Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

Ignoring the triumph that coursed through him as he found her in the darkness, on the far side of the room—a library—looking out the window, he closed the door behind him, taking care to make enough sound that she would hear. He didn’t want to scare her.

Did she scare? She was a woman who faced down the worst of men without help or hesitation, much to his own frustration, so Tommy highly doubted he would scare her.

Still, she turned at the sound, the darkness of the room hiding her face. A beat of silence, fairly crackling with anticipation. And then, “You found me.”

Of course he’d found her. He was beginning to think it was all fated—following her, finding her.

Christ. It wasn’t fair that she looked the way she did. Like a treat in a shop. Sweet and lush and more tempting than was sensible. The dress that made her look like a sunset in the light was a different thing altogether in the dark. With the moonlight streaming through the window, it was the color of summer peaches—the kind that sent rivers of juice down one’s chin.

Tommy’s mouth watered.

“As I’ve said before, my lady, you are very bad at hiding.”

He imagined her lips curving in the darkness with the memory of their conversation the other night, and resented the shadows for keeping him from seeing it. “As I have said before, Mr. Peck, I am not trying very hard.”

He turned to lock the door—he wasn’t a fool, and he knew that if they were found alone in the dark, it would destroy them both—before approaching her slowly, knowing he shouldn’t and, as usual, not being able to resist her temptation. “If not hiding, then what?”

She lifted her chin, and admiration burst in his chest. Whatever she was about to say would be all truth. Pure Imogen. “Perhaps I was waiting for you to find me.”

Something burst in his chest. Dangerous, like her explosions.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I was looking for you.”

She shook her head. “No. Why are you here, at Trevescan House? Dressed like . . .”

He held his breath as her gaze tracked over him in the dim light, realizing that while he’d hated donning this costume earlier, now . . . he wanted her approval.

“. . . like a rake about to lure a lady into the gardens.”

A delicious vision appeared. Imogen in the gardens, looking like the sun, him on his knees, worshipping her.

They shouldn’t be there. Together. Alone.

He shook his head to clear it, even as he went hard as stone. He cleared his throat at the discomfort and cast about for something to say to bring the conversation away from darkness and the things husbands and wives did within it. “Should you not be . . . dancing?”

She looked to him. “Are you offering to take me for a spin?”

His brow furrowed. “No.”

“Do you dance, Detective Inspector?”

“Not here,” he said.

“You ought to learn,” she said. “What with how you look . . . ladies will want to dance with you.”

He didn’t care what ladies wanted to do. He wanted to know what a lady wanted to do. “I know how to dance.”

Her brows rose. “Did they teach you that at Whitehall?”

“No,” he said. “My mother taught me.”

On Sunday afternoons around the scarred oak table in the main room of their flat in Shoreditch. A vestige of his mother’s former life, before she’d been swept away from her home in Marylebone by David Peck, a street sweep who’d promised her the wide world.

And delivered none of it.

Not that Esme Peck had ever seemed to mind as she’d sent Tommy and his sister, Rose, around and around the table, clapping her hands in time to an imaginary orchestra. His parents had made music all on their own.

But his father had never been able to make good on his promises, and when he died, Esme had been left with far less than she’d been born with.

He cleared his throat, willing the thoughts away even as he welcomed the lesson in them. This place—it was not for him.

This lady—he could never give her the life she deserved.

Imogen was studying him. “That’s an unexpected education for a policeman.”

“Considering how you spend your time outside of Mayfair, my lady,” he replied, “I would think you are expert in uncommon education.”

Her brows rose at the question—no doubt she’d heard the edge in it . . . the one he hadn’t meant to be there. “What education should I have received?”

“Training in all the typical useless nonsense.”

Her eyes were lit with fire now, as though she’d never been so entertained. “Define useless nonsense.”

She was baiting him and he took it. “Embroidery, dancing, menu planning . . . French. Dancing.”

She made a face. “Menu planning. Awful. We only ever have lamb when my brother dines at home.”

“You don’t enjoy lamb?” Why did he ask that? He didn’t care how she felt about lamb.

“I enjoy lamb even less than I enjoy dancing if I’m being honest.”

He blinked. “And French?”

She shook her head. “I did not take to it.”

“What did you take to?”

“Chemistry.”

He couldn’t help his surprised laugh—or the pleasure that came with the way her gaze brightened, as though she liked making him laugh. He liked it, too. Even though he shouldn’t.

“And a bit of Old Norse.”

His brows rose. “I’m sure that comes in quite handy.”

“Less handy than chemistry, equally as handy as menu planning,” she said.

He shook his head, unable to stop himself from saying, “You are like no woman I have ever known.”

She grinned, pride in her bright eyes. “So I have been told.”

His chest was tight with the look of her. With the way she did not hide her curiosity, but instead took pride in it. “When I was a little girl, my father used to boast to his friends about me. Rubbish at embroidery, excelled at equations. No grace whatsoever on the dance floor, but more than able to handle combustible liquids. Unable to wrap my head around menu planning, but an excellent addition to a discussion of animal husbandry. Could converse with a Viking, but not with the French ambassador.” She paused for a long moment and then quipped, “And would you believe not a single visit to Reykjavik?”

They laughed together, softly, the sound curling around them like a promise. And then, like a fool, Tommy said, “I would have been proud of you, too.”

“Thank you.” She dropped a tiny bob of a curtsy, her black ringlets bouncing as her smile turned bittersweet. “But when he died . . .” She shook her head. “Well. Suffice to say, Charles did not find me so worthy of discussion.”

Her brother was an idiot.

She took a deep breath and let it out. “My friends, luckily, have found me quite useful.” She tilted her head in his direction. “And I know my way around an explosion.”

“A fact I fully intend to discuss with you.”

She nodded. “I am not a fool, Detective Inspector.”

His brows shot together. “What does that mean?”

“Only that I assumed you were here for business, rather than pleasure.”

In that moment, Tommy decided that women like Imogen Loveless should not say the word pleasure. It was distracting and dangerous. And it filled a man’s thoughts with visions that were absolutely unbusinesslike.

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh if he weren’t suddenly consumed with the need to tell her the truth. “Lady Imogen, I am here because your brother invited me.”

“Ah.” Something unpleasant coursed through him at the little response, as though he’d said something wrong, even though it was the truth. Even though it was not a secret. Before he could speak, however, Imogen added dryly, “My brother certainly has a way with the home secretary.” She stood straight, her little sigh like gunshot in the quiet room. “And so? You are to play companion until, what . . . I choose a husband?”

“That is what we discussed.”

“So you are to be my keeper. My brother is afraid of the rest of the world discovering what I do with my time, if not hours of embroidery and dancing lessons. And you are to ensure I do not leave the limits of Mayfair.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She shook her head. “Really, Detective Inspector. I would have thought you’d have no patience for this whatsoever. Playing nursemaid to me, as though I am an errant child.”

“You have been nearly killed twice in the last ten days, my lady, so—”

“Don’t call me that,” she said. “Not if you’re to be my governor.”

“Stop,” he said, disliking the words. He should leave this room. Wait outside for her. If they were caught, Dorring would call them both on the carpet. Hell, if they were caught, they’d both be ruined. Frustration flared and he thrust a hand through his hair. “He didn’t come to me, Imogen. I went to him.”

She sucked in a breath at the words. At her name, which felt forbidden on his lips without her title preceding it. “Why?”

Because you aren’t safe. “Because I want you to tell me what you know about the explosions in the East End.”

Understanding dawned. “So you convinced my brother I required a keeper.”

“Not a keeper. A guard.” In the darkness, the word took on new meaning—not an assignment. Not business. Something else. Something more powerful.

As though he were her protector. And hadn’t he been? Hadn’t he taken an arrow for her as he’d carried her from a collapsing building? Hadn’t he raised his broadsword as he’d saved her from the carriage careening down Bedford Court?

Hadn’t he donned chainmail for her that very evening, and headed into battle in Mayfair?

“Is there reason to believe I need one? Besides my brother’s bid to keep me from besmirching his own reputation?”

“Considering the trouble you and your friends discover regularly, and the fact that you’ve put at least two aristocrats in Newgate, a guard is not the worst of ideas.”

“I haven’t needed one yet.”

“You need one all the damn time!” he said sharply. “If I hadn’t been in Spitalfields . . . in Covent Garden . . .”

“If you hadn’t been in those places, I wouldn’t have been in danger, Detective Inspector.” The woman was enraging. But before he could say so, she added, “And I am to be grateful for you offering to play shadow to me until I am packed off to the country to be a wife to someone who neither loves nor understands me?” She gave a little laugh. “No, thank you.”

It hadn’t occurred to him what would happen when she found a husband, but he didn’t like the idea of Imogen Loveless—who’d once marched into the jail at Scotland Yard and blown open one of its cells—whiling away her days in the country.

Though she wouldn’t be forgotten.

That, he was sure of.

She shook her head. “I’m very sorry, Detective Inspector, but you have hitched your wagon to the wrong horse. I’ve no intention of being kept or guarded or nursemaided or whatever it is you’re intending.”

In his silence, Imogen nodded and crossed toward the door, the only sound in the room the silk slide of her skirts. He moved to let her pass, telling himself it was for the best. The sooner they were out of this room, the sooner he could return to the comfort of his job.

Except he couldn’t stop himself from speaking to her retreating back. “You’ve no intention of marrying, either. So why are we here, Lady Imogen?”

She stopped, lifting her gaze to his. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He approached her, slowly. Certainly. “Your brother may be easily fooled, my lady, but I am not. You’ve no intention of marrying anyone in that ballroom. What are you up to?”

She worried her lip, watching him. Considering her reply. Choosing her words. He waited, ready to unravel whatever lie she was about to tell.

Except, as usual, Imogen Loveless was not predictable. One of her lovely round shoulders lifted and fell in a little shrug. “Perhaps I am proving to my brother that I am not the marrying kind.”

It was nonsense, of course. “And when half the eligible men in Mayfair ask for your hand?”

She laughed. “For all the time you spend in Mayfair, you don’t spend much time in ballrooms, Mr. Peck. And it shows.”

“What does that mean?”

“I am too much for marriage. Were you not listening when I told you about the Old Norse?”

The words filled Tommy with indignation and no small amount of anger. The idea that someone might find her to be too much—when he could not find a way to look away from her—it was infuriating.

Bollocks.

Before he could find a less foulmouthed response, she lifted her attention to his chest. “I blame my ancestors.”

“Your ancestors?”

She nodded. “Imogen Loveless. It’s in the name, after all. My destiny.”

“Bollocks.” Turned out, he couldn’t keep it in. “You’re perfectly loveable.”

Her gaze flew to his at the words, and he drank in the look of her, eyes wide, mouth parted on a surprised little gasp, her shocked expression there and gone in an instant, replaced with a secret little smile. “That’s kind of you.”

Tommy had never in his life felt less kind.

They stood in silence for a long moment, and then she took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. He caught his breath, knowing he should back away. Knowing he should end this—whatever it was about to be. Knowing that if they were caught . . . everything would go sideways.

Except she spoke, the words barely a sound, “I disappeared from the ball.” He could not move. “And I wanted you to come looking.” He shouldn’t be so close to her. Shouldn’t be able to feel her heat. To scent her perfume, lush and mouthwatering. “But I should have hidden from you.”

“Why?” He shouldn’t ask.

“You scare me.” He stiffened, but before he could pull away, to put space between them, she lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips along his cheek. “Wait. Not like that. Let me . . .”

“Explain.” The word came harsher than he intended. A demand rather than a request, and he forced his hands into tight fists at his sides. He shouldn’t touch her. That wasn’t the job. The job was to protect her.

It didn’t feel like a job.

“I—” she started, then stopped, collecting her thoughts. Her lips pursed into the prettiest little bow he’d ever seen. He bit the inside of his cheek. Christ. The woman had just admitted he scared her, and no wonder; he was imagining all the ways he wanted to devour her. “I am used to chaos.”

He offered a crooked smile at the words. “I expect you are.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I am used to being the source of chaos. But you . . .” It killed him to wait in that pause that seemed to stretch on forever. “You make me feel . . . like the chaos is outside of me. Like I can’t control it.”

The pleasure that came at the confession was acute. “You make me feel that way all the time,” he said, unable to stop himself from reaching for her. “Out of control.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You shall get used to it.”

Her brown eyes found his in the darkness. “Does it go away?”

“No,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t tell her the truth. That if she was like him, she would start to hunger for it.

She tilted her head, as though she was thinking of a solution. Of a cure. “Perhaps if . . .”

His brows rose. “If?”

“If there were some way to embrace it.”

“Embrace it?” She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant.

She nodded and stepped closer, looking down at his hands, his fists clenched tightly even though she was close enough to touch. Because she was close enough to touch. He could lift one hand and stroke his fingers up her arm. Over the soft skin of her cheek. Into her curls. Tilt her face up to his. Claim those pretty red lips again. Revisit the taste of her, fresh and sweet.

He could, but he wouldn’t.

This was his job. He was to guard her. To keep her from danger.

But in that moment, somehow, he had become the biggest danger to her.

Her head was bowed now, staring down at the floor. No. Not at the floor. At his hand. She reached for it, her fingers stroking over his fist, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. How was it possible that her touch felt like that? Like fire, rushing through him.

Like mayhem.

He released a shaking breath and she looked up at him, realization in her dark eyes, rimmed with sooty lashes. “You feel it, too. The ratatatat.”

Yes. Yes.

But he wouldn’t admit it.

“Perhaps,” she started again, “if we just . . . let it take us . . . for a moment . . . once more . . .”

A terrible idea.

“Maybe it will calm it.” Her fingers were sliding up his arm now—scattering his thoughts with her soft touch, so soft he had no doubt he could resist her. She a foot shorter than he. He’d proven he could lift her. He should do that. Immediately. Lift her up and set her aside and leave this room.

“Calm it,” he repeated, instead.

“The chaos,” she whispered.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be calm again. “Once more,” he said. Surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to say that.

He hadn’t meant to return her touch. Hadn’t meant to stroke over the lush curve of her waist. Didn’t mean to pull her closer. To slide his other hand up to the soft skin of her jaw, to tilt her toward him.

“Just once,” she said. “And maybe then . . . it will feel . . .”

“Better.” It wasn’t a terrible idea; it was a brilliant one.

“Right.” She nodded, coming up on her toes, meeting him as he leaned down.

“Just one kiss,” he said. “And then—”

She closed the distance between them, and he forgot the plan.