Free Cheryl Holt by Too Tempting to Touch Page B

how it could gnaw away at one’s best intentions, but she was about to find out. At their next rendezvous—which would be soon—she’d be much more disposed.
    “I’ll be here tomorrow night,” he advised. “At midnight. Be ready to welcome me.”
    “No!”
    “I’m not giving you a choice.”
    “I’ll lock my door. I won’t let you in.”
    “I have a key,” he warned. “I’ll use it.”
    He strolled out, and as he stepped into the quiet corridor she muttered a very unladylike epithet and hurled an object after him. It banged the wall and fell with a muted thump.
    He smiled, tickled to note that she was in a disturbed state, and he had to admit that he was in no better condition. He was hard and aching, and he burned with a strange yearning as he speculated on how he’d manage until he could be with her, once again.
    He couldn’t wait, and just from contemplating theirpending meeting a burst of gladness raced over him. For ages, his world had been so dreary, so uneventful; then she’d barged in and changed everything. She made him happy, made him anxious to proceed. It was a novel sensation, a type of joy mixed with lust, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so peculiar.
    Excited and eager, he took the stairs two at a time.

  6  
    “You’re dressed like a bloody duke. What are your plans for the evening?”
    “I’m off to con a lady.”
    “Out of what?”
    James chuckled and peeked out the carriage window as it rumbled to a stop in front of a grand mansion. The windows were open and aglow with the flickering of thousands of candles, and the sounds of an expensive orchestra wafted out on the night air.
    “Out of her drawers,” he answered, “and her money, and whatever else I can convince her to give me.”
    “Lucky boy,” his partner, Willie Westmoreland, replied. He glanced out, too, taking special note of the bejeweled women who were parading into the house. “Have you need of any help?”
    “The idea is to be inconspicuous,” James remarked, “so no thank you.”
    There was nothing ordinary about Willie. Not his height, not his looks, not his bearing. Though he’d been born a bastard, he claimed that his father actually was aduke—so perhaps Willie knew how they dressed—but if he had exalted bloodlines, they hadn’t been of much benefit when he was transported with James. He’d been a common criminal and treated just as brutally.
    They’d suffered indignities no man could describe, had endured humiliations no man could forget or forgive, and it had forged a bond between them that could never be broken.
    James hopped out, grinning as he went. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “Have you an invitation to this affair?”
    “What are you? My social secretary?”
    “They won’t let you in without one. The rich are fussy that way.”
    “Don’t worry. There isn’t a building in London that can keep me out.”
    “No, there isn’t. You had a good teacher.”
    “Yes, I did,” James responded, Willie being that teacher.
    James ambled into the crowd, then continued down the walk. In a few seconds, he was over the hedge and strolling in the rear garden. A few seconds more, and he was in the ballroom, sipping on champagne and nibbling on a pastry.
    He had the clothes to masquerade as a member of the Quality, had received a suitable education and upbringing, and the old habits quickly returned. His father had scrimped and sacrificed to send him to schools they couldn’t afford, so James understood these people, how they acted, how they talked. He’d hobnobbed with their sons, had played with them at their summer homes in Surrey.
    The guests wouldn’t speculate over him, and if hestumbled upon any prior associates, he wouldn’t fret about detection. They’d never recognize him. He was too changed.
    When he initially observed Rebecca Burton, she was dancing, though he couldn’t locate Ellen, and he was glad. The less Ellen knew of his scheme, the better.
    He watched from a