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  The only plausible explanation was that she had been an innocent.

  A virgin.

  Roland thought back to her hesitant entry at the party. She’d said she was new to the scene, but at the time, he’d thought she’d referred to those sorts of events, not sex.

  Bloody hell!

  That meant she had hired a man to deflower her.

  Which begged the question, why hadn’t he noticed she had been an innocent? Of course, overcome with desire, he had plowed away, but then, he’d never expected her to be chaste.

  Christ, why hadn’t the chit told him it was her first time? Would he have proceeded if she had? A moot point now, but then, if she had hired someone, that person would have been made aware of her circumstance.

  Fury clenched in his gut.

  Damned if he knew why. He felt slow-witted. Betrayed. Used. And damn if he’d ever felt so much emotion at one time. Worse, he still desired her. All those glorious curves packed up into an exquisite package.

  He had been her first lover.

  A predatory possession seized him.

  This, in particular, he did not like. He never returned to women after tupping them. Never. But he wanted answers. And he wanted them this very moment.

  Roland stalked from his chamber, leaving his valet, and the man’s furrowed brow, behind. He ought to leave well enough alone. Ought to…but he wasn’t going to.

  He had just reached the front hall when he was interrupted by his longtime friend, Sebastian, the Duke of Blackcress.

  Just what he bloody needed.

  “Ah. There you are,” Blackcress said, giving him a once over, his dark eyes taking in Roland’s discomposed features before straying to the breeches still clutched in his hand. “What the devil happened to you?”

  “By an adventitious twist of fate, I tupped a virgin.”

  His friend’s eyes flashed. “Did you hurt her?”

  Roland swallowed his irritation. What the hell did Blackcress make him out to be? “Yes, and then I dumped in her the ocean.”

  Blackcress shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Of course, I didn’t hurt her,” Roland snapped. “Well, I suppose I did, in as much as it hurts to take a woman’s hymen.”

  “That’s deplorable.”

  “So says the one who used to like my depravity. What the hell happened to you?”

  “I got married.”

  “Yes, so I heard from the gossip columns. My invitation must have gotten lost in all the excitement,” Roland remarked, his tone surly.

  Blackcress rolled his eyes. “Why invite you to an elopement and deprive you of defiling virgins?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Indeed? And how does one adventitiously-accidentally tup a virgin?” Blackcress asked, brows raised.

  “I would imagine the same way you got married and forgot to inform your closest friend.”

  Or had Blackcress bloody well forgotten he was no saint either?

  “Not the same. However, one could argue my marriage was an intentional accidental one.”

  Roland snorted. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. How does one get intentionally-accidently married?”

  “The marriage wasn’t the accidental part,” Blackcress clarified. “I got roped into a situation I could not possibly walk away from.”

  “That sounds encouraging.”

  Another thing that would be encouraging? His friend’s footfall as he left his house so that Roland could continue to embark on his quest for answers.

  Blackcress shrugged. “I came to invite you to dinner.”

  “Ah, finally, after weeks of waiting in rapt anticipation, I am to meet your wife?”

  Blackcress exhaled on a breath of impatience. “Wooing a wife while entertaining my rakish friend would not have helped my cause to prove I’m reformed.”

  “Woo and wife in the same sentence from you. I am astonished. Have you accomplished your courtship? Your wife won’t be offended by my beastly character?”

  “My wife quite enjoys mine. I daresay she won’t mind yours, as long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

  At that, Roland raised a brow. “So your jealousy has prevented you from introducing us.”

  A dangerous glint entered the duke’s gaze. Roland recognized the look. It was one of pure possession. Clearly, his friend possessed a great amount of affection for his wife. The warning, however, had been clear. Blackcress needn’t have bothered on that score, though. Roland might be an ass, but he valued his friends above seduction.

  Instead of commenting, and thus confirming Roland’s suspicion, Blackcress said, “Dalziel paid me a visit. He mentioned you met a woman.”

  “Indeed,” Roland said, covering his surprise with a lazy drawl. He was going to throttle the Bow Street Runner. “He is hopelessly optimistic.”

  Blackcress’s eyes flicked to the breeches again. “So you are not twisted into knots over this woman?”

  Why the hell did everyone keep harping on that note?

  “Of course not, but the chit owes me an explanation.”

  A bloody good one, in fact.

  “Naturally.”

  His friend did not comment on why it was so important he get answers and Roland didn’t offer up any explanation. He could not explain the urge, even if he tried. Still, he said, “Bloody chit thought I was a whore and had her wicked way with me. Then she tossed me out on my ass the next morning, but only after she gathered I was a dimwitted fool.”

  Blackcress whistled. “You spent the entire night in her bed? She must be something, then.”

  “She is bloody exquisite.”

  “Well, that explains why she tossed you out. And you are a whore. It was always just a matter of time before you asked for coin.”

  The valet, who Roland only just realized had followed him, made a noise much like a laugh.

  Roland shot him a glare. “Retrieve my dueling pistols,” he snapped. “Blackcress dies today.”

  “Are you certain you wish to take the chance? My wife is much more bloodthirsty than you.”

  Roland snorted. “I would like to meet the woman who decided it’s better to marry you than take her chances elsewhere.”

  Blackcress smirked. “I’m devilishly handsome.”

  “All things considered,” Roland muttered.

  “What about you? Do you at least know the name of the woman whose virginity you inadvertently stole?”

  “No, I don’t know her bloody name,” he returned in a flat voice.

  “What do you know?”

  That her voice is exotic. That her lips bewitch me. That her touch sends hot little flames dancing all over my skin.

  “Where she lives,” Roland admitted.

  A gleam flashed in Blackcress’s eyes. “Well, let us not delay a moment longer.”

  Damnation. There would be no getting rid of Blackcress now. This would be fine if Roland wasn’t twisted up into knots, but he was. He didn’t want any witnesses to his madness, much less Blackcress.

  “There is no need for you to tag along,” Roland muttered, in hope that his friend had better things to do with his time.

  “I would not miss this for the world, old chap.”

  Apparently not.

  Roland did not like the way Blackcress was scrutinizing him, that blasted sly glint sparkling in his eyes. It was all too knowing.

  Roland knew better.

  He may be somewhat twisted up, and he may even be a bit mad for her, but that was that. And yes, while he was breaking his code by seeking her out, he only did so because he wanted answers, nothing more. Not even a kiss. Or the slight touch of her hand. Or the whimper of delight through her lips. No, none of that.

  Just a bloody explanation.

  Chapter 8

  Four hours later, Roland stood on the side of a bustling street, furious, and almost at his wit’s end—deliberating on which door to knock. The entire bloody neighborhood looked the same. The same blasted
bricks, the same blasted doors, the same cobbled alleyways. Was this even the correct street? He thought back to the morning his Angel had kicked him out. Roland had been so astonished, so damn angry, he hadn’t taken much note of the surroundings. But he remembered ribbons. And the smell of soap or perfume.

  In fact, he had been so caught up with her charms the night he had accompanied her home, he hadn’t noticed much else. Except for her lips. Those glorious full lips.

  Roland shook off those thoughts.

  He had been so certain…

  “Nothing seems familiar?” Blackcress asked.

  “Everything does, that’s the problem,” he muttered.

  “Perhaps if we inquire with a few stores, someone will point us in the right direction.”

  This was madness. Complete, utter madness. Why had he ever thought it a good idea to seek her out? Roland was fairly certain his quest was over. Why did he think to go through all this trouble for an explanation? It ought not to have bothered him in the first place, and so he vowed he was done. If his Angel did not miraculously appear in the next two seconds, his hunt was over.

  “Let’s just—” he was about to say leave when a teasing aroma hit his nostrils. The rich smell of buttered pastry coated with just the right amount of sugar. It was Christmastide so many smells filled the streets, but this smell, it tugged at his loins.

  Roland remembered that scent and recalled passing a bakery on his way home. In fact, now that he had that recollection, he also recalled the aroma in her home.

  Bread. Toasty.

  Her.

  He turned on his heel and set off in pursuit of that smell. He followed it until his heart thrummed in the vein of his neck. His feet hurried past the small bakery, along the cobbled road until a sense of familiarity rippled over his skin. There, a few feet down the road, he saw it, the blue signage of a quaint little shop nestled inbetween two larger establishments.

  That was the one.

  That was where his Angel lived.

  He rushed forward and in an entirely unceremonious manner, not only unbefitting for a man of his station but also for a detached rake, he plastered his face against the window and peered inside.

  The intake of his breath connected with his lungs the moment his eyes found her and once again, just like the first moment he had caught sight of her four nights ago, he was arrested by her beauty.

  Why the hell had he allowed her to toss him out?

  “Knocking would be preferable to this sight. Should I?” Blackcress drawled beside him with bemusement.

  “The sign reads closed.” That much he had noticed.

  Then, sensing them before Roland could act, she glanced up from behind her desk and angled her head their way. Through the window, their eyes locked and hers narrowed, a frown creasing between her brows.

  Blackcress stepped forward and knocked.

  Roland cursed and pushed away from the window, his back straightening right before she swung open the door. Her striking blue eyes settled on him, then, almost reluctantly, flicked to Blackcress, her gaze traveling over their elegant attire. To his surprise, she dismissed their appearance as no consequence before her gaze fixed back on him.

  Struck momentarily speechless, he could only stare, transfixed.

  “Did you leave something behind?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady.

  Blackcress chuckled.

  Roland shot him a warning glance. This was what he had wanted to avoid—his friend witnessing his descent into madness over a woman. Of course, his Angel did not know his name or who he was. And while he may be many things, he’d be damned if he allowed her to go on believing him a whore.

  “You’re a virgin,” he blurted out.

  Blue eyes blinked, and then her cheeks flushed a glorious shade of crimson.

  Roland cursed his lack of finesse. Now, why the hell had he gone and said that?

  Her gaze flicked between him and Blackcress, her back stiffening, yet she held her ground. “Not anymore,” she snapped, her gaze narrowing on him, anger flashing across her features.

  Roland had to admit, the woman was brave.

  “Angel,” he murmured, pouring all his charm into that one little word. “You were an innocent.”

  “And now I’m not. What is it you are after, sir? I admit I am confused. Are you battling with moral conflict over my virtue? I assure you there is no need. Or have you not spoken to your Madam yet?” She glanced at Blackcress, seemingly coming to a decision about him and giving him her full attention. “I already settled my account with Madam Dexter.”

  Blackcress made a gurgling sound in the back of his throat.

  Roland shot him an impatient look. It was only a matter of time before he succumbed to fits of laughter. Turning his attention back to her, he asked, “Why did you not tell me it was your first time?”

  “I was under the impression the Madam had informed you. And I did mention it was my first time on the scene, Mister . . . ?” she probed.

  “Black.”

  “Mr. Black,” she murmured, her tone suddenly as dry as the desert heat. “In any case, would you have told me if it had been your first time?”

  “Christ, woman, I’m a man. I also don’t work for Madam Dexter. You should probably ask for your money back.”

  Shock crossed her features, her mouth dropping open slightly. Blue eyes widened to saucers. Roland drowned in them. He drowned, for Christ’s sake. On some level, he was aware he stood gawking at her while she sputtered something incoherent but his mind whirled. There appeared to be no function in his brain as he said all the wrong things. Usually, he was much better at reading women, but today he failed on all accounts. His Angel ignited something inside him, and at first, he had believed it to be fire, but now he was tempted to believe she aroused every witless cell he possessed.

  A hard hand hit him on the back of his head.

  He whipped his stony glare to Blackcress. “What the hell was that for?”

  “You were getting all doe-eyed. I panicked.”

  “Madam Dexter does not employ you?” her small voice croaked out.

  And that was when Roland conceded he was an ass. He had no business blurting out sudden truths, intimacies that ought to remain private between them, in the company of others. Mortifying her.

  In an awkward moment, one where Blackcress cleared his throat and Roland shifted on his feet, she looked at him, really looked, before she turned her scrutiny over to Blackcress. Her gaze traveled over their attire in a new light, the incomparable fine cloth that stretched across their upper bodies and legs, their Hessian boots polished to the point of shine. The way they held themselves above the rest.

  Oh yes, Roland knew precisely what she saw and when she made the connection that they were men of considerable means.

  Her eyes lifted to his in accusation.

  To his surprise, instead of anger or tears, she said nothing other than asking, “What then, Mr. Black, is it that you want from me?”

  No weeping hysterics. No foul words flung in his direction. Just one simple question that bore straight to the heart of the matter. She had completely dismissed him, and his apparent considerable means, as inconsequential.

  His hackles rose. And so again, he said the worst possible thing imaginable.

  “I’ve never tupped a virgin before.”

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Apparently Blackcress had a similar thought, because he gave him another slap on the back of his head, this time most deservedly. And much harder.

  Fury flashed in her eyes.

  “Angel, I—”

  “And I, as it so happens,” she interrupted him with a glower, “have never tupped the wrong man before,” and promptly shut the door in his astonished face.

  Roland’s gaze whipped to Blackcress, who, despite his disapproving scowl, had been trying hard not to burst into peals of laughter.

  “You imagine this to be funny?” he growled.

  Blackcress doubled over in
answer.

  Roland knew his friend’s merriment was solely at his expense. Never had he been rejected and treated in such a manner by a woman before. This, however, had quite a curious effect on him. Instead of the expected anger and indignation he thought he’d feel, he found himself intrigued. He wanted to know what made her so brave, brave enough to stand up to a man and dismiss him. He wanted to know why she had gone to such lengths to rid herself of something as valuable as her innocence. He wanted to peel away the layers of mystery until he unearthed all of her secrets.

  Then it struck him.

  “I didn’t even get her name,” Roland muttered.

  Chapter 9

  Claire sagged against the door. Her heart beat at such a throbbing pace it hurt to breathe. Her hand lifted to clutch her chest as she tried to tamp down the overwhelming urge to scream. And bellowing out her emotions at that moment felt like just the thing to do. She had given into a night of wicked sin with the wrong man!

  The wrong man.

  She had given her body to him. She had allowed him to kiss her in places she never thought to be kissed. She had cried out in ecstasy. She had drained a year’s worth of savings.

  All for the wrong man.

  Her gaze swept the room with a glower, as if it was the store’s fault this had happened. The broken vases which had been knocked over and littered the floor upon her arrival had already been disposed of. As for the rest, no one except Claire could tell the difference. Someone had been in her shop. And that person had wanted her to know they had been there. This person also knew an intimate detail of Claire’s—that she took great care to be flawless in her presentation of whatever she sold. Every item in her store, from ribbons, shawls, and bonnets down to the plainest bar of soap, had been rearranged. Her shop was a mess.