Chapter 1London, December,1802
“Are your pet empath and his terrifying viscount going to be eavesdropping, if I either punch you or kiss you?”
Sam Rookwood stared at his possible prisoner and possible love of his life, tried to figure out a way to answer John’s question without betraying his chief magistrate’s position or his own hurricane of feelings or both at once, and managed, “No?”
“Oh, all right,” John said, “good,” and slammed Sam’s townhouse study door shut and shoved Sam up against it. The night shimmered and crackled: London at Midwinter, candlelight and holly, rustling silk and supper-parties, ruby tiaras and emerald satin breeches, mistletoe and fortune-telling. Sam couldn’t think about a fortune, a future, right now.
He let himself be shoved. Flat against solid wood. The t
