They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"It's my hand, not my legs," Josephine said as Hero swept her into his arms as soon as she appeared in the doorway of the coach intending to step out.
Hero had instructed his driver to go to his residence straightaway, to the back, where none would witness who was coming inside.
"Yes, but the faster I get you indoors, the more quickly I can have a look."
"I'm quite capable of moving quickly."
"Stop complaining and just accept that on this matter you'll not win."
"Such a bully," she muttered, before nestling her head more securely against his shoulder.
Hero was smiling before he realized it. How was it that she managed to stir to life every emotion possible in him? First she irritated him like the devil, and then she tried to protect him. He'd spun around in time to see her, to see the knife slashing—and his stomach had dropped to the ground. Fury had almost blinded him. At that precise moment, he'd thought he could have killed all six ruffians without breaking a sweat. They must have realized their mistake in turning on her, must have seen the murder glittering in his eyes—to have run off as they had. Hero couldn't bear the thought of losing her, and even as he thought that, he realized she wasn't his to lose.
They were merely partners. He should have felt a detachment where she was concerned, but what he was beginning to feel toward her was an appreciation. It bothered him that he was coming to care for her, that he thought of her far more than he should.
The footman darted ahead and opened the door that led into the kitchen. Hero shouldered his way through. "Go fetch my physician. Quickly now."
"Yes, m'lord."
Josephine stiffened in his arms. "No, no, we can't have anyone else aware that I'm here."
"It's all right. He's very discreet."
Gingerly he set her in the chair. Reaching out, he turned up the flame in the lamp that Cook left on the table every night. He liked the rooms in his house lit. He'd had too many nights in utter darkness.
Turning from her, he grabbed a knife. Then he pulled out a chair, settled it in front of her, sat down, and placed the knife on the table.
"What are you going to do with that? My hand is already sliced."
If she weren't so pale with a fine sheen of sweat across her brow, if she hadn't been so damned brave, he might have lashed out at her. Instead he just asked quietly, "Do you not trust me at all?"
She nodded, and he wasn't certain if she was nodding yes, she didn't trust him or yes, she did. It suddenly occurred to him that it really didn't matter. All that mattered was that he trusted her.
