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...
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Josephine couldn't sleep and it seemed a waste to lie in her bed alone with eyes open, staring at the canopy. She could at least be useful so she went to her father's bedchamber and told his nurse to go rest for a bit. Josephine would wake her when she was ready to retire.
Her father appeared to be sleeping, but still she found comfort in holding his hand. Even if he were awake, she couldn't tell him that she'd allowed Hero to kiss her three times now. Hero's reasons for kissing her she understood: intimidation, distraction, frustration.
But her reasons for kissing him—because she had welcomed his kiss, all three times to her shame and mortification—were a mystery. It was only because she'd thought her legs were going to buckle that she'd pushed him away this evening. The truth of the matter was that she'd rather hoped he'd ravish her further. Even as she'd thought that, she'd remembered Mabel and Dr. Graves waited for them to return to the dining room.
When they had finally returned, Mabel had refused to hold her gaze. Josephine wondered if something in her eyes or her swollen lips had screamed out that she was a wanton woman.
She didn't want to desire Hero, but desire him, she did. She shouldn't have left the invitation, but she thought if she could just have one dance with him, she'd be content for the remainder of her life.
Although she couldn't imagine that a dance would be nearly as satisfying as his kiss.
"I've never known anyone like him, Papa," she whispered quietly. "Sometimes I think he'll break my heart. Not on purpose, because he doesn't know how my feelings are shifting, but it will break all the same." She stroked his hand. "Did you love Mother, I wonder? If so, how did you bear it when she was no longer here? I think that's what worries me the most. I've grown so accustomed to being with him that I'm not sure how I'll survive when he's no longer a daily"—or more accurate, nightly—"part of my life."
She pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. She would find a way to survive.
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