flash of some emotion in his eyes—anger, or perhaps hurt. But when he spoke again, his voice returned to its rich, low tones. “I am something of a poet, you see. I asked where I might find you because I am currently working on a volume of odes to London’s great beauties. I should like to include you.”
She blinked at him in disbelief. As he stood at the edge of the water, framed by the light of the lamps and the moon, he looked like a dark god of war, just arrived in a new land, ready to conquer all he surveyed. The idea of this man as a poet was ludicrous. His flattery was obviously intended to lure her to his town house and into his bed. Elizabeth couldn’t explain the twinge of disappointment she felt upon discovering he was no better than the other lords she had met.
“I would not be interested, Lord Darkridge.” She started to walk back to the house.
He stepped in front of her before she could get more than a few paces. “But we have only just met. Or have you another engagement tonight?”
Elizabeth glared at his chest, annoyed at his persistence and distressed by his question. She could not shake the feeling that this man knew much more than he should, that she was not safe out here alone with him. “No, I haven’t another engagement. But my aunt does not like to stay out late, and I am sure she is ready to return home.”
Before she could move around him, he reached out and took her hand.
“Sir,” she ground out, “if you are any kind of a gentleman, you will let me go. And if you do not, I shall scream.”
~ ~ ~
Pierce didn’t heed her threat. He believed her, but found himself unwilling to let go. He had been wandering the grounds for an hour, trying to think of a way to get inside and find her, when she neatly presented herself, a pale wisp of lavender moonlight, floating over the lawn in her silk gown.
She hesitantly raised her head, and he felt the strangest clenching sensation in his chest. Her eyes, so bright—and somehow so haunted—drew him in like a song of bittersweet beauty. Her blunt, straight nose and slightly uneven lips didn’t detract from her charm. On the contrary, they elevated her looks to the realm of the uncommon. This was no angel drifted down from heaven, made for poets to sing of. This was a woman as real and dark and intriguing as the night itself, a woman made for a man.
“You really must let me go,” she said.
“No, I don’t think I shall.”
There was no mistaking her voice, either. The Cockney accent was gone, but the husky, throaty sensuality in its place held him enthralled. Hellfire, he should just let her leave. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had stepped in front of her. His first look at her face had told him all he needed to know.
There was no doubt in his mind that Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley and the highwayman Blackerby Swift were one and the same. The London magistrates, however, would not believe him if he presented this lady, looking like she did now. They would laugh him out of the Old Bailey.
He would have to capture her at the scene of one of her crimes, in her disguise. He guessed that the real reason she was so eager to leave was that she intended to take Montaigne’s midnight coach. He might catch her in the act this very night.
So why didn’t he just let her go?
The moon bathed her skin in pearl-white light, from the delicate line of her chin to the shadowy edge of her shoulders. The upper curve of her full, high breasts was just visible above her décolletage, and Pierce’s whole body tensed unexpectedly at the sudden image of this woman—Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley, Blackerby Swift, or whoever the devil she really was—lying naked beneath him, here on the grass.
His fingers itched to touch her, just there, at that vulnerable spot where lavender silk and white lace gave way to warm, soft woman.
The next instant, he lowered his lips to hers.
“Please.” She jerked her head to one side, a note of panic in her voice. She tried to pull her hand out of his, and this time Pierce released her, amazed at his own impulsiveness. This wasn’t like him at all. He hadn’t paused a second to think