took it from her, donning it deliberately. “Are you all right?” He asked the question as if he dreaded the answer, but his features didn’t at all convey what his voice had.
She wished she could identify his expression, but it was a certain kind of inaccessible. Pleasant, but arch. Remote, but attentive. Intense, but polite.
Very carefully so. As if he was suddenly wary or mistrustful of her.
Had she done something wrong?
“Never better.” She summoned her most dazzling smile, wishing she had the strength to open her lids past half-mast. That she didn’t suddenly want to cry, not because she was sad, but because something powerful had just happened and her emotions hadn’t been prepared for it.
“Do you ever—that is—do you care about the women with whom you’ve spent the night?” she ventured. “Romantically, I mean?”
His gaze flicked away from her, and he stared at the gate, as if hoping the exit would draw closer.
“I don’t allow myself the luxury of romance,” he answered, and Pru believed she’d never heard anything more honest. Or more depressing.
“Do you ever want to, in spite of yourself?” She was a sentimental fool, but something within her burned to know.
He shook his head adamantly. “Terrible things happen to those I care about.”
His answer piqued both her curiosity and her compassion, but he stood before she could reply, and reached down to help her up.
He lifted her with such surprising strength. He was neither overly tall nor was he more than elegantly wide. But rather superbly fit, his every inch hardened with well-used muscle.
She’d first-rate knowledge of that.
“Is it gauche of me to express gratitude?” she asked. “Other than remuneration, that is.”
His face softened and the glaciers of his eyes melted behind his mask, his gaze touched every part of her face. “Is your coach nearby? How are you getting home?”
“I’ll manage, thank you.” A part of her deflated. Of course, he was gently telling her it was time to go. Bless him, for keeping up at least the appearance of concern. “What are you called?”
A sad smile touched his lips as he lifted a lock of her hair that’d escaped its coiffure. He tucked it back in place, smoothing it down with such a tender motion, her throat ached. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just a shadow.”
Bending down, he retrieved her drawers from where they lay discarded by the fountain and turned to give her privacy. She turned as well, bending to step into them.
“But what if I—” She almost toppled when trying to step into the second leg of the garment and had to steady herself before going on. “What if I’d like to find you again?”
“You won’t, I’m afraid.”
She drew her underthings up over her stockings and garters. Glad that they’d absorb the dampness that lingered there, until she was able to return home. Wriggling into them, she dropped her skirts and petticoats and smoothed them down her thighs.
Thighs that had just been spread for him. For the man who didn’t want to tell her his name.
She whirled back around. “I’m Pru—”
He was already gone.
Chapter 4
Three Months Later
“Congratulations, Morley, you’re famous!” Millie LeCour lowered the periodical she read from across the carriage and wriggled dark brows at him. “They’re calling you the Knight of Shadows.” She leaned deeper into Detective Inspector Christopher Argent’s side so she could show him what she read. “Sufficiently ominous, don’t you think, darling?”
“Terrifying,” he replied with his distinct brand of prosaic nonchalance. He didn’t spare the paper a glance, but he tilted his head to inhale the very nearness of Millie before pressing a careful kiss into her coiffed dark hair.
Morley’s grim mood darkened to thunderous. “Bloody journalists,” he muttered, hoping his companions would believe the papers solely responsible for his ire.
And not their nuzzling nonsense.
It’d never much bothered him before that night with— No. No, he didn’t allow himself to dwell on that. To transpose sylphlike features over Millie’s bold ones, if only because she shared the slight build and black hair of the woman who haunted his dreams.
Because he’d almost convinced himself the most memorable night of his life had been exactly that. A dream. A strange fabrication of fancy. A hallucination induced by exhaustion, an overtaxed psyche, and vacuous lack of sex.
“Oh, I realize you two men are of the opinion it’s sensational and absurd,” Millie continued. “But if you think about it, a villain setting out to commit a crime might think twice if he’s worried about running afoul of the Knight of Shadows.” Reaching