Page 36 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

“A bigger theft,” he said miserably. “You have plans to acquire something important.”

“Yes.” Valentin pushed a hand through Mickey’s hair. “On New Year’s Eve, I shall steal something important. A theft I’ve prepared half my life for. A life built on untruths and deceit, on money gleaned from selling all those snuff boxes and fencing sleeve buttons. A life built on spun sugar and thin air, fabricated so that I might stroll into Talybridge’s grand ballroom, rub shoulders with the high ton as if I belong, and take something precious from that odious marquess. And I may be caught. I want you far from that. It will…an association with me will not end well for you.”

Mickey clawed at Valentin’s coat, hot tears clinging onto his eyelids. Every fibre of his being begged him to warn his lover that he’d be risking everything, only to open an empty safe. That the priceless parure would already be securely stowed in Ashington’s pocket within minutes of the damned ball starting. Maybe before Valentin even arrived.

“Valentin,” he pleaded, “I beg you, do not risk your life for…a bauble, a mere trinket, no matter how precious. The ball will be teeming with servants and guests. Anyone could spy you.”

“A…bauble?”

“Yes, a bauble.” Did Mickey really have to spell it out? The whole of the ton had seen the blasted thing dragging around Miss Amelia’s neck. What else would Mickey assume he was planning to steal? Ignoring Valentin’s puzzled expression, he pushed on even more. “Surely, there are other prizes carrying far less danger than that damned parure?”

There followed an extended pause, during which Valentin’s brow furrowed even more. And then he burst into laughter.

“The parure?” he exclaimed. “You’re worried I’m trying to pilfer that garish old thing?”

Mickey’s mouth fell open. “Aren’t you?”

“God, no.”

“What? Why not? It’s said to be priceless.”

Valentin lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “I daresay, though that makes it no less ugly. And not even I would be bold enough to pilfer jewels as dazzling as those from around a woman’s neck and in full view of the ton. Especially a woman whom half the ton are ogling.”

It shan’t be around her neck, Mickey nearly blurted, then stopped himself. But it didn’t matter; the parure wasn’t Valentin’s goal. As he gasped with relief, another thought struck him.

“If not the parure, then what are you intending to steal that’s so important and valuable?”

“Never you mind.” Valentin’s thumb gently stroked away Mickey’s remaining tears. “For this prize, my safety is a risk I’m prepared to take. But not yours. You are far too precious to me to be a part of it. You must distance yourself from me at the ball, for your own good. And the day after, I shall return France. To Verdille.”

Mickey expected as much, but to hear the words spoken from Valentin’s lips was almost too much. “So, these few days before the end of the year, they are truly a farewell?”

“Yes, Mickey. If I am to live, I must flee.”

“But you are not stealing the parure.”

“No. It is worthless in comparison to my prize.”

Mickey didn’t understand. What could be more valuable—and more dangerous to steal—than the parure? An echo of Rollo’s words assailed him.

“You are pinching Miss Amelia herself?”

Valentin laughed. “Hardly. Have you not noticed? I prefer men.” He kissed one of Mickey’s wet eyelids, as if Mickey were something to be treasured. “And one man in particular.” He kissed the other. Mickey didn’t know how he’d ever rouse himself from his bed once this man left. “I told you. Everything people believe they know of me is built on lies. I have one goal. I will not cease until I have achieved it, and now I am so very close.”

“Is Verdille even real?” Please tell me it is. Mickey didn’t think he could bear it if it wasn’t. “Is that built on a lie too? Is…were we built on lies?”

Valentin crushed him in his arms, pressing his mouth to Mickey’s temple. “Verdille is as real as your fog-draped streets, as the spire of St Paul’s looming over them all, and your crooked, smelly houses that lean in upon one another. And…though I have tried to resist, it is as real as my desire for you. That is the most real thing I know and is why I must protect you from my wrongdoings.”

Mickey’s mouth crashed onto Valentin’s. To hell with “you cannot speak of caring or missing.” And to hell with whatever Valentin was hellbent on stealing. It mattered not; if this was the end, then Mickey would ensure that every minute of it was strong enough to be carried with him for all time. Kissing him back, Valentin let loose a hungry sound for evermore dividing Mickey’s life into two halves: before and after. His arms came up around Mickey’s neck, and as Mickey’s lips parted, Valentin pushed him backwards, then up onto the table. Papers slid to the floor, a mug of ale sploshed after it as tongues collided. The kiss turned into a hot, fast carriage ride Mickey never wanted to end. He felt unhinged, weightless, as if he were melting, devoured by it. Heat licked over his skin, his body thrummed as he lost himself to the intoxicating sweet nectar of it.

“You kiss as if it is your last,” he gasped when they finally sought air.

Valentin swept his palm across kiss-bruised lips, his expression caught between restlessness and want. “And you kiss as if it is your first.”

“It is. And it was worth the wait.”

Again, Mickey pulled Valentin close, kissing haphazardly across his lover’s face. Kissing away the fear. Kissing away the sorrow of impending loss. Kissing Valentin as if everything now made sense.

They stripped urgently, hungrily devouring each other around discarded cravats and linens. Bare arsed on the table, Mickey had one boot off, the other still stubbornly attached to him, his trousers and drawers bunched low around it. Valentin’s firm hand around the back of Mickey’s neck pulled him impossibly closer; his skin tingled a fiery heat where each fingertip pressed against it.