a moment, biting on the inside of her cheek fretfully.
A boisterous group of gentleman approached. She waved at them desperately. “Help! Help! Someone has . . .”
They continued walking, paying her no heed.
With an unladylike mutter, she surged forward, determined to do something.
Jacob had saved her from being trampled. Even if he had displeased her with his thoughtless remarks, helping him was the least she could do. She owed him that.
Of course, she had no plan.
She approached the mouth of the alley and peered around the corner in time to see the two lads toss him to the ground.
Jacob was not to be subdued, however.
He was quick on his feet, vaulting back up, fists ready, striking one of his attackers with surprising speed.
Naturally, they did not care for that.
The footpads knocked him back down. He rolled, avoiding their fists. One of the lads finally managed to seize him and to forage through his jacket, on the hunt for his pocketbook.
Jacob would not give up the fight, however. He twisted like a slippery eel, doing his best to evade the ruffian’s hands.
The glint of a dagger flashed in the darkness and she reacted without thought.
She jumped into the alley, brandishing her reticule and crying out, “Halt there! Unhand him! I’ve called the Watch!”
A lie, of course, but she hoped the bluff would frighten them away.
The lads froze for a fraction of a moment, and then they bolted—the need for self-preservation prevailing as they scurried like rats on a sinking ship. They forgot all about the man whose pockets they were busy pilfering, fear of Newgate winning over their greed.
Their feet beat a loud retreat as they fled out the opposite end of the alley. Primrose rushed to where Jacob was crumpled on the ground. She bent over and grasped his arm.
“Are you terribly injured?” She assessed him worriedly, her fingers flexing over his sleeve.
He grunted and lifted himself to his feet. She tried to assist him, distrusting that he wasn’t truly hurt. She had seen the footpads strike him at least once and she doubted that he was unscathed.
“Jacob?” she pressed, her concern for him overriding decorum.
Yes, she’d just used his Christian name.
“I could have handled that myself, you know.”
“Oh. Indeed?” Had she not insisted the very same thing to him?
“Indeed,” he agreed.
She gave him an arch look and began to slide her hand off his arm, but he stopped her, seizing her fingers. Startled, she looked down at where his hand covered hers, where they were connected. Prim sucked in a breath and held it.
Butterflies danced in her chest, swooping down into her belly. She had never felt a boy’s hand before. Not without gloves between them.
Everything slowed as she gazed down at where their hands joined.
His hand was much larger, the back of it broad and strong, lightly veined and sprinkled with hairs. Competence. That was the word that floated across her mind. These weren’t the hands of an old man, like Begonia’s husband. Not the lily-white, slight hands of Violet’s betrothed. These were the hands of a competent and vital young man. Not a boy.
Prim winced. There was really no sense in comparing Jacob to any of the very few gentlemen in her life, because he would never be a gentleman in her life. Not beyond this moment. Not beyond this night. He was so far afield from her. She might as well be swooning over the moon.
Jacob’s hand flexed over hers, enveloping her hand in a firm, warm grasp. It was most disconcerting. True, she had initiated the contact, but it still sent a bolt of awareness skittering through her.
Her gaze lifted back to his, and she felt pulled in, drawn into the compelling darkness of his eyes, causing her stomach to flutter anew. She fought to quell the sensation. She’d best not come to expect things like flutters. No good could come of it. Only heartache and disappointment.
Matches were made for practicality, not because of things like flutters. Mama had lectured on that point too many times to count. Along with the warning not to expect emotion or sentimentality from a future husband. According to her mother, it was not in a man’s disposition, as they were far too concerned with masculine pursuits.
And why was she thinking of matches anyway? She was not in one of the gothic romances she purchased from the local bookshop and then hid from Mama. Mama blamed such books for filling Prim’s head with rubbish.
And it was not as though Jacob