A Secret Surrender - Darcy Burke Page 0,41

him.

The first kiss had been a question, a curiosity. This was an exploration, a search for…something. Selina had kissed several men, starting with Luther when they’d been little more than children. He’d begged her before she’d gone away to school.

But none of them had ever felt like this. Like something she’d never been able to attain—a sense of belonging, of rightness, of everything leading to this particular moment.

His lips brushed and moved across hers, teasing and enticing. Sensation built, and the connections grew longer until his mouth molded against hers, and he held her in his arms, one hand cupping her nape. Then his tongue slid along her lips, and she invited him inside.

Selina clutched at his back, her fingertips digging into his waistcoat. She kissed him back with what little skill she felt she possessed. He, however, was not remotely deficient. Desire—at least she thought it was desire, because she had nothing to compare this sensation to—streaked through her. It would be so easy to lose herself on this tide.

Selina brought her hands around him and slid them up his chest. Then she closed her lips against his, giving him one last kiss before she stepped back. Now he was breathless too—if the rapid rise and fall of his chest meant anything, and of course, it did.

“I need to get back upstairs,” she said. “Beatrix will wonder where I’ve gone.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t accompany you. And glad.” He bent to retrieve his hat and gloves, which he’d apparently tossed aside at some point. Selina had been completely unaware. “Forgive me for not escorting you back to the drawing room. I was just on my way to the mews.”

“You’re leaving?”

He cracked a small smile. “It seemed best given my family’s behavior this evening, don’t you think?”

She couldn’t disagree. “Yes.” His family thought they would make a good match, and if things were different, they actually might. But things weren’t different. He was who he was, and she was…not worthy.

The sensation of not being able to breathe returned, but for a wholly different reason. Selina fought to calm herself before he noticed her agitation. “Well, good evening, then.” She pivoted and went back to the stairs leading up to the terrace.

She didn’t look down until she reached the top. He’d made his way to the gate that presumably led to the mews. He hadn’t left, though. She could make him out in the shadows standing there. Looking up at her.

Turning swiftly, she went into the house, her hand shaking as she opened the door. Once inside, she finally drew a deep breath.

That couldn’t ever happen again. It was one thing to keep him—her enemy—close. It was quite another to invite him into her life.

That she must never do.

Chapter 9

Every time Harry closed his eyes, he smelled Selina’s fragrance—orange and honeysuckle—and he tasted her lips, more succulent than any fruit. He opened his eyes and took another drink of ale. He’d been walking around all day like an enamored fool.

“Sheff!” Remy called out as he and Dearborn made their way to Harry’s table in the Brown Bear.

The two constables sat down, and almost immediately, the serving maid brought them tankards. She also brought a fresh one for Harry and scooped his nearly empty one away.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” Dearborn said as he lifted his tankard.

“He’s probably been spending all his time around St. Dunstan-in-the-West,” Remy said. “Or investigating his fortune-teller.”

“Not all my time. And she’s not my fortune-teller.” Harry snorted before taking a drink of the fresh ale. He set his tankard down and looked to Remy. “As you said, the Vicar’s being as elusive as ever. I don’t expect to find him there. I’ve decided to go back to Saffron Hill to investigate the fire and ask about the Vicar. Maybe a new clue will allow me to find him.”

Remy narrowed his eyes slightly for a brief moment. “Don’t get too caught in the past.” He knew that Harry had begun to care for one of the young women who’d died.

“I’m not.”

Remy gave Harry a look that clearly said he thought that was twaddle, but he wasn’t going to pursue the issue in front of Dearborn. “Do you want help?”

“I’d be glad to help too,” Dearborn offered, seemingly oblivious to what Harry and Remy weren’t saying. Or perhaps he was ignoring it on purpose as a matter of deference.

“Thank you,” Harry said, relaxing somewhat. “I appreciate that.” He took another drink, then set his tankard down with a