right do you have to label what we have done a mistake? Was it a mistake to sit with me at the table in your mother’s home? To introduce me to your niece? To save me from a carriage, from an explosion, from a collapsing building? Is it a mistake to take my help when I offer you a criminal, tied up and delivered along with all the evidence you need to send him to Newgate?”
He didn’t look at her. Kept his gaze riveted to the city beyond.
Coward.
He wasn’t going to give her the fight. And that made Imogen even more angry. “You needn’t worry that you’ll offend, Mr. Peck.” She punched the title. If he wanted it so much, she’d give it to him. “I assure you, this is not the first time men have regretted me. I have spent most of my life being regretted by men. I’ve made something of a career of it.”
His throat worked, but still, he did not speak. And he did not look.
“My brother regretted me when our father died and he was saddled with me. And so I steered clear of him. Plenty of men have regretted dancing with me, dining with me, being forced to partner with me in stupid games at country house parties. And so I have stopped dancing. Eating their dinner. Attending their parties. And that is before we discuss the men I have happily brought to justice. God knows they regret me more than all the others. And that, I assure you, has been a delight.
“And so. You play at being noble and decent and you tell me you regret me,” she added. “Make no mistake, Detective Inspector, it does not make you special.”
She was on course now, headed straight for danger, hot with indignation and refusing to let this man be yet another who would make her feel less simply because he could not bear being out of control. She looked out the window, searching for something familiar. They were in Holborn, a perfectly respectable neighborhood, where another hack would not be impossible to find.
And then she set her final bomb, one that would squeal and hiss and be impossible to ignore.
“You regret it? Kissing me in the carriage as we sailed across London earlier tonight? You regret putting your hands beneath my skirts the other night? Touching me where no one had ever touched me before?” She paused. “Terribly familiar, that.”
A low growl rumbled from his chest as his fist clenched on his thigh, and a keen satisfaction rioted through Imogen. Good. He didn’t like that she’d said that. Didn’t like the memory she’d dredged up.
She wouldn’t, either, after this, she supposed. And perhaps that would be for the best.
“No worries, Detective Inspector,” she said to his profile. “You are not alone in your regrets. I find I have them, as well.”
He snapped his attention to her then, his gaze suddenly riveted to her. Too late.
“So you are able to turn your head. I had wondered.” Imogen lifted her hand and knocked twice on the roof of the carriage. The hack immediately slowed.
Tommy’s brows shot together. “What are you about, Imogen?”
“That’s Lady Imogen to you,” she retorted, feeling petulant. Not particularly caring as she threw open the door, grabbed her bag, and leapt down into the snow, the carriage barely stopped behind her.
“Imogen!”
She closed the door on his bellow and hurried away from the vehicle, calling back to the driver, “Thank you! Carry on!”
Before the man, barely visible inside his hat and scarf and heavy coat, could reply, the door burst open once more, banging back against the carriage, Tommy landing almost instantly, his long legs already eating up the distance between them. “Imogen!”
He was bearing down on her, his words coming like rapid shot. “Do you know how dangerous that was? Leaping out of a carriage into a main road, without looking? In the dark? In the damn snow? What if there’d been another carriage going by? You could have been run down!”
“Ah, well, we couldn’t have that,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. “How would you get the information I have about your case? How would you win the day? How would you convince the home secretary that you have what it takes to do aristocratic bidding and become superintendent of the Detective Branch?” He froze, surprised by the words, no doubt surprised she’d found a spine, and she took the opportunity to shake him off. “What more must I say? Go away.”
“Where in hell do you think you’re going?”
Oh, he was furious.
Likely angry that he wasn’t getting his promotion after all.
Imogen did not look back. Instead, she increased her pace, her boots sliding in the snow. She would not be able to outrun him, but she could give him a merry chase in the meantime. There was a tavern across the street, a gleaming lantern indicating that it was open, despite the weather.
She headed for it, ignoring his shout. “Answer me!”
Imogen did not slow down as she looked over her shoulder and shot back, “Away from you. You’d best get back to your hack, Detective. As you know, I’m perfectly able to find my way.”
He went still at the retort, and she couldn’t help but turn a bit more to take him in, handsome and hulking in the middle of Theobalds Road, snow falling all around him, catching the brim of his hat and finding purchase in his beard. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“Get stuffed.”
She turned and made for the tavern, and for a moment, it seemed as if he would not follow her. There was no sound except the crunch of her own boots in the fast-accumulating snow.
Looking back, she saw that he hadn’t moved.
Good.
“Good riddance,” she said softly to the night. To herself. To convince herself that it was good that she was rid of him.
The door to the tavern burst open and a pair of men tumbled out, laughing and shouting their drunkenness to the night. Imogen pulled up short to avoid them, but her boots in the snow and the weight of her bag threw her off, and she slid, tipping into them.
One of them caught her, a tall, craggy-faced white man who did not hesitate to pull her close with a delighted “Look what I’ve found, boy-o!” He reached his hand around and clasped her bottom, firm enough for her to feel the pinch of his strong fingers through her coat and skirts and underthings. “I wasn’t expecting such a warm surprise on such a cold night!”
His friend laughed, urging him on as Imogen squirmed in his grasp. “Release me!”
“Now is that any way to thank a man for keepin’ you from falling in the snow?” He leaned in and pressed his mouth close to her ear. “I can think of a better way.”
Disgusting.
She pulled her carpetbag back, gaining momentum, ready to whack him with it, and free herself to fight, but it was gone from her grasp before she could take the swing. Tossed aside as Tommy Peck took hold of the man’s arm and pulled her out of his grasp. Before she knew what was happening, he’d set himself between her and her attacker.
“It was a mistake touching her, boy-o,” he said. “And now, I’m going to have to break your arm for it.”
The drunk reeled back with the shock of Tommy’s arrival, immediately throwing his hands in the air as Tommy advanced. “That ain’t it! She came for me! Rammed right into me! I just kept us both from going down . . . I wouldn’t’ve grabbed her if I’d ’ad a look at her!”
Tommy didn’t look. “Choose your next words wisely.”
“I’m simply sayin’ . . .” The drunk did not, in fact, choose his next words wisely. “Bit much, ain’t she?”
Imogen barely had time to feel the sting of the words. She was too busy being shocked by the wicked crunch of Tommy’s fist landing directly in the center of the man’s face, knocking him clear back into the snow.
She gasped.
The man’s companion stared down at his friend, then back at Tommy, whose hand remained fisted at his thigh, ready to fly again. “Crikey!”
“Get gone. Both of you.”
When he turned around, Imogen couldn’t help stepping backward. He looked . . .
Enraged. Unhinged. Feral.
Glorious.
She swallowed as he stopped in front of her. “Thank you.”
The sound he made should have been terrifying. He grabbed her hand and leaned over to fetch her bag from the ground before straightening and pulling her away from the tavern. Out of the lantern light, where he pushed her against the stone facade, blocking her from light and snow and anyone who might be looking, one hand coming to her face—was he shaking?
“You never run from me again.” The words came ragged, as though they’d been ripped from him, and Imogen could not resist meeting his gaze, thankful for the way the snow lit up the dark night. “I can’t protect you . . .”
It was hard to breathe in the wake of the words, the ache in them setting a similar one in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean—”
He shook his head, that hand threading into her curls as he stepped closer, pressing her back against the stone, tilting her face up to his. “I can’t leave you. I can’t . . . stop. When I said that—that we should not be so familiar—I meant I should not be so familiar,” he said, the words low and hoarse, like it was difficult for him to speak them.
“I meant it would be safer if I kept my distance. Don’t you see? You don’t belong in Shoreditch. In the East End. You belong in a palace.”
She shook her head and opened her mouth to correct him, but he was still talking, the ridiculous, wonderful man. “I meant it would be safer for me. If I kept my distance. To remind myself of all that so I don’t—”
So he didn’t what?
His thumb traced over her cheek, leaving fire in its wake. “And then he put his hands on you, and I wanted to . . .” His throat worked. His gaze raked over her face. “Did he hurt you?”
She swallowed. Shook her head. “No.” Her hand came to his arm, where she’d stitched his wound. “Are you hurt?”
He ignored the question, instead watching her, as though she might disappear. And then, “I should not have touched you. I should not have kissed you.”
Imogen opened her mouth to protest, and his gaze flickered down to the movement, to stare at her lips, and she forgot her words. He looked like he was starving. “I should not,” he whispered. “But I will never, ever regret it.”
He was so close. She could feel the words on her lips as he spoke them. “God forgive me, I won’t ever regret any of it.”
He closed the distance between them, his hand holding her still as he claimed her mouth, and her hands were on his shoulders, in his hair, toppling his hat to the ground, and they were kissing, hot and angry and frustrated and urgent, and Imogen wanted nothing more than to crawl into him and stay there.
She knew, as she sighed into his mouth, going soft against all his hard planes, that whatever they were doing was not forever. She knew that Tommy Peck would never be for her. That eventually, she would bring him trouble. But she would take what he offered now. Tonight. And she would savor it.
His hands were large and hot on her, singeing her through her coat and dress, pulling her tight to him, his tongue sliding over her bottom lip, willing her to open for him. When she did, they both groaned, and the kiss grew wilder, deeper, more frenzied.
Explosive.
And then he was pulling away from her. “We can’t. Christ, Imogen. We’re in the middle of the street.”
“I don’t care.”
“We have to get you home. The snow—”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to go home. I want to be with you.”
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, and she knew he was willing himself to be noble, the wretched man. He took a deep breath and then said, “We’ll tell the driver to go . . .”
He trailed off, turning toward the hack. Which was gone, of course. Normally busy Theobalds Road was empty. The snow was coming faster and heavier. And it was immediately clear to both of them that there was no way Imogen was getting to Mayfair that night.
He cursed into the night.
“What will you do with me now?” she asked.
He looked down at her, closed his eyes once more, and whispered, “Fuck.”
She could not resist. “Really?”
He let out a bark of surprised laughter. “I didn’t mean— Come to think of it, ladies are not supposed to know that word.”
She grinned. “Does it help that I only know it in theory? Not in practice?”
“It doesn’t. At all.” He paused, looking up to the sky, snow falling into his beard as he thought, and she loved the play of emotion over his face. Determination, desperation, and desire. He wanted this almost as much as she did.
Please, she wanted to say. Please, don’t take me home. Please keep me with you.
And then a final emotion appeared, as though he’d heard her. Surrender.
Taking her hand once again, he pulled her through the snow to the corner.
“Where are we going?” she asked, but her heart was already pounding. She knew what he was going to say. They were in Holborn, after all.
“To my rooms.”
