Her heart pounded. “You think too much, Thomas.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, though his eyes still held that unreadable depth. “And you don’t think enough.”
“Then stop thinking,” she whispered.
It was all the invitation he needed.
His hand came up, brushing along the side of her face, his fingers trailing the curve of her jaw before tangling in the loose strands of her hair. His touch was careful, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be there, but when she didn’t pull away when her breath hitched, and she leaned just slightly toward him, his hesitation vanished.
His lips met hers.
Warmth surged through her, unexpected yet entirely right. There was no fleeting hesitation in his kiss, no uncertainty. He kissed her like a man who had spent too long resisting what he wanted and had finally decided to stop fighting it.
Bridget’s hands slid up, gripping the lapels of his coat as she deepened the kiss as if grounding herself in the reality of it. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, something between restraint and surrender, but he didn’t pull away.
The night, the danger, the mission, all of it blurred. For a breath, for a moment, nothing else mattered.
Then reality surged back.
The truth of what they risked crept in, cooling passion with the chill of consequence. Thomas broke the kiss, his forehead resting lightly against hers as his breath came uneven. His hands remained on her waist as if reluctant to let go.
“That—” His voice was hoarse, filled with something she couldn’t quite name. “That should not have happened.”
Bridget’s lips parted, her pulse still pounding in her ears. “I disagree.”
His laugh was quiet, but the warmth in his eyes had shifted. “Of course you do.”
She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly along his jaw. “We can discuss it later.”
A flicker of something passed through his gaze, something raw, something unspoken. Instead, he exhaled, stepping back just slightly, though his fingers lingered at her waist before finally falling away.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice steadier now, though not quite neutral. “We set the trap.”
Bridget swallowed the words that threatened to rise, her thoughts still tangled in the feel of his mouth against hers. She only nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The house stirredearly the following morning, the soft clatter of trays and murmured voices signaling the start of another day. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the breakfast room, dappling the crisp linens with warm golden hues. Guests filtered in at their leisure, some bleary-eyed from the late evening’s conversations, others keenly alert.
Bridget had barely taken a seat before a sharp huff of frustration cut through the room.
“This is intolerable,” Lady Worthington snapped, pressing her napkin against the table with far more force than necessary.
Bridget glanced up in mild surprise as the woman sat stiff-backed, her gaze darting over the breakfast spread as if she expected to find something hiding among the tea services.
Lady Carlisle, delicately spooning jam onto her toast, arched a brow. “Evelina, must you look as though you intend to wage war against the morning rolls?”
Lady Worthington barely heard her. “I still haven’t found my bodkin,” she declared, looking pointedly toward the nearest footman. “Hasn’t it turned up anywhere?”
The footman stiffened under her scrutiny. “I’m afraid not, my lady. The maids searched the drawing room again this morning.”
She pursed her lips, clearly unimpressed. “Well, they must not have looked thoroughly enough. A sapphire set in silver does not simply vanish.”
Davenport, who had been buttering his toast with meticulous care, let out a chuckle. “A needle lost in a grand estate. What a tragedy. We should all abandon our breakfast at once and form a search party.”
A flicker of irritation crossed Lady Worthington’s face. “Very amusing, my lord.”
