Page 34 of Twice Upon a Midnight

“Because tonight was nothing more than poetry and moonlight and magic?” she whispered, blinking rapidly as she looked away toward her parents’ house. “Because you don’t really love me after all? That it was just something men say to women after they…”

She shrugged her slender shoulders as her words drifted into silence.

“Because I love you too much,” he corrected. He sat up and cupped her face between his hands to prove to her with his kiss how much he cared about her.

When he finally pulled back just far enough to gaze into her eyes, the pain he’d seen there was gone, but a confused expression once more marred her beautiful face.

A sound came from the villa’s service yard and pierced the shadows surrounding them. The noise chased away the magic of the night and let reality crash over them. She climbed to her feet and looked nervously toward home.

“I have to go,” she told him. “The servants are waking up.”

He rose and nodded solemnly. Then, he said quietly, “Ella, I need to tell you—”

She jumped as a door banged loudly in the pre-dawn silence.

“I have to go.” She grabbed his lapels and drew herself close to him one last time. “Call on me this afternoon.”

“I can’t.”

Her lips pursed in aggravation. “Then meet me again here at midnight. We’ll talk about everything.” She rose up on tiptoes to give him a long parting kiss, then slid her mouth back to his ear and promised, “But next time, I won’t let you stop at only a touch.”

Then she was gone, slipping out of his arms and running toward the house before he could stop her.

He watched her until she disappeared into the shadows, like a ghost chased away by the oncoming day. He blew out a harsh breath and raked his fingers through his hair, his entire body shaking.

I won’t let you stop…

That was exactly what he was afraid of.

He looked down at the blanket and let out a fierce curse. He was no better than a rakehell for touching her like that when he knew they had no future. She would come to realize that, too, as soon as she learned the full truth about him, which he’d been too distracted and ashamed to confide in her tonight. All the loving touches on all the picnic blankets on all the moonlit nights in the world couldn’t overcome the obstacles that would keep them from having a life together.

Then he cursed himself for wanting exactly that future.

He collected the blankets, tossed away the food, and shoved it all into the canvas bag, then slung it over his shoulder and headed across the park. He didn’t belong here. Even during the day, when London’s quality drove their fine carriages through the parklands and paraded along its avenues to show off their expensive clothing, he barely belonged enough to be let through the main gates.

“Someday, Iwillbe welcomed here,” he promised as he looked out across the dark park one last time before slipping over the wall. “I will possess enough wealth and status to draw the attention of everyone in theton, no matter how long it takes.”

But by then, Ella would belong to another.

Pushing down that unbearable thought, he made his way toward home. His shoulders were hunched against the first blues of dawn as the rising sun prepared to peek over the horizon.

The walk was long and tiring, but he craved the release of energy it gave him, especially with frustrations over Ella still seething inside him…frustration at being unable to find his own release with her tonight, frustration that he never would. Most of all, frustration that he would never be able to love her the way she deserved.

The sun was shining brightly over London by the time he reached the street where he rented the top floor of a terrace townhouse. The area was still quiet, although the streets around it were stirring awake with servants coming and going to the houses where they worked, with clerks and shop employees scurrying toward the merchant enclaves near Bond Street and St James’s, with porters sauntering toward the river and sellers either heading to the markets or into the streets where they would call out their wares. As with most mornings, an unseen energy was building in the city, one Spenser loved being a part of. Let the so-called quality sleep in until noon. They would never be part of this thriving city and all the possibilities it could generate.

A group of four men loitered in the street in front of his house, and he slowed as he approached. They wore the coarse wool clothing of dockers and warehouse porters, with red handkerchiefs tied around their necks and brown jackets and plain waistcoats over baggy trousers. Their sleeves had been pushed up to reveal forearms and hands scarred from years of punishing physical work. But Spenser knew if they were put into Bond Street finery and fancy gloves, they could have passed as easily in Mayfair as he had.

More proof that appearance had little to do with substance.

“Excuse me.” He nodded as he passed the men to reach his door and pulled his key from his pocket. He would have just enough time to change and hurry to the print shop before his—

A large hand grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him back against the door, pinning him there.

The man leered down at him, then spat on the ground. “’Ave a message fer ye,” he drawled. “Leave alone women who are out ’o yer reach, an’ keep t’ yer print shop where ye belong.”

Then the man drew back his arm and threw the first punch. The other three men descended upon Spenser like a pack of wolves.

He futilely fought back, but for every punch he threw, four came his way. Mercifully, he slipped into unconsciousness. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the men’s laughter.