He smiled and stroked his thumb across her soft cheek. “I would take them.” Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “No, love.” He shook his head. “No tears. Not for me.”
She dashed one away. “There was no one you could trust.”
“We trusted each other,” he said. And it was the truth. “We vowed we would grow strong and powerful, rich as royalty. And we would mete out a single, endless punishment—my father always wanted heirs. As long as we lived, he would never get them.”
Her eyes glistened in the starlight, her mouth set in a firm, straight line. “I want him dead.”
His brows shot up.
“I know it’s wrong. I know it’s a sin. But your father—I hate even calling him that—he deserves nothing short of death.”
It took a moment for him to find his reply. “He received it.”
She nodded. “I hope it was painful.”
He couldn’t help his smile at that. His magnificent lockpick, known to all of London as a wallflower, was a lioness. “If he weren’t dead, you’re enough to make me wish I could bring him to you as a trophy.”
“It’s not a jest, Devon,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion. “You didn’t deserve it. None of you did. Of course you are terrified of darkness. It was all you ever had.”
He pulled her tight to him, whispering into her hair. “Believe it or not, love, now it is impossible to remember the way the darkness terrified me. As it is impossible to imagine that I will ever think of darkness without thinking of tonight. Without thinking of you.”
Felicity turned toward him, her hand coming around his waist, pulling him tight to her as she bent her legs and wrapped herself against his side. The movement, immediate and without artifice, consumed him, and he could not resist mirroring her contortion, bending toward her, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her close. Pressing his face to her neck and inhaling her delicious scent. Jasmine was ruined for him. It would always be tied to this magnificent woman, with her soft skin and her lush body and the hint of it—enough to make his mouth water.
It was only then, as they curled together, as he breathed her in, that he felt her tears, the dampness on her neck, the ragged breath in her lungs. He pulled back and pressed a kiss to the damp tracks on her cheek. “No, sweet girl. No. No tears. I am not worth them.”
Her fist clenched at the edge of his waistcoat, pulling the fabric and him closer. “Stop saying that,” she whispered. “Stop trying to convince me you lack value.”
He lifted her bare hand to his lips, kissing her palm. “I do.”
“No. Shut up.”
He grazed his teeth over the full flesh at the base of her thumb. “You are a princess compared to me. A fairy queen. Don’t you see?” He licked the soft skin there. “My past is without value. My future, too. But yours . . .” His breath was hot against her palm. “Like Janus, I see your future. And it is glorious.”
Without me.
She heard the words he did not say. “You’re wrong. Your past is who you are—it bears infinite worth. And my future is nothing without you. The only thing that is glorious is our present.”
“No, love. Our present . . .” He gave a little huff of laughter. “Our present is torture.”
“Why?”
He reached for her, wrapping his fingers around her neck, pulling her close. Holding her still so he could watch her eyes when he told her the truth. “Because my present is only you, Felicity Faircloth. And you cannot be my future.”
Her eyes closed at the words, stayed that way for an impossibly long time as her lips twitched with frustration and emotion and her throat worked and her breath came in harsh, angry pants. When she finally, finally opened them, there were tears glistening in their beautiful brown depths. Tears, and anger, and something he recognized because he knew it was mirrored in his own.
Need.
“Then let us live in the present,” she whispered.
And she kissed him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the rest of her life, Felicity would remember his warmth. His warmth, and the way he slid a hand into her hair when she kissed him. His warmth, and the way he scattered her hairpins across the roof and pulled her into his lap to afford them both better access to each other and to the caress.
She slid her hands inside his open coat, loving the dark, luxurious heat she found there, the breadth of his chest, the rise and curve of the muscles of his sides and back, the way he allowed her access to him, a low growl of pleasure rolling through him, vibrating against her as he opened his delicious lips and reseated them on her own.
His kiss was slow and deep, as though they had the rest of time to explore. And it seemed, in that long, drugging caress, as though they did—as though that rooftop in Covent Garden, under the moon and stars, was for them alone, as private and perfect as the kiss itself. When he released her lips, she opened her eyes and found his, watching her, seeing her pleasure, taking his own in it. And then, he said, “You never had to be taught to be the flame, Felicity.”
And she reached up to pull him down to her again.
“It was always in you,” he whispered against her lips, and she sighed her pleasure, letting him capture the sound for a long moment before he added, “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known, and if I have only this moment—this present—with you, then I wish to make you burn until you’ve made the stars jealous of your heat.”
The words were fire through her, fast and furious, making her head light and her breath shallow as he brushed his lips across her cheek, leaning down to her ear. “Would you do that? Would you burn for me? Tonight?”
“Yes,” she replied, a shiver of pleasure sighing through her as he worried the lobe of her ear. “Yes, please.”
“So polite,” he said, low and delicious. “Shall we go inside? I have barely slept in my bed for the memory of you upon it.”
She pulled back and met his eyes, unable to keep surprise and delight from her tone. “Really?”
He gave her a little smile. “Really. Your hands on my counterpane, your pretty pink slippers dangling from your toes. I imagine—”
“Tell me,” she said when he stopped himself.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Please.”
He leaned in with a little groan, stealing a kiss. A lingering lick. “I cannot deny you.”
“You deny me all the time.”
He shook his head. “Not this. Never this, love.” He kissed her again, slow and perfect, and then he put his forehead to hers and said, “I imagine coming to my knees there, at your feet, removing those slippers and exploring my way up your body.” His hand traced the line of her leg beneath her skirts. “I am tired of imagining what is under these pink gowns, my lady. And when I lie in bed and chase sleep, I imagine stripping you of your clothes and basking in you, soft and curved and silk and perfection.”
She let out a long, trembling breath. “I want that.”
“I shall give it to you, my wicked flame. I shall give you whatever you wish.”
He stood, reaching down to her, pulling her up to standing, above him on the roof, just high enough that their lips were even. He kissed her again, then whispered, “I shall always give you whatever you wish.”
It was a lie, of course, and she knew it.
Tell me something true.
He lifted her in his arms to give her what he promised, but she set a hand to his chest. “Wait.”
A gust of wind swirled around them as Devil stilled, whipping his coat behind him and wrapping them both in her skirts. He stilled, unmoving, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all, his eyes on hers as he waited for her to continue. “Anything.”