“What will we do?” Amelia asked in her precious voice.
“Survive,” Maria said quietly. “And stay together. I will protect you. Never doubt that.”
They fell asleep and when she woke, she found Amelia gone.
And her life had changed forever.
Suddenly eager to be productive in some manner, Maria rose to her feet. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out to the gallery. The two footmen who stood on either side to keep the ambitiously amorous away snapped to attention. “My carriage,” she said to one. He hurried away.
Then she was bumped none too gently from behind, and as she stumbled, was caught close to a hard body.
“I beg your pardon,” murmured a deliciously raspy voice so near to her ear she felt the vibration of it.
The sound stilled her, caught her breath and held it. She stood unmoving, her senses flaring to awareness far more acute than usual. One after another, impressions bombarded her—a hard chest at her back, a firm arm wrapped beneath her breasts, a hand at her waist, and the rich scent of bergamot mixed with virile male. He did not release her; instead his grip upon her person tightened.
“Unhand me,” she said, her voice low and filled with command.
“When I am ready to, I will.”
His ungloved hand lifted to cup her throat, his touch heating the rubies that circled her neck until they burned. Callused fingertips touched her pulse, stroking it, making it race. He moved with utter confidence, no hesitation, as if he possessed the right to fondle her whenever and wherever he chose, even in this public venue. Yet he was undeniably gentle. Despite the possession of his hold, she could writhe free if she chose, but a sudden weakness in her limbs prevented her from moving.
Her gaze moved to her remaining footman, ordering him silently to do something to assist her. The servant’s wide eyes were trained above her head, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed hard. Then he looked away.
She sighed. Apparently, she would have to save herself.
Again.
Her next action was goaded as much by instinct as by forethought. She moved her hand, setting it over his wrist, allowing him to feel the sharp point of the blade she hid in a custom-made ring. The man froze. And then laughed. “I do so love a good surprise.”
“I cannot say the same.”
“Frightened?” he queried.
“Of blood on my gown? Yes,” she retorted dryly. “It is one of my favorites.”
“Ah, but then it would more aptly match the blood on your hands”—he paused, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, making her shiver even as her skin flushed—“and mine.”
“Who are you?”
“I am what you need.”
Maria inhaled deeply, pressing her corset-flattened bosom against an unyielding forearm. Questions sifted through her mind faster than she could collect them. “I have everything I require.”
As he released her, her captor allowed his fingers to drift across the bare flesh above her bodice. Her skin tingled, gooseflesh spreading in his wake. “If you find you are mistaken,” he rasped, “come find me.”
He stepped back and she spun in a flurry of skirts to face him.
She expertly hid the true depth of her surprise. The renderings in the papers did not do him justice. Pale golden hair, sun-kissed skin, and brilliant blue eyes enriched features so fine they were almost angelic. His lips, though thin, were beautifully sculpted by a master hand. The entire sum of his countenance was so stunning, it was disarming. It made one want to trust him, something the cold intentness of his gaze told her would be a mistake.
As she studied him, Maria absently noted the undue attention they were attracting from the other patrons in the gallery, but she could not spare a quelling glance. Her attention was snared by the man who stood so arrogantly assured before her. “St. John.”
Showing a leg in a courtly bow, he smiled, but it did not reach his eyes—glorious eyes that were made more poignant by the shadows that rimmed them. He was not a man who slept often or well. “I am flattered by your recognition.”
“What is it that I am supposed to be lacking?”
“Perhaps whatever it is your men search for?”
The surprise elicited by that statement could not be hidden. “What do you know?”
“Too much,” he said smoothly, his gaze intensely searching. Sensual lips curved and trapped her attention. “And yet, not enough. Together, perhaps, we could achieve our aims.”
“And what is your aim?”
How was it that he would approach her so soon after Welton? Surely it could not be a coincidence.
“Revenge,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue so casually she wondered if he was as dead to emotion as she was. He would have to be to live the life of crime he did. No remorse, no regret, no conscience. “The agency has meddled in my life one too many times.”