Seduced at Midnight

need swamped him, threatening to overwhelm his resolve. He could-and would-remain in control. He could not-and would not-touch her. He looked into her eyes, a mistake, as they reflected a combination of confusion, hope, and such longing it seemed to rip his chest open. And evaporate his anger like a puddle in the desert.

'Will you really be able to forget?' she whispered, her gaze searching his face. 'Did what we shared truly mean nothing to you?' Her bottom lip trembled. 'Am I that forgettable?'

He had to fist his hands to keep from giving into the choking need to snatch her against him, a fact that bloody well irritated him, a feeling he grabbed in desperation. 'As I said earlier-and you agreed-last night did not happen. We shared nothing. What is this-another hunting expedition for compliments, Princess? I suggest you ask one of your many admirers, or here's a novel idea- your fiance-to shower you with admiring words. If you can't wait until one of them calls, go look in the mirror, wallow in your extreme loveliness'-he spat out the last two words as if they were poison-'and spout your own bloody accolades.'

He didn't want to feel like a bastard for his harshness, but damn it, he did, which only served to irritate him further. Frustration built in him until he felt like a boiling caldron. He steeled himself against the hurt he expected to cloud her eyes and was surprised when unmistakable anger flared instead. Indeed, she looked as if she were ready to boil.

She stepped back several paces. 'That is the second time you've accused me of wallowing in my looks, Mr. Mayne.' Her lip curled when she said his name, as if it tasted bad. 'Allow me to enlighten you as to why a princess such as myselfdoesn't wallow in her looks. After being surrounded by it my entire life, I am unimpressed by outward beauty. I find it treacherous in that it can disguise even the most disagreeable character. Rather like a gorgeous tapestry covering a writhing pit of vipers. As an example, I offer my mother. She is extraordinarily beautiful, is she not?'

Gideon hesitated several seconds then replied, 'I'm sure most people would say so.'

'I assure you they do. Yet unfortunately she is not a kind woman. Or a warm, loving one. I don't say that to be unkind myself, I am merely stating a fact. As you've expressed a penchant for summing things up in one word, I'd apply ruthless to my mother.'

Gideon couldn't disagree, although overbearing was a close second choice to describe the woman. It had been painfully obvious since his first meeting with her that the Countess of Gatesbourne possessed a thumb the size of the entire kingdom. And she had no compunction about holding her daughter beneath that mighty thumb's weight.

'Beauty's other great failing,' she continued, 'is that it requires no level of talent or accomplishment. It's nothing more than an accident of birth.'

'Like the fact that you're an earl's daughter. And I'm a commoner.'

'Yes, although I don't think there's anything common about you. Honor, integrity, compassion, valor…they are important and lasting. And, as far as I'm concerned, they far surpass any class order.'

He studied her and couldn't decide if he were puzzled, annoyed, or both. He watched her anger wither, the fire leeching from her eyes to be replaced by what appeared to be embarrassment. He'd be willing to wager that she'd never confessed such things to anyone. He'd certainly never heard any member of the aristocracy utter such sentiments.

'You must think I'm daft,' she said, when he remained silent.

He continued to study her, his own anger seeping away in spite of his best efforts to hold on to it, then finally said, 'I don't think you're daft. I think you're… surprising.' Yes, she was. Disconcertingly so.

The urge to reach out, to cup her perfect face in his palm, a face she claimed not to admire, gripped him with such force he had to step away from her. He moved to the fireplace, putting a safe distance between them, then stared into the flames. 'You cannot deny your beauty garners you much attention.'

'Yes, but of what sort? My mother uses it to advance her matchmaking schemes. My father barters it to the highest bidder without regard to my feelings. And who gives me attention for it? Gentlemen who pursue me for my fortune. Who merely want an ornament upon their arm.'

He sensed her approach, and his every muscle tightened. From the corner of his eye he saw her stand next to him, and he forced himself to remain staring at the fire.

'As far as I'm concerned, beauty hasn't garnered me any attention worth having,' she said softly. 'Nor has it gained me any true friends, although it has tossed many false ones my way.' A humorless sound passed her lips. 'Do you have any idea how excruciatingly hollow it is to be admired for no reason other than your reflection in the mirror?'

Unable to stop himself, he shifted his attention from the crackling flames to her. At the sight of her, looking so lost and vulnerable, the last vestiges of his anger melted away, leaving a bone-deep, aching emptiness in its place. 'Hardly. If I'm admired for anything, it certainly isn't my looks.'

She hiked up a brow. 'Now who is guilty of false modesty and on a fishing expedition for compliments?'

A sound of disbelief escaped him. 'No man whose nose has been broken twice expects compliments regarding his appearance. As for being admired for anything else…' He shrugged. 'I'm good at my job. I have to be, or I'd end up dead. Although the criminals I capture aren't particularly complimentary regarding my skills.'

'No, I imagine they wouldn't be. Nor, I suppose are they much taken with your good looks.' A whiff of mischief twinkled in her eyes. 'No doubt they'd like to rearrange them for you.'

He rubbed his finger down the bridge of his nose, telling himself it was ridiculous for a man with no vanity to feel so pleased that she thought him good-looking. 'Two have succeeded.' He shot her a half grin. 'Of course, when the dust settled, they ended up looking far worse than me.'

'I've no doubt,' she murmured. 'How long have you been a Runner?'

'Five years.'

'Do you enjoy it?'

'It… satisfies me.'

'In what way?'

He turned so he faced her fully. 'I like righting wrongs. Solving mysteries. Getting dangerous criminals off the streets. Seeing justice done.'

'You must have experienced a great deal during those five years. Seen a great deal.'

'Yes.' Things she would never want to see. Things he wished he hadn't seen.

'And before Bow Street what did you do?'

'I served in the army.'

'And before that?'

'Do you always ask so many questions?'

'No. Never. Mother would be horrified at my lack of manners and restraint. However, I find myself insatiably curious about you. Your life.'

'There is nothing to know. I have my work. A few trusted friends.' He nodded toward the open doorway. 'Caesar.'

'How did you two come to be together?'

She appeared genuinely interested, and in spite of himself, he found himself relaxing and responding. 'I found him.'

'Where?'

'At the docks. Saw some bastard toss a basket over the side of a ship just pulling out. I knew something alive was inside, so I rescued the basket. And found Caesar. He was only a few weeks old.'