Chapter Six
Fletcher hadn’t come to the park with the intention of annoying Miss Cosgrove, or kissing her for that matter, but flirted with the idea as he caught her walking towards this circle of trees.
He’d only wanted to escape The Devil’s Acre, dressed in his “Roxboro” clothes, not the formal wear, but coat and trousers.
If he kept in the shadows of the trees, where no one would see too clearly, he might be mistaken for Roxboro at a distance, which was fine.
He had no intention of speaking to the fine lords and ladies walking about though he’d considered picking a pocket or two.
The gentleman who approached Miss Cosgrove and that nitwit earlier had a splendid stickpin stuck in his cravat. An emerald the size of his thumbnail. But now was not the time to be greedy.
As of late, he’d stayed close to Mrs. Bean and The Dancing Swan, dread swelling larger in his stomach every day.
So, he kept an eye on the brothel and Ripps.
Tossed out a drunk patron who was running about naked save for a pair of boots.
And made a great show of drinking too much gin all while doing his best to avoid a confrontation with Lark.
Suffocating is how Fletcher would best describe the current situation.
There was also the matter of Miss Cosgrove who he thought about far too much.
So today, he’d declared loudly to Ripps that he was going to visit his non-existent widow for an imaginary fuck and made his way to Cheapside. Doubling back several times, Fletcher made sure he wasn’t followed, said good day to Mrs. Baldwin, and checked on the strongbox holding Bean’s Book.
Perfectly safe.
After changing his ratty, somewhat flashy clothing to something more suitable, he came to Hyde Park to think. Providence gave him Miss Cosgrove.
The object of his obsession. Alone. Wandering about the trees while that stupid chit she followed about fawned over some gent at the edge of the Serpentine. She was such a tiny thing, Miss Cosgrove. A scathing little bit of fluff who he hungered for far more than he should.
Miss Cosgrove pretended displeasure at his arrival, but her cheeks pinked and her eyes sparkled.
He dearly wished to rip the bonnet off her head and allow all that lovely golden hair to fall over his fingers like a waterfall.
Miss Cosgrove reminded him of a tiny soap bubble about to burst, seething rebellion begging to be set free.
Fletcher wanted to pop that bubble.
But realistically, he wanted to assess whether the emerald pendant taken from around the cabbage head’s throat had been noticed as missing.
Or if there were any suspicions hovering over Roxboro.
Miss Cosgrove had seen them together. She might sound the alarm.
Not only would Fletcher be accused of theft but also impersonating a duke. He’d hang for sure.
All valid reasons for kissing her.
A groan left him as their lips met, his mouth swallowing her surprised gasp.
Fletcher expected to be slapped. Kicked in the shin once more.
Both of which shouldn’t have aroused him nearly as much as it did.
But Miss Cosgrove pressed into him, her lovely mouth softening beneath his own, teasing his lips like a woman starved.
Bloody hell, she was kissing him back.
Fletcher cupped her head, fingers tangling in the strands of her hair, tilting her chin so that he could…consume her. They were ravenous for each other, her delicate hands grabbing at his coat, twisting the fabric to bring him closer.
Miss Cosgrove smelled of sunshine. Fresh grass. Clean, vibrant things that a denizen of The Devil’s Acre had no right to taste. Licking at the crease of her mouth, Fletcher begged her lips to part and allow him entry.
A whimper. A tiny thrust of her hips at Fletcher.
Tongues twisted together, mimicking what he wanted his cock to do to her.
A trembling Miss Cosgrove gripped him tighter.
Spinning about, Fletcher pushed her back against the trunk of the tree behind them, suddenly uncaring if the entirety of Her Majesties’ army might descend upon them.
This was more than a kiss; it was a spark to a flame.
An explosion of heat. A gin-soaked cloth set too close to the fire which suddenly bursts into a searing blaze.
A sound of complete surrender wracked her small form.
“You make my mouth water,” he whispered at the corner of her lips as desire for her lashed between his thighs until he thought of nothing but her. “As if I’ve been starving and someone’s set a plate of bread and drippings before me.”
Miss Cosgrove stiffened. Her lips left his. “I taste like drippings?”
“No,” he breathed. “A poor choice of words. I mean that—”
She pushed against his chest, fingers releasing his coat. Swatted at his arm, because she was too short to reach his cheeks effectively to slap him. Outrage suffused her pretty features.
Do not ever again compare her to drippings.
“Get away from me.” Slap. Slap. “Atrocious libertine. How dare you.”
“How dare I?” Fletcher glared back at her with as much outrage as he could muster, which was the only thing to keep him from laughing out loud.
So bloody fierce.
“You kissed me back, Miss Cosgrove.”
A flush started at the nape of her neck and flew all the way up to her forehead. All that lovely pink color had Fletcher’s fingers twitching, because he wanted to see if she was the same shade under the muslin of her dress.
“I did not.”
“You did,” he stated smugly. “Whimpered a bit.” He caged her against the tree.
She placed a finger on her swollen bottom lip, looking so distraught Fletcher wasn’t sure what to do, other than he wanted to…no, needed to kiss her again.
“Stop,” she whispered, before grabbing at his coat once more, drawing him closer. “I beg you, stop.” Standing on tiptoe, she nipped at his bottom lip.
Fletcher took hold of her backside, kneading the plump flesh before lifting her up so that their hips were flush together. Pressing his cock between her thighs, he swiveled, teasing at her quim until a low, throaty sound came from Miss Cosgrove. The most erotic thing he’d ever heard.
Which was saying quite a bit since Fletcher lived in a brothel.
He pulled her closer into him, unable to think of anything other than how badly he wanted to be buried in Miss Cosgrove. He’d never felt such an intense need for another human being, as if she’d taken up residence inside his skin. “Come away with me,” Fletcher blurted out. “Now.”
She went still once more, but there was no swatting at him. No begging to be kissed once more. Turning her head so that his mouth landed on her cheek, she said, “Will we be taking your future duchess with us as well?”
Fletcher pushed his forehead to hers, inhaling in her scent. Christ, he could smell her arousal through the muslin of her skirts. He felt her pull away from him, desire melting away in an instant.
Because…he was Roxboro.
Fletcher’s nose fell into her neck, nuzzling gently, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her skin. He’d forgotten, for a brief speck of time, that Miss Cosgrove only knew him as a philandering duke who lacked character.
But the truth of Fletcher was far, far worse.
A killer, though usually only in cases of self-defense, he didn’t slit a throat without reason.
The grandson of a brothel owner in one of the worst rookeries in London.
A thief. An imposter. A liar. Bitterness filled his mouth.
Miss Cosgrove might be disgusted by the Duke of Roxboro, but she would flee in horror from Fletcher Bean.
Gently, he lowered her to the ground, fingers brushing the muslin of her skirts before reluctantly releasing her. This was a foolish, dangerous game. One there was no chance of winning. He could not, under any circumstances, have Miss Cosgrove, whether he was Roxboro or Fletcher Bean.
A shaky breath left her. “Your marriage is not a mere inconvenience, Your Grace,” she said tartly. “Such as falling off a horse. Or your valet failing to tie your cravat properly.”
The horse matter again. Roxboro must be a clumsy oaf. Even Fletcher could ride somewhat decently.
“Your circumstances—” she started in a chilly tone.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Cosgrove,” Fletcher interrupted her little speech which was sure to be full of disparagements directed at Roxboro’s character.
None of which he cared to hear. Not with her taste lingering on his lips and body aching with frustrated desire.
“But you’ve no bloody idea of my circumstances.
” He leaned forward, allowing his lips to brush her ear. “And it is best you don’t.”