Effie couldn’t tell if he was shocked by the fact. Indeed, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking any longer at all. His face had gone peculiarly blank.

“How much?” he asked.

She hesitated to answer. She didn’t like revealing her less honorable motivations. It was one thing to risk her life and reputation for the greater good of women. It was quite another to do it for material gain.

“Enough to gain my independence,” she admitted grudgingly. “I shall get to keep all my clothes as well. The entire wardrobe that was made for me in Paris. I could never in my life afford such a luxury on my own. Without it—”

“I can buy you a new wardrobe,” he said.

She stared at him, startled into silence.

“Gowns, jewels, anything.”

She shook her head. “Gabriel…”

His hand lifted to cradle her cheek. “If that’s all you desire, then let me give it to you,” he said recklessly. “Fine clothes. A comfortable house. A coach-and-four if you want it.”

Her heartbeat quickened, even as her stomach sank at the implication. “In exchange for what?”

“For being mine,” he said.

She exhaled an uneven breath. She hated that she was tempted. “I don’t want to be kept by someone. Not even you.”

“We’ll keep each other. Help each other.”

“How?”

“The Rookery. There are plenty of women there whose lives you can make better. We’ll work to reform it. You have opinions, ideas. I’ll listen to you. Take your advice. We can reside in Sloane Street. You said you thought the house fine. It can be yours. Ours.”

“And I’ll be your…what?” She didn’t dare say the word mistress; the prospect brought nothing but pain.

He brushed his thumb over the slope of her cheek. His voice deepened. “You’ll be my love.”

Her heart ached with longing. “Your love.”

“That surprises you?”

“No.”

“It offends you?”

“No.”

His brows sank. “If you don’t feel the same—”

“I do,” she said softly. “You must know that I do.”

The barest flicker of relief crossed his face. He smiled briefly. “I didn’t know. I hoped, but—”

“Gabriel…”

His mouth quirked with sudden humor. He looked different. Younger. “If you want pretty speeches, you’ll have to look elsewhere, sweet. I’m no fancy lord, just a rogue from Birmingham. All I can tell you is that you’re magnificent. Doubtless you’ve heard it before.”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t.” Gentlemen had complimented her frequently enough on her eyes, her face, her figure. They had called her beautiful often, magnificent never.

“Bloody idiots,” Gabriel said. Bending his head to hers, he pressed a kiss to her lips.