She had spent too many years avoiding the traps of men. She would not stumble now.

Chapter 20

Fallon stopped abruptly at the top of the stoop, staring at the small form blocking her descent.

With the afternoon free, she had intended to spend it with Marguerite, to apprise her of all that had happened— _most _ of what had happened, at any rate. Yet the sight of the slight, bone-thin shoulders shuddering with tears halted her in her tracks. Suddenly her wish to be free—to escape the indiscreet whispers and hot-eyed speculation of everyone in the house—withered to a swift death.

Bending from the waist, she surveyed the profile of a grimy-faced youth of no more than ten years. Tears left shiny tracts down cheeks that had not seen a good scrub in as many years.

Clearly one of the duke’s urchins.

Descending another step, she settled herself beside him on the stoop, folding her hands carefully over the skirt of her dress.

She leaned her shoulder against the iron railing to her right. “Mind if I sit here a bit.”

He shot her a startled look and dragged his sleeve across his nose with a loud, wet sniff. For some moments they sat side, by side, saying nothing, the hawking calls of the vendors out in the square the only sound on the air.

The lad continued to send her several surreptitious looks, without quite turning his face to look at her person. “You’re the one they’re all talking about.”

She lifted a brow at his abrupt announcement, her fingers clenching tighter about her reticule. It was one thing to suspect yourself the subject of gossip, another to know. “Am I?”

He nodded. “I ’eard them. In the kitchens. You’re the one that thinks she’s a man.”

Fallon’s mouth turned a bit at that. “I don’t _think _ I’m a man.”

“You dressed like one, though?”

“I did.”

“And let everyone think you were one.”

She winced and gave a single nod.

“Why?”

Her fingers tightened around her bent knees. “I guess it seemed easier than being…well…me.”

He nodded again, his manner strangely wise for one of such tender years. “Wish I didn’t ’ave to be me.”

“What’s wrong with being you?”

“Today I’m to be sold,” he replied in peevish tones, glaring straight ahead.

“Sold?” Fallon blinked. “Surely not.”

“Aye, the ’igh master in there found a position for me.” He thumbed behind him, the gesture brutal and savage. “But I know what that means.”

“You do?”

“Aye, ’e bloody well sold me. Like my uncle sold me to the workhouse when Mam died. I’ll not go back to a place like that again. I’ll take to the streets first.”

Fallon frowned. “I can assure you His Grace does not intend to _sell _ you.”

The boy thrust out his bottom lip in mutiny. “How do you know? You know ’im?”

Fallon thought for a moment before replying. “Yes. I know him well enough.” And she supposed she did. Her cheeks warmed as she thought about just how well he knew her. She hadn’t seen him since the morning in his study, but he haunted her thoughts…as did the memory of those magical hands on her. On her body.

At the boy’s expectant gaze, she cleared her throat and elaborated, trying to offer him the reassurance he so clearly craved. “His Grace would never sell you. He is a good man. A kind man.”

“Indeed?”

At the gravelly voice, she lurched to her feet, one hand clutching the steel railing edging the steps. Dominic stood framed in the doorway, studying her intently. How long had he been there?

“A good man, you say? Kind? How interesting to hear you say that.”

The boy darted uneasy glances between Fallon and the duke.

“Nonsense,” Fallon said tightly, looking meaningfully at the duke. “I was just assuring your young charge here of how very good you are.”

“Ah.” He descended a few steps. “Well, good enough to escort you to your new home.” He ruffled the lad’s wheat-colored hair. “What say you to that, Andy? Ready?”

The lad’s face paled and he looked with entreaty to Fallon. He inched close enough for his arm to align with her side, his hand brushing hers.

The duke studied them for a long moment, noting Andy’s closeness to her with a keen gaze.

“Perhaps you would care to join us, Miss O’Rourke. After we’ve secured young Andy, I can deposit you wherever you wish.” His gaze skimmed her. “Clearly you have plans for your afternoon.”

“Yes. That should be satisfactory,” she murmured, nodding in agreement even as she balked at the thought of spending time with the duke. She had vowed to avoid him, to prove not only to herself but him that she could be a model servant—one who went about her duties attracting as little notice as possible. One who did not crave her employer as might an idiot female with aspirations above her station.

She knew her place in the world. And it was not with him.

Dominic stared openly at the female across from him. Female. It _still _ rankled. Dressed in her drab blue dress, he had difficulty reconciling her with Frank—the fierce-eyed valet with an impertinent tongue whose approval he had, absurdly, sought. The fierce eyes were still there. As was the boldness…however much she attempted at an air of meekness.

The boy sat close to her side, shooting Dominic narrowed glances. Natural, he supposed.

Dominic had rescued him from a beating, after all. Likely every man struck a note of distrust with the boy.

Interesting Andy should like _her _ so much. He had overheard their conversation, eavesdropping shamelessly when he found her sitting with him on the stoop. Her compassion surprised him.

Nearly as much as her endorsement of him. And why would she waste her free afternoon on some street scamp?

At Dominic’s continued stare, the boy stuck out his tongue and slid a bone-thin hand around Fallon’s arm.

She looked startled for a moment, and he waited, lips twisting, ready to see her remove the urchin’s grimy paw from the well-pressed sleeve of her dress. Instead, she relaxed back into the seat and covered his hand with her own, her long elegant fingers wrapping around his thin hand, her shiny, clean nails a marked contrast next to his dirt-encrusted ones.

Something loosened inside his chest and he turned abruptly, looking away, staring crossly at the drawn curtains. Bloody hell. She possessed a tender heart. Not a particularly welcome insight.

Given the chance, the wolves would gobble up a morsel like her. And are you not the greatest wolf of them all?

Grimacing, he parted the curtains just as the carriage rolled to a stop. Gratefully.

“We’re here?”

Nodding, he stepped down from the carriage. Turning, he assisted Fallon from the conveyance, his hands lingering longer than they should on her waist. Her cheeks pinkened but her eyes did not lift to his. She avoided his gaze. Clearly unwilling to acknowledge the spark of connection between them. A spark he was beginning to suspect could not be avoided. The predator in him purred to life, eager to dominate, to feel her eyes on him, feasting and absorbing in the same manner his gaze devoured her.

He gnashed his teeth. Was she playing at the docile maid now? He wouldn’t have it. He wanted her alive and spitting as before, when he held her against him—naked, her skin hot from her bath, her moist woman’s flesh milking his touch.

She stepped free of him and faced the shop, blinking at the Confectionery before them as young Andy hopped down. She looked to her left and right, clearly uncertain.

Shifting against the sudden tight fit of his breeches, Dominic gestured before them, opening the door. With the door’s bell tinkling over their heads, Fallon and Andy stepped inside, their eyes rounding in unison at the sweets on display in glass counters.

All manner of aromas assailed the nose, sugar and cinnamon and spiced fruits. Fallon glanced at him, one brow cocked in question. Andy had yet to reclaim his composure. He slid his hand from Fallon’s and pressed himself to the display of goodies, fogging the glass with the close press of his open mouth.

“Ah, Your Grace!” A ruddy-faced man bustled from around the counter, his belly swaying side to side against his striped apron. “We’ve been expecting you. You’ll have to forgive that Mrs.

Applebaum is not here to greet you…she is still preparing for the lad at home. Mentioned something about meat pasties for lunch…” The proprietor winked broadly at Andy. “You’ll see.

Mrs. Applebaum makes the best pasties.” He rubbed his considerable belly. “Believes in feeding the working man, she does.”

“Mr. Applebaum.” Dominic settled a hand on Andy’s slight shoulder. “This is Andy, the boy I told you about.”

Mr. Applebaum nodded, looking the lad over with deep consideration. “Looks wiry enough.

What say you lad, willing to earn your keep?”

Fallon’s hand drifted to Andy’s other shoulder, the gesture inherently maternal. Suddenly a flash of her with a babe in her arms and another clinging to her skirts filled his head. Shaking the domestic image from his head, he focused on Applebaum.

“’Fraid the wife has notions of coddling and cosseting you. You’ll have to bear it, lad.” Despite the gruffness in his voice, something tender crossed the man’s eyes. “We never had offspring of our own.” With a sniff and swipe of his bulbous nose, he added, “I confess, I’ll be glad for a helping hand in the shop. And the company.”

Andy found his voice at last. “I’ll be living with you? And I’ll be working here?” His head turned, sweeping the shop, his gaze not missing a single licorice stick, gumdrop or rum-candied tart.

“Yes, and I’m afraid my taste buds have become a bit jaded over the years.” He patted his stomach. “I’ll need you to help with the sampling.”

Dominic suppressed a smile at Andy’s animated nod. “I won’t mind at all, sir! Not at all!”

Dominic felt it then. Felt her.

Without looking, he knew she gazed at him. The curious heat of her stare roamed his face.

Turning, he met her gaze. She looked at him as though she had never seen him before.

Something indefinable glowed in her eyes. Something that made his chest tighten almost painfully.

Already, Applebaum was leading Andy away, talking animatedly of the day’s plans…something about frosting a seven-tiered cake for the Mayfair’s Ladies’ Horticulture Society.

“Andy, wait!” Fallon swept forward. Crouching, she folded the soot-faced lad in her arms. She smoothed a hand over his head, rumpling the wheat-colored hair. Her hand slid down, fingers trailing his grubby cheek fondly. Dominic’s chest twisted and he looked away, suddenly wishing himself a nine-year-old orphan. Bloody hell.

Applebaum stepped forward to offer a hasty farewell, thanking Dominic for placing the lad with him, and thrusting a white paper sack in his hand. “Dark chocolate fudge. I remember how much you like it, Your Grace.”

Nodding his thanks, he glanced at Andy again. “I only hope you find satisfaction in the arrangement. If the situation proves untenable, send for me. I can make other arrangements.”

Applebaum shot a quick look to the boy, presently being fussed over by Fallon. “I think we shall get on very well, Your Grace.”

Dominic waited as Fallon finished with her farewell. He caught her whisper to the boy. “Be happy.”

The tightness unfurled from his chest with the suddenness of a balloon bursting. Fallon O’Rourke, he grimly accepted, was a creature unlike any other. A scant hour with Andy and she had taken him into her heart.

A desperate urge to be that liked— by her—ignited a slow burn inside him.

He led her from the confectioner’s shop, his hand on her elbow, scarcely recalling his steps or climbing inside the carriage or popping a piece of fudge in his mouth. As the rich creaminess dissolved on his tongue, he offered her the bag. She accepted it. He watched her take the chocolate into her mouth, place it upon the pink tip of her tongue, and arousal stabbed through him.