To Catch An Earl (Bow Street Bachelors #2)

Chapter 1.

London, 1812.

Only touch what you’re going to steal.

Of the many rules of thieving her father had taught her, that one was key. Emmy Danvers broke it the night of Lady Carlton’s masked ball; she touched Alexander Harland.

She had no intention of stealing him, except from the other eager women in the room. She would simply borrow him for a single dance.

He would never discover her identity. She was wearing a dress Camille had once worn to Versailles, a gorgeous concoction of watered blue silk adorned with gold braiding. A wig, powdered blue-grey and fixed with silk flowers, hid the true color of her hair. She’d added a coquettish patch to the corner of her mouth, the one the books called ‘the kissing’. She was hopeful. And since it was a masquerade, she’d worn a cream leather mask which covered the top half of her face. Only her lips and chin were visible. Harland would never know who she was.

Emmy’s heart pounded against her ribs. This was just like a heist. The same nervous excitement as she eyed the prize, the same pulse-pounding fear of discovery. Harland drew her like the shimmering facets of a well-cut sapphire, a tug of attraction she was helpless to ignore.

He was standing with his two constant companions, Benedict Wylde and Sebastien Wolff. The three of them together were a sight to gladden any girl’s heart, each one as handsome as the next.

With a fortifying breath, she stepped in front of the three men and executed a deep curtsey. They had been in the middle of a conversation, but Harland trailed off mid-sentence when he noticed her, and all three of them turned to stare, no doubt amazed by her shameless effrontery. Women were not supposed to approach men. Then again, women weren’t supposed to steal jewels, either. Emmy had never been terribly good at following the rules.

“Mister Harland,” she said. “I believe this is my dance.”

An intrigued smile touched his lips. He gave her a slight bow in return and she willed him not to refuse her. His blue eyes, through the black mask he wore, regarded her speculatively.

“I don’t recall agreeing to a dance, miss—?” he let the end of the sentence hang, urging her to provide her name. She gave a light laugh.

“Oh, no! This is a masquerade. Names are forbidden.”

“And yet you have mine.”

“Yes. You are already at a disadvantage.” He would hate that. He struck her as a man who would always want the upper hand. “Perhaps you’ll be able to discover my identity during the course of the dance?”

Wolff nudged him. “You can’t possibly turn down a challenge like that, Alex. Take the lady onto the floor.” His appreciative gaze raked her and he flashed her an easy smile. “Because if you don’t, then I certainly will.”

“How can I refuse?” Harland chuckled. He stepped forward and offered her his elbow. “You have intrigued me, my lady.”

Emmy’s stomach gave a little flip. He’d accepted!

With his slow, wicked smile and easy charm, he’d been Emmy’s secret fantasy for so long. A few years older than herself, he’d always been part of a slightly different social set, a glittering, roguish, dangerously thrilling presence at any event he attended. She’d watched from the shadows as he danced with the prettiest girls. He cut a swathe through the debutantes, flirting impartially but without serious intent. Having an older brother who was heir to the title, he was the quintessential carefree second son, free to pursue a life of youthful excess.

Emmy had stayed out of his way, wary of his reputation and of his keen intelligence. She’d been afraid that he’d take one look at her with those piercing blue eyes of his and see right through the demure wallflower she played in public, to the reckless criminal beneath. She’d been content to watch him from afar and dream impossible dreams. Until she heard he was off to fight Napoleon.

What if he was wounded, as her brother Luc had been at Trafalgar? What if he was killed? The thought of a world without Alexander Harland in it, even on the periphery of her life, seemed very bleak indeed.

Seize the day, her grandmother Camille had adjured her. Go after what you want, my love, but be careful. Emmy gave a wry smile. Not Carpe Diem. Carpe Hominem. She would seize the man.

She curled her fingers on Harland’s sleeve and allowed him to lead her into the throng of couples forming in preparation of the next dance. The opening strains of a waltz sounded and she almost laughed in delight. She couldn’t have planned it better.

Harland put his hand at her waist and her breath caught as he tugged her close and lifted their joined hands to shoulder level. Good lord, he was tall.

“We’ve never been introduced,” he stated with utter certainty as they whirled around the floor in a breathless spin. “I’d remember if we had. Tell me your name, princess.”

Emmy laughed, blissfully aware of the thrilling nearness of his body, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back.

“I’m no princess, sir. For all you know I could be a scullery maid who’s stolen her mistress’s dress. I could be a criminal. A thief.”

“A thief,” he laughed softly. “Now that I can believe. You’ve stolen the breath right out of my lungs. Stolen my heart from my chest.”

His teasing words, which he’d somehow made sound so sincere, made her chest ache with poignant longing. If only. But handsome princes never ended up with criminals. Not even in fairytales.

“And you, sir, are a silver-tongued devil,” she countered sternly. No doubt he said such things to every woman with whom he danced. And yet it was so tempting to believe him.

“Who are you?” he murmured. “And where have you been hiding? This can’t be your first London season. You’re no simpering miss of sixteen, just up from the country.”

“That’s true,” Emmy conceded. She didn’t need to think about the steps of the dance. With Harland it was effortless, as if they’d danced like this a thousand times before. “I live here in town. And this is not my first season. But you are correct; we have never been formally introduced.”

“Have we been informally introduced?” he chuckled, and his low whisper did funny things to her insides.

She shook her head. “No. You wouldn’t recognize me, even without this mask and wig.”

“That’s something I’d like to remedy.”

The dance ended, but he didn’t let go of her hand, or return to his friends. He pulled her out onto the terrace and Emmy followed, unresisting. Hand in hand he led her down the steps and out into the moonlit garden. It seemed like something from a dream. They ventured through an iron gate set in a red-brick wall and stepped into the kitchen garden, wreathed in shadows. He tugged her under an apple tree.

Suddenly nervous, Emmy twisted a half-grown apple from a branch and smiled.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Hmm? Oh, this reminds me of a poem I once read about fairies who like to steal apples.” She met his eyes in the dim light. Every one of her senses was alive, prickling with awareness. “It goes; ‘stolen sweets are always sweeter, stolen kisses much completer, stolen looks are nice in chapels, stolen, stolen be your apples.’”

His gaze dropped to her lips. They tingled in response.

“Stolen kisses, hmm?” he murmured. “Maybe we should try it?” He reached up and untied the ribbon holding his mask in place. “Since you already know who I am, I think we can dispense with this.”

He took a step closer and Emmy’s heart pounded as she studied his face. Strong, straight nose, mobile lips curved in gentle amusement. She dropped the apple and slipped her hands between the lapels of his jacket, flat against his chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, feel the unyielding strength beneath her palms. She had the oddest thought that this was home. The place she was destined to be.

He slid his hands around her waist, his long fingers almost spanning the circumference. “Will you take your mask off, little thief?”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

She lifted herself on tiptoe and pressed closer, tilting her head and offering her lips in shameless invitation. Carpe hominem.

Her heart almost stopped when he bent his head and kissed her. A light, almost questioning touch. He repeated the action, his lips soft yet firm, and Emmy closed her eyes, determined to savor the experience. This might be her one and only kiss with Alex Harland, ever.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips. Without thought she opened her mouth and he slid his tongue inside to tangle with hers. Emmy stilled in shock, then realized the sensation was extremely pleasurable. She flicked her own tongue tentatively against his, and was rewarded with a low groan of encouragement.

His hands came up to cup her face. He angled her head and kissed her again. And again. Deeper. Darker. Drinking her in. It was a revelation. A glorious, swirling, taste and tease that turned her bones to jelly. Emmy almost swooned with pleasure. The scent of him filled her nose, the taste of brandy on his tongue made her insides molten.

Minutes, or possibly hours, later, he pulled back, panting. “Your name,” he demanded roughly.

“No.” She hadn’t lost her wits entirely.

He expelled a huff of amused frustration. “If I had more time I would discover exactly who you are.” He brushed the edge of her jawline with his thumb, then stroked it over her lips in a shiver-inducing caress. “But I’m leaving for the peninsular next week.” His arms tightened around her and his mouth thinned in displeasure. “God, I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish we’d met sooner. I—”

Emmy placed her fingers over his lips to stop the flow of words that mirrored her own feelings so precisely. She pressed her own lips together to stop herself from blurting out, Don’t go, then. Stay here. With me.

Impossible. They were from different worlds. Their lives were on opposite trajectories. This was the only time they would ever intersect.

The next kiss was tinged with a bittersweet desperation, a mutual acknowledgement that this one, perfect moment was finite. Fragile. Unrepeatable.

“God, you taste so sweet,” he groaned against her lips. “Smell so sweet. I want to breathe you in and keep you in my lungs forever. Does that sound mad?”

“Not at all.”

It was harder than she’d ever imagined, to pull out of his arms. Cool air replaced the warmth where his body had been. Tears stung her eyes beneath her mask as she took another step away from him.

“Leaving me, princess?” he murmured.

“I must.”

“Will you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

She managed a watery smile at his weak attempt at a joke. “No. But I have to go.”

A good thief always knew when to leave the scene of a crime. Kissing Alex Harland had been better than she’d ever imagined it would be, but it might also prove to be the biggest mistake of her life. Because now she knew precisely what she was missing.

She started back toward the garden gate. He picked up his mask, which he’d dropped on the grass, and retied it. When they reached the steps of the terrace he caught her hand and tugged her around to face him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him.

“Don’t say goodbye.”

He inclined his head. “All right. Let’s simply say goodnight, then.”

He kissed her hand, his lips warm on her skin, and her stomach clenched. She already missed him. How was that even possible? She pulled away and started up the steps.

“I’ll find you,” he vowed at her retreating back. “When I return from Spain.”

He would only find her if she wanted to be found. And she had far too many secrets to allow that.

“No,” she whispered, too softly for him to hear. “You won’t.”