He had a few vague pangs about the degree to which he was plotting her downfall, but these were quickly dismissed. It wasn’t as if he was going to ruin her and leave her to the wolves. He was planning to marry the girl, for heaven’s sake.

And no one would know. No one but him and Hyacinth.

And her conscience, which would never allow her to pull out of a betrothal once she’d given herself to her fiancé.

They had made plans to search Clair House that night. Hyacinth had wanted to go the week before, but Gareth had put her off. It was too soon to set his plan in motion, so he had made up a story about his father having guests. Common sense dictated that they would wish to search the emptiest house possible, after all.

Hyacinth, being the practical girl she was, had agreed immediately.

But tonight would be perfect. His father would almost certainly be at the Mottram Ball, on the off chance that they actually made it to Clair House to conduct their search. And more importantly, Hyacinth was ready.

He’d made sure she was ready.

The past two weeks had been surprisingly delightful. He’d been forced to attend an astounding number of parties and balls. He had been to the opera and the theatre. But he had done it all with Hyacinth at his side, and if he’d had any doubts about the wisdom of marrying her, they were gone now. She was sometimes vexing, occasionally infuriating, but always entertaining.

She would make a fine wife. Not for most men, but for him, and that was all that mattered.

But first he had to make sure she could not back out. He had to make their agreement permanent.

He’d begun her seduction slowly, tempting her with glances, touches, and stolen kisses. He’d teased her, always leaving a hint of what might transpire next. He’d left her breathless; hell, he’d left himself breathless.

He’d started this two weeks earlier, when he had asked her to marry him, knowing all the while that theirs would need to be a hasty engagement. He’d started it with a kiss. Just a kiss. Just one little kiss.

Tonight he would show her just what a kiss could be.

All in all, Hyacinth thought as she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, it had gone rather well.

She would have preferred to stay home that night-all the more time to prepare for her outing to Clair House, but Gareth had pointed out that if he was going to send his regrets to the Mottrams, she had best attend. Otherwise, there might be speculation as to both of their whereabouts. But after spending three hours talking and laughing and dancing, Hyacinth had located her mother and pleaded a headache. Violet was having a fine time, as Hyacinth had known she would be, and did not wish to depart, so instead she’d sent Hyacinth home in the carriage by herself.

Perfect, perfect. Everything was perfect. The carriage had not encountered any traffic on the way home, so it had to be just about midnight, which meant that Hyacinth had fifteen minutes to change her clothing and creep down to the back stairs to await Gareth.

She could hardly wait.

She wasn’t certain if they would find the jewels that night. She wouldn’t be surprised if Isabella had instead left more clues. But they would be one step closer to their goal.

And it would be an adventure.

Had she always possessed this reckless streak, Hyacinth wondered. Had she always thrilled to danger? Had she only been waiting for the opportunity to be wild?

She moved quietly down the upper hall to her bedroom door. The house was silent, and she certainly didn’t wish to rouse any of the servants. She reached out and turned the well-oiled doorknob, then pushed the door open and slipped inside.

At last.

Now all she had to do was-

“Hyacinth.”

She almost shrieked.

“Gareth?” she gasped, her eyes nearly bugging out. Good God, the man was lounging on her bed.

He smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She looked quickly around the room. How had he got inside? “What are you doing here?” she whispered frantically.

“I arrived early,” he said in a lazy voice. But his eyes were sharp and intense. “I thought I’d wait for you.”

“Here?”

He shrugged, smiled. “It was cold outside.”

Except it wasn’t. It was unseasonably warm. Everyone had been remarking on it.

“How did you get in?” Good God, did the servants know? Had someone seen him?

“Scaled the wall.”

“You scaled the-You what?” She ran to the window, peering out and down. “How did you-”

But he had risen from the bed and crept up behind her. His arms encircled her, and he murmured, low and close to her ear, “I’m very, very clever.”

She let out a nervous laugh. “Or part cat.”

She felt him smile. “That, too,” he murmured. And then, after a pause: “I missed you.”

“I-” She wanted to say that she’d missed him, too, but he was too close, and she was too warm, and her voice escaped her.

He leaned down, his lips finding the soft spot just below her ear. He touched her, so softly she wasn’t even sure it was a kiss, then murmured, “Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”

“Yes. No. I was too…” She swallowed, unable to withstand the touch of his lips without making a reaction. “…anxious.”

He took her hands, kissing each in turn. “Anxious? Whyever?”

“The jewels,” she reminded him. Good heavens, did every woman have this much trouble breathing when standing so close to a handsome man?

“Ah, yes.” His hand found her waist, and she felt herself being pulled toward him. “The jewels.”

“Don’t you want-”

“Oh, I do,” he murmured, holding her scandalously close. “I want. Very much.”

“Gareth,” she gasped. His hands were on her bottom, and his lips on her neck.

And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could remain standing.

He did things to her. He made her feel things she didn’t recognize. He made her gasp and moan, and all she knew was that she wanted more.

“I think about you every night,” he whispered against her skin.

“You do?”

“Mmm-hmm.” His voice, almost a purr, rumbled against her throat. “I lie in bed, wishing you were there beside me.”

It took every ounce of her strength just to breathe. And yet some little part of her, some wicked and very wanton corner of her soul, made her say, “What do you think about?”

He chuckled, clearly pleased with her question. “I think about doing this,” he murmured, and his hand, already cupping her bottom, tightened until she was pressed against the evidence of his desire.

She made a noise. It might have been his name.

“And I think a lot about doing this,” he said, his expert fingers flicking open one of the buttons on the back of her gown.

Hyacinth gulped. Then she gulped again when she realized he’d undone three more in the time it took her to draw one breath.

“But most of all,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I think about doing this.”

He swept her into his arms, her skirt swirling around her legs even as the bodice of her dress slid down, resting precariously at the top of her breasts. She clutched at his shoulders, her fingers barely making a dent in his muscles, and she wanted to say something-anything that might make her seem more sophisticated than she actually was, but all she managed was a startled little, “Oh!” as she became weightless, seemingly floating through the air until he laid her down on her bed.

He lay down next to her, perched on his side, one hand idly stroking the bare skin covering her breastbone. “So pretty,” he murmured. “So soft.”

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He smiled. Slowly, like a cat. “To you?”

She nodded.

“That depends,” he said, leaning down and letting his tongue tease where his fingers had just been. “How does it make you feel?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He laughed, the sound low and soft, and strangely heartwarming. “That’s a good thing,” he said, his fingers finding the loosened bodice of her gown. “A very good thing.”

He tugged, and Hyacinth sucked in her breath as she was bared, to the air, to the night.

To him.

“So pretty,” he whispered, smiling down at her, and she wondered if his touch could possibly leave her as breathless as his gaze. He did nothing but look at her, and she was taut and tense.

Eager.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, and then he touched her, his hand skimming along the tip of her breast so lightly he might have been the wind.

Oh, yes, his touch did quite a bit more than his gaze.

She felt it in her belly, she felt it between her legs. She felt it to the tips of her toes, and she couldn’t help but arch up, reaching for more, for something closer, firmer.

“I thought you’d be perfect,” he said, taking his torture to her other breast. “I didn’t realize. I just didn’t realize.”

“What?” she whispered.

His eyes locked with hers. “That you’re better,” he said. “Better than perfect.”

“Th-that’s not possible,” she said, “you can’t-oh!” He’d done something else, something even more wicked, and if this was a battle for her wits, she was losing desperately.

“What can’t I do?” he asked innocently, his fingers rolling over her nipple, feeling it harden into an impossibly taut little nub.

“Can’t make something-can’t make something-”

“I can’t?” He smiled deviously, trying his tricks on the other side. “I think I can. I think I just did.”

“No,” she gasped. “You can’t make something better than perfect. It’s not proper English.”

And then he stilled. Completely, which took her by surprise. But his gaze still smoldered, and as his eyes swept over her, she felt him. She couldn’t explain it; she just knew that she did.