“Don’t worry, Cecilia,” he whispered. His voice grazed her mouth.

“I know,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady. “We can easily evade this Jackersen fellow.”

“I didn’t mean that.” He set a hand on the wall beside her head. Which was reasonable, she supposed, since the space was very small.

“I am not frightened my father will capture me,” she added. “If he does, I will be better located to save the Society.”

“I didn’t mean that either.” He leaned toward her, which she allowed as a practicality, for with their whispering he might not be hearing her well.

“And I am unconcerned about Lady Armitage, whose house should prove easily obtainable.”

He sighed, leaving her bemused. “I confess myself at a loss as to what you did mean,” she said.

“I meant,” he whispered, “that when I kiss you for the first time, it will be in a drawing room or a garden, someplace much finer than this.”

“Oh.” Her pulse trembled—no doubt a normal physiological reaction to being shut up in a narrow closet. But then she frowned. “Why?”

There was a small moment of silence. “Why what?”

“Why a drawing room or garden? How is a fine place relevant in such matters?”

He chuckled. “Shall I kiss you now, in that case?”

She gasped and slapped his cheek, although in the darkness she missed and slapped his ear instead.

“Ow,” he said, sounding more amused than pained. Turning away, he opened the door and peered out. “I think it’s safe to leave.”

“Oh. Well, excellent. I’m certainly glad you’re not going to kiss me. Yes, indeed, goodness me.”

Ned closed the door, turned back, caught her face in his hands, and pressed his lips against hers with a sudden intensity that startled a sound into her throat. Immediately he softened the kiss, easing his passion into tenderness, feeling his heart sink into her warmth as she gentled beneath him. He was surprised to discover she didn’t kiss like a storm after all, nor even with prudishness. She welcomed him, her hands clutching at his coat sleeves, pulling him closer, but her mouth was unsure what to do. The feather touch of it thrilled him.

Clearly no one had kissed her before. Yet beneath that innocence he sensed a ribald longing, and wondered if it was for him in particular or just a general interest in kissing. He wished it was for him. He longed for her. She was smart and strong, and, God, just the way she held a gun made his toes curl with lust. Having her in his arms, against his mouth, felt so good he almost could not bear it. But in the next moment, she would either swoon or stab him, so finally he drew away, and she swayed against the wall.

“Well, I never,” she murmured dazedly.

Ned grinned. His pulse crashed as if he had scaled a mountain, which he supposed made a good metaphor for having kissed Cecilia Bassingthwaite, considering he’d been working toward it since the moment he saw her on the doorstep of Darlington House. He most definitely intended to do it again. But this was a smelly broom closet, and she was naive in ways he sometimes forgot, considering her cool gaze and ability to kill him with a hairpin. So he turned away, fumbling for the door handle, almost hitting himself in the face as he yanked the door open.