Dukes By the Dozen

Surely, he did not recognize her. No one ever suspected an aging spinster could possibly be the Honest Highwayman. Yet his eyes held cool steel—not the warm blue of the passionate lover she’d left sleeping at dawn.

“I don’t—”

“Unless, of course, you would prefer to discuss various nighttime activities here in the hall?” His voice rumbled lowered, warning Bea just how precarious her position was.

She looked toward her brother, already lurching up the steps to his bedchamber, then toward the butler who watched with guarded eyes. She could not see a choice.

“Very well, then.” Wulf knew her secret—but she’d be damned if he held the reins for this particular reunion. Coolly, angling her head, she murmured, “Please join me in the drawing room, Your Grace.”

Turning on her heel, Bea led him toward the chamber. She could feel his knowledge of her identity—her body—boring into her spine. If a few weeks had passed before they met again, he would not have identified her, and all would have been well. The night would have been nothing but a memory.

Damn him for arriving at Falk Manor instead of returning home.

Damn, damn, damn.

Bea was unprepared to meet him so soon in her spinster garb, had barely been able to set the night from her mind to attend to her other responsibilities. Just the sight of that wicked face and broad shoulders—knowing what was under the greatcoat—had her pulse scrambling.

The drawing room doors snapped shut before she was more than a few feet into the room. Bea swung around, prepared to argue, to defend, to lie.

And was swept up. By his scent, by his arms, by his mouth. Hungry and hot, his lips slanted over hers. Bea met his mouth with the same hunger, because the want had been hiding beneath the surface of her skin. Waiting to surge through her blood and pound into her soul. Gripping his shoulders, she leaned into the kiss, into him, and reveled in the hard body pressed against hers.

Without releasing her, he drew back and looked at her. Just looked. Beyond the spectacles, beyond the blasted wig.

“You are an extraordinary woman.” He’d said the same words before, in those moments trapped between snowstorm and firelight. “Hello, my Honorable Highwayman.”

“I suppose the jig is up.” It stung her pride to be discovered, yet there was relief in sharing the secret. Even for a few moments. “Will you turn me over to the magistrate?”

“I’m considering it.” His mouth came back to hers, tasted and took and gave in the most delicious way. “If you ever leave my bed again without waking me to say goodbye, I most certainly will.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bea drew back, looked hard into those dark blue eyes.

“You don’t think for one minute that we are done, do you? I don’t want last night to be the end.” Gently, he reached for her spectacles, removed them. “Do you need these?”

“Not at all.” There was no point in more lies, so she took the spectacles and slipped them into the pocket of her gown. “They are only glass.”

“The wig?” He flicked a finger at the dull brown curl dangling over her left ear.

“Useful.” Bea tugged at the wig, pulling at pins and scattering them about. She dropped the monstrosity of hair and paste and powder onto the ruined rug, then shook out her cropped natural locks. Reveled in the release of the weight, as she always did.

“There you are.” He framed her face with his large hands, studied it. “You are more beautiful in the daylight than you were in the firelight.”

“Oh, Wulf, that is nonsense.” But it delighted her nonetheless.

“It is true. No, the London dandies would not cater to you, and perhaps you would not have your pick of the marriageable gentlemen—”

“Oh, well,” she said dryly. “That’s flattering.”

“Wait.” He laughed and slid his arms around to circle her waist. “You don’t need the dandies and the gowns and jewels to be beautiful, which is what they judge beauty by.”

“No?” She should not be turning into a puddle with such words, but she was.

“You are beautiful because of something else altogether.” His mouth pressed against hers, soft and sweet. “Your heart.”

Damn him again. Her knees went weak.

“Wulfric Standover, you are a rogue.” At his bland expression, she added, “A sentimental one, but a rogue nonetheless. Which you know.”

“I know nothing.”

“That line belongs to the highwayman of our little scene.”

“So it does.” He traced her mouth with a finger, then the edge of her jaw. That finger slid down the neck to play with her collarbone. “Might I have the pleasure of your name now?”

“Beatrice.” She paused, because it mattered that he used the name she had given to herself. “Bea.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you again.” As he had in the cottage, Wulf raised her hand to his lips. The calluses of his fingers were no less exciting, the touch of his mouth no less thrilling. “Bea.”

Her body shuddered and yearned, just as it had then. Pressing herself against his wide chest, Bea raised her mouth for a kiss. His lips molded to hers, so ready to provide just what she wanted.