Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

In all the years that Imogen had loved explosions, she’d never quite felt a thrill like this—like coming toe to toe with unflappable, immovable, perfectly controlled Thomas Peck and daring him to kiss her.

Enemies close, she told herself. Wasn’t that what they’d decided inside?

Oh, the request was wild and reckless—her brother would lock her in a tower if he knew she’d made it—but if Imogen was to return to Mayfair and have to attend balls, she could at least have this, could she not?

She practically deserved it.

What if this was it, after all? Her only chance to kiss this man she’d watched for more than a year, unable to keep herself from cataloguing all his delicious qualities. She knew ladies weren’t supposed to notice them . . . the broad shoulders, the thick thighs, the sleek beard, the eyes that flashed like he knew every mad thought in her head before she thought it. Like he knew she was thinking of kissing him at that precise moment.

At many moments, if she was honest.

Though, he couldn’t be too surprised by that. She imagined most people who found themselves in Thomas Peck’s company imagined kissing him. He was tall and strong and stern and clever, and he smelled like leather and amber and the sun. Imagining kissing him was simply the product of good sense.

Yes, Imogen had given some thought (a great deal of thought) to kissing Thomas Peck in the past. But until that night, she’d never considered actually asking the man to kiss her. That way, Imogen knew, lay madness.

After all, Imogen was not the kind of woman men simply hauled off and kissed. She was too peculiar and too perplexing, and altogether too much for most men. For most people, if she was honest. Oh, she had the Belles, who welcomed her particular brand of chaos, but it did not escape her that when their husbands looked at her, it was with the curious fondness one might offer an overexuberant Labrador retriever.

Thomas Peck had never once looked at her with even curious fondness. Instead, he looked at her with stern resolve. With steady calm. And, in the thick of it, with unflagging irritation.

Except for now. Now, as her request hung between them in the cold air, and her heart was pounding, the sound like blasting powder in her ears, the poor man looked as though she’d slapped him directly across the face.

Which wasn’t the most flattering response, if Imogen was being honest.

“Are you . . . drunk?” A response that could only be described as unflattering.

Yes. The escape whispered through her. Yes, I am drunk. Why else would I ask you to please kiss me? And somehow, despite knowing she should say yes, she told the truth. “Not at all.” And somehow, despite knowing she should stop talking, she added, “I am perfectly capable of handling my liquor.”

His brow furrowed as he watched her. “You must be drunk,” he said, his jaw setting in a firm line. “It’s the only reason why you would have made that request, in a pub in Covent Garden.”

“Technically I’m outside a pub in Covent Garden.”

“That’s even worse,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night. Tell me, are you attracted to danger? Or is it simply a lack of sense?”

“I’m perfectly sensible.”

He gave a little humorless laugh. “In the last fourteen months—”

“Has it been fourteen months?” she asked. It had been, but she didn’t think he would have also been counting them.

He didn’t reply. “I have found you in the midst of a turf war between two of the most powerful gangs in London, inside this very building as it was raided by thugs, inside a hollowed-out shell of an alleged seamstress’s shop—”

“Not alleged,” she pointed out.

“Absolutely alleged,” he said, “as I don’t believe that was all it was for one moment,” he retorted before continuing, “as the building fell down around us—”

“I haven’t properly thanked you for that—”

“I don’t require thanks,” he said. “I require you telling me what you know, so that I can prevent it from happening again.”

She wasn’t going to do that. She couldn’t be certain he was for trusting. So Imogen stayed quiet.

He understood. “But I know better than to expect you’ll do that, so tonight, I’ll settle for not worrying that you’re going to turn up and explode Scotland Yard!”

“Point of order,” she said. “You cannot prove I did that the first time.”

She had done it the first time, in fact, but Scotland Yard deserved exploding, if you asked her. Not that she was about to tell him that. She was supposed to be keeping enemies close, after all.

He looked to the sky and cursed, dark and soft. Irritated? Exasperated?

“If you don’t wish to kiss me, that’s fine,” she said. “I only thought it might be diverting.”

When he returned his gaze to hers, it was full of something else entirely. “Diverting.”

Even Imogen knew she could not say life-altering. “Yes.”

Something rumbled in his throat, and even in the shadows, she could see the color washing over his cheeks. “Lady Imogen.”

“You needn’t emphasize it,” she grumbled. “I don’t need a reminder that I’m a lady.”

“I didn’t emphasize it to remind you that you’re a lady.”

She looked away, down the street.

He went on. “Nor did I emphasize it to embarrass you.”

“Why, then?” She looked to him, her gaze finding his for a heartbeat before his slid away, over her shoulder, to the door to The Place.

“I did it to remind me that you’re a lady.”

Her mouth dropped open on a little “Oh.” The full meaning of the words became clear. Meaning, if she wasn’t a lady . . . what then? In her lifetime, she’d never been more curious. She repeated herself. “Oh.”

“Dammit,” he grumbled. “Go back inside.”

She had no intention of going back inside. Instead, she stepped toward him, filled with courage. “I thought you wanted to take me home. To my brother.”

“I think you should find someone else to do it.”

Fascinating. She took another step toward him. Close enough to touch him, now. Close enough to feel his warmth. “But what of your assignment?”

“My assignment was to find you. You have been found.”

“Seems a bit like a half-measure if you ask me.” She looked up at him, her breath quickening at the way he stared down at her, his jaw steeled. His brow set. Stern. “What of your promotion?”

He shook his head. Once. “I’ll get it another way.”

And in that breathless moment, Imogen was overwhelmed with something she’d never felt before. Certainty. This man wanted to kiss her. And for someone who had reached the age of twenty-four without ever having been so certain of such a thing . . . it was . . . explosive.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

He shook his head, and she watched the knot in his throat move as he swallowed.

“It’s a frizzle.” She stepped closer.

A low sound from deep in his chest.

How exciting.

She put her hand on the place where the sound had come from. “But that . . . that was a rumble.” It turned into a low hum.

“Tommy?” she asked quietly, the word so soft that the wind would have stolen it if they weren’t so close.

“Mmm.” She wasn’t sure the noise was meant as encouragement, but she took it as such. After all, she might never feel like this ever again. What if this was an irreproducible phenomenon? A chemical equation that only worked with these particular variables?

Imogen plus Tommy plus moonlight equaled . . .

How else was she to prove her hypothesis? She’d never ask him again. She took a little breath and said, “Would you kiss me, please?”

His eyes were closed before the words were even out, and for a heartbeat, Imogen thought she had miscalculated.

But then he cursed. Low, dark, and absolutely wicked. And as the word hovered between them, one strong arm snaked around her waist, pulling her tight to him, and his other hand clasped her face, his thumb pressing beneath her jaw, tilting her face up, and his eyes opened, and he was staring into her, and suddenly, Imogen didn’t feel at all sure. Or at all safe. She felt very much unsure, and very much in danger . . . but in the most thrilling way possible . . .

She sighed as his lips touched hers, and he pulled away, just enough to speak. “Christ,” he whispered. “Don’t make noise.”

Confusion flared. “Why?”

“Because it’s bad enough you feel the way you do . . .” he said, as if it were an explanation.

Which it absolutely wasn’t. “How do I feel?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her, and Imogen forgot the question because she was too wrapped up in how he felt—one hand at his broad chest and the other to his soft beard, holding his face as he held hers. She let her thumb slide over his cheek as she pushed herself up onto her toes, and it was his turn to make noise, another of those delightful rumbles, punctuated by his pulling her tight to him and deepening the kiss.

The January wind whipped around them, lifting the edge of her coat, and somehow, Imogen felt nothing but his heat. He was big and warm, and the lips she’d imagined so many times were impossibly careful with her, sending pleasure pooling deep within. Imogen had spent years with Sesily, and Adelaide was recently married, and she’d had reason to see dozens of lovers in embrace, which was why she’d always imagined kissing a pleasant way to pass the time . . . but as Tommy’s hand went wide on her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and his tongue stroked across her bottom lip, as though asking for entrance . . .

Boom.

She gave it without hesitation, reveling in the way he claimed her, stroking deep, scattering her thoughts. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and the rest of her was in chaos, consumed by this man, who she’d imagined kissed very well but was perhaps . . .

Was it possible he was the greatest kisser to ever live?

She couldn’t stop the laugh that came at the thought, another exclamation of delight that distracted him—dammit. He lifted his head, his breaths matching hers with their weight. “You laugh a great deal at odd times.”

She shook her head and smiled. “I am enjoying myself. What else would you have me do?”

He watched her for a long moment and then said darkly, “I can think of a few other things I would have you do.”

Oh, that sounded delicious. Before she could ask him to elaborate, a cacophonous noise came from behind her. Someone had opened the door to The Place.

“Eep!” She let out a little squeak as he lifted her nearly off her feet and turned her, placing himself between her and anyone who might be leaving the pub. Not that Imogen could imagine anyone having any interest in what they were doing. “What on—”

“Hey! Peck!” Caleb Calhoun shouted from across the street, his broad American accent impossible to miss.

Tommy rumbled again, making sure she was properly out of view before turning to look over his shoulder. “Get gone, Calhoun.” Imogen shivered at the power in the command.

“When I tell you there’s nothing I’d like to do more . . .” Caleb trailed off, stepping into the street anyway.

Imogen made to step out from her spot and speak to him, but Tommy held her firm. “Let me—” she began.

“No,” he said softly, looking down at her. His face was shadowed, and she shivered at the conviction in the word. “He doesn’t get to see this.”

Of course Tommy wanted to hide what they’d been doing. He’d only kissed her because they had a deal. To send her home to her brother and clear her name from his list of assignments. Witnesses would complicate things, and the last thing Detective Inspector Peck needed was more gossip in the News—especially relating to kissing unmarried ladies.

Imogen reveled in the privacy for a different reason. With no one to witness it, this wild moment was theirs alone. To be kept between them, safe, for as long as they could remember it. And Imogen would remember it forever, she had no doubt. Long after Tommy had forgotten she’d ever existed.

Once she’d gone back to being too much for the rest of the world—this kiss would be enough.

Still, Caleb Calhoun was married to Sesily Talbot, and if Imogen knew one thing, she knew that if her friend had sent him to find her, Caleb was not going to be deterred—even if he very much wanted to be. Sure enough, the American stopped several feet from them and said, “Alright, Imogen?”

Tommy released her, taking his heat with him when he turned to face the other man. “That’s Lady Imogen, to you.”

Calhoun’s brows rose. “Is it, now?” He stepped to the left and peeked around Tommy’s broad shoulders. “Ah. There you are.”

She blushed.

“Do you need assistance, my lady?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Calhoun. I’m quite well.”

Calhoun nodded and took a step back, a broad grin on his handsome face. “I shall head back inside, then, shall I?” He paused, then said to Tommy, “And we’ll call that my debt repaid?”

Tommy’s shoulders shook with a quick laugh. “It will take more than a few moments’ privacy to repay your debt, American.”

“You’d best name it soon, Peck. I don’t like owing a Peeler.”

“Why, are you afraid I’ll come for your wife’s crimes?”

Imogen stiffened. It was the wrong thing to say. Caleb’s good-natured grin disappeared, replaced with cold threat. “Come for my wife, and I’ll destroy you.”

“Keep her out of trouble, and I won’t have to.”

A pause, and then Caleb’s grin returned. “You’d be lucky to have me come for you, Peck. I can promise that the more likely alternative would be far less welcome and far more entertaining.”

“And what’s that?”

“Imogen will come for you. And she’ll knock you out.” Caleb tipped his head to the side and winked at her. “Alright, Lady Imogen?”

She couldn’t help her little smile. “Alright, Mr. Calhoun.”

“Don’t be long,” he said in a mock whisper. “Next time, it will be one of the women coming to check on you.” He turned his back on them, sauntered back across the street, and disappeared inside The Place.

Silence fell as the door closed behind him, and Imogen wondered whether she could convince Tommy to return to their prior activities before he stepped away and looked back at her. “You should go with him.”

Apparently not.

She’d received her kiss, and now Thomas Peck was back to being detective inspector of Scotland Yard. Man of serious business.

Which meant Imogen was to pretend that everything that had just transpired was in the past. Doing her very best to seem like the kind of woman who regularly kissed handsome men and lived a perfectly normal life afterward, she said, “Of course.”

He gave a little grunt in reply, and moved away, returning to his place at the wall, putting several feet of distance between them.

“Mr. Peck?” He did not reply, so she added quickly, “You needn’t worry that I’ll renege.”

“Renege?”

Had he forgotten the kiss so quickly? The offer she made? “On our deal. I’ll return to my brother. Tonight.”

He was quiet for a long moment, before he said, “Yes. Our deal.” Reaching up and pulling his collar up to cover his neck, he added, “You should get inside, my lady. It’s cold.”

It was cold. Colder than it had been when she’d exited The Place a quarter of an hour earlier. Colder, now that she knew how warm it was in his arms. Imogen catalogued him in the chill, in the shadows of the lantern light, knowing, instinctively, that this was likely the last time she would be alone with Detective Inspector Thomas Peck, who did not take risks with his future or his reputation, and who resented being made to do a lesser man’s work.

It was ridiculous how handsome he was. His beard should have made him seem rough and unpleasant, but instead did the opposite, its sharp edges proving his skill with a blade and his care for his person. She knew how soft it was. How well oiled. Knew, too, the feel of it on her skin, sleek where his voice had been rough.

That she’d never feel it again made her almost regret the first time.

Almost.

He lifted his chin. “I won’t leave until I’ve seen you inside.”

Of course he wouldn’t. She nodded. “Good night, Mr. Peck.”

“Good night, my lady.”

Turning away, she made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get inside and find her friends, who would distract her with laughter and stories and plans for tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. She, too, had work too important to risk.

She’d nearly reached the door when the bell rang from high above, loud and urgent, and Imogen stilled, looking to the rooftop. The signal had come from one of their lookouts—close enough that whoever it was could clearly see that she was with Tommy. Everyone in the Belles’ operation knew Thomas Peck was a Peeler. Not to be trusted.

Another reason not to go around kissing the man, but that was a thought for another time.

Imogen turned back as the sound of thundering hooves and clattering wheels came from around the bend in the street. She looked toward the noise, knowing even before she understood that the carriage tearing toward her that it was coming too fast. There was no way the driver would stop the unmatched pair before it reached her.

Everything happened at once.

More bells. Loud and chaotic.

“Imogen!” A shout from a distance.

Was Tommy out of the path of the carriage?

The clatter of wheels, the harsh crack of a whip.

And then an immense force, knocking her back, off her feet, turning her in the air.

A thundering crash. Bright light. Loud noise.

And then absolute silence . . . broken by a deafening cheer.

Imogen opened her eyes. She was on the floor inside The Place, atop Tommy, who was atop the door he’d ripped from the hinges as he’d pushed her from the path of the runaway carriage, being sure to put himself between her and the worst of the fall.

He’d rescued her.

Again.

Only this time, London wouldn’t need the News to report it.