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Edward wasn’t used to his plans being questioned quite so baldly. Generally, people nodded and hopped to. Even Reading, with his sharp wit and dry humour, kept any doubts he had to thinly veiled statements of pseudo-support rather than openly dismissing Edward.

He straightened his spine, rising to the full six foot five inches that intimidated all but Philippa. ‘Not quite. It is the perfect place to search.’

Ivy was seemingly unimpressed by his commanding presence. She rolled her eyes. ‘It is the perfect place to feed every gossip in the beau monde! I may be a gently bred miss who prefers the walls of ballrooms to the dance floors, but even I know what happens at the Widow’s Ball.’

Don’t ask. Take the high road. Be a gentleman, for God’s sake.

‘What happens, Lady Ivy?’ Something about her inspired a need in him to provoke. Pull her from her shadows. Nettle her into matching his fire with her own.

Never one to tempt or tease, something about this woman pulled at the darker side of Edward. The side he kept tightly contained beneath the veneer of a respectable gentleman intent on seeking only justice. She invited him to do the one thing he never did: play.

He couldn’t stop the gravelled wickedness in his tone or the wild hope that she might describe any one of the decidedly improper activities taking place at a ball designed for devilish deeds.

Her throat worked in a strangled swallow.

‘What does not happen at that bacchanalian celebration? Even my… father, who was hardly a saint, refused to allow my brothers to attend.’ There it was again.

The nearly choking sound as she stumbled over any mention of her sire.

Her pale skin whitened further, and Edward no longer wanted to tease Ivy.

Instead, he ached to shield her. Protect her.

‘I will not allow any harm to befall you. I swear it.’ It is my duty, after all. That is all this is. Dedication to my role as Commissioner of Scotland Yard.

She lifted a hand to sweep away a strand of hair escaping her neat knot. ‘I can keep myself safe. That is not what concerns me.’

‘What is it?’ A desperate need for her to share her fears with him filled Edward with longing he’d not known since his youth.

She looked over his shoulder, then at the table, then to her fingers before finally tipping her chin up and staring at him. ‘I have nothing to wear to such a fete.’

Edward held her gaze. She was lying. Her fear had nothing to do with gowns.

But she wasn’t ready to trust him with her truths.

Fine. He could wait. ‘That will never do. I shall send word to Philippa. The Duchess of Dorsett has every modiste in London at her beck and call. Surely, she can have a dress for you by tomorrow evening.’

Her eyes, so clear and expressive he fancied he could fall into their depths like a great adventurer exploring an iceberg’s crevasse, widened in alarm.

‘What about your reputation? The entire beau monde would fly into a fervour at the very idea of the respectable, powerful, eligible Commissioner Worthington squiring poor, plain, sad little Ivy Cavendale to an event as scandalous as the Widow’s Ball. ’

His thoughts recoiled at such ill-equipped descriptors. Proud, certainly. Serious, most assuredly.

Beautiful.

Not that he noticed, but yes, exactly. Her own opinions about herself were blatantly false.

‘You’re hardly little. I’d wager you’re taller than a quarter of the gentlemen at White’s.’ As soon as the words emerged, he realised his mistake. Of all the points to contradict, her height was perhaps the least complimentary.

Her brows came down like a guillotine. ‘Pardon?’

If he ever questioned whether Lady Ivy Cavendale was capable of shooting a man, the harsh edge of her words would put to bed any of his doubts.

In fact, if she had her pistol handy, he was fairly certain she might point it at him and pull the trigger as easily as another young lady poured a dish of tea.

His only consolation in mistakenly focusing on her height was the anger he inspired.

He found it vastly superior to the fear plaguing Ivy whenever she mentioned her father.

A man Edward desperately wished to revive from death only so he could send him back to hell himself.

‘I don’t mean to say… You have a very lovely figure.’ Damn. He hadn’t meant to speak so plainly.

‘Pardon?’ This time, she said the word with the same confusion one might feel if they were told their skin was green or their limbs were made of pudding instead of flesh and bone.

‘I just mean your height and slender form are incredibly pleasing.’ Not better. He literally bit his tongue.

Breath exploded from her in a shocked burst. ‘Pardon?’

She has certainly illustrated the vast meanings held in one word.

‘I’m only saying your description hardly merits the many appealing facets of your total person.’

Shut up. Just shut up now before you completely bury yourself.

But he didn’t shut up. He kept going. ‘ I can’t see why anyone would question my interest in you.’

Flaming feathers on a phoenix’s arse. Did I just admit to being interested in her? A woman who would rather watch me be pickled in vinegar than grace my arm at a ball. Marvellous.

Ivy tapped her finger against her skirts.

He could actually see the woman gathering her thoughts back together like one might collect pieces of shattered pottery.

‘I can think of at least twenty reasons to start. The first being that you aren’t interested in me.

’ She glared at him, and if a woman could will a statement into reality with nothing more than focused desire, his attraction to her would shrivel up and die as surely as a salted snail.

‘But never mind. Leaving aside the undeniable stir we might cause attending the Widow’s Ball together, what exactly do you hope to gain from flouncing around a dance floor with me?

’ Her tart words belied a deeper emotion that her expressive skin could not hide.

The wine-red stain seeped up her neck. Did it also slip lower?

Painting her pale breasts with patterns he could trace with his fingers or tongue?

Not helpful.

Unaccountable nerves created a jitter through his system.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him feel anxious.

While his plan might not be the pinnacle of investigative brilliance, it was a starting point, and he needed her to trust him.

He’d wager Lady Ivy Cavendale trusted very few men, if any.

With good reason, no doubt.

But not all men were such horrific monsters.

While Edward knew he deserved no kind of pleasure in the arms of a woman, a fossilised piece of his soul cracked at the thought of Ivy never knowing the joy such intimacy could evoke because of whatever past pain she suffered.

It seemed a horrific crime that someone as undeserving as Edward knew the heights of physical pleasure, while Ivy was trapped in…

Fear.

If only he could show Ivy that some men could be trusted. At least in this.

But does she even want that?

He was determined to find out. And if she did wish to explore such desires, a shimmer of something bright and warm erupted in his chest at the thought he might be the one to earn her trust. To help restore a piece of joy that had been stolen from her.

What a load of lies I tell myself to justify breaking my vow. She might deserve to know pleasure, but I hardly deserve to be the one who shows her.

Because with Ivy Cavendale, it wouldn’t just be tupping. It could never just be tupping.

Forcing his mind to return to his plan, Edward bought himself time by taking another sip of coffee.

‘You said the man wore the clothes of a gentleman. And he was young, so mayhap he is an eligible lord looking for a bit of fun. While sneaking you into White’s or Boodles isn’t impossible, this is a far easier place to start.

A man willing to cross the boundaries of law and propriety by breaking into an orphanage is exactly the kind of young buck sure to seek an invitation to the Widow’s Ball.

And despite your fears about my reputation, I have been seen in far worse places than a private ball. ’

‘Have you?’ Her arch look rivalled that of Philippa. He wished the duchess could see her protégée now. She would be immensely proud.

Shrugging an answer to her question, he continued. ‘If we don’t see him there, we can try a ride along Hyde Park or stroll down Bond Street, but this is our best chance.’

‘Ah. I see. Your brilliant plan is to escort me around London during the height of the summer season in hopes of not being noticed?’

‘Yes. Exactly.’ He nodded, grateful that she was finally being reasonable.

‘Brilliant,’ she hissed, her tone communicating the exact opposite.

Turning from him, she plucked the kettle from the hob and shook it.

Finding the contents lacking, she stormed out of the kitchen.

He heard the tap running in the scullery.

Before he could follow her, she was back, her skirts billowing around her legs as she strode to the hob and plunked the full kettle down.

Bending over, she pulled open the stove and fed it a few sticks.

He did not notice how the fabric of her skirts pulled tight across her bottom.

While her limbs were lean and her lines were sleek, her arse was lush and full.

His fingers twitched at his side as his body grew tight.

How would it feel to grip her narrow hips and pull that firm bottom flush against him?

Delicious. Sweet. Perfect.

Again, not helpful.