Lord Patrick Day groaned and slowly opened his eyes—only to come face-to-face with a sleeping Amy, her lips approximately two inches from his.

He froze.

Slowly, very slowly, Amy started to shift, and her lashes lifted. A pair of beautiful green eyes gazed into his.

"Hello dere," she whispered.

He swallowed. "Hello."

Waking up with someone in the morning...someone special. Was this what it felt like? He tried imagining what it might be like to wake up like this in the future, beside a proper lady with at least seventy-seven generations of honorable ancestors, someone eligible to be his future wife. He tried really, really hard. He tried so hard his brain bent! But no matter how hard he tried, all he could see was the girl in front of him and the light sparkling in her emerald eyes.

Amy glanced around at the two of them and the bed, and a corner of her mouth quirked. "Seems like dis is becoming a 'abit."

"Ehem. Well." Trying to find a spot to look at that wasn't tempting him, Lord Patrick's eyes flitted from left to right. "Seems like it." Then, giving up the struggle, his eyes found hers and his gaze suddenly turned fierce. "And...somehow, I can't bring myself to regret it."

A blush tinged her cheeks. "My, my. I must be good. Mayhaps I should raise me rates and ask for more mon—"

In a flash, his finger fell upon her lips, silencing her.

"Don't. Don't you ever mention that again. Not here and now." Letting his finger slide sideways across her soft skin, he cupped her cheek. "Not between us."

What the bleeding dratted heck was he doing? There was no "us"! There could never, ever, ever be an "us"! There couldn't even be a "me and her, tangentially connected"! And yet, and yet...

He didn't take his finger away.

Something flared up in her eyes. Pain? Warmth? Fear? Longing? Or maybe a mixture of all of these.

How could she suddenly be even more beautiful?

Before he knew what he was doing, Lord Patrick Day had leaned forward and placed a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth.

You just kissed a lady of the night! You, Lord Patrick Day, descendant of a noble line tracing its roots back to the days of William the Conqueror, just kissed a lady of the night! Did you go insane?

Yes, he probably did. And he didn't regret it one bit.

The feeling of her soft skin was more intoxicating than anything in his life. And with Titus as a best friend, "most intoxicaticating" was saying quite something.

"Miss Amy..."

Reaching out, she touched his face. "Amy. Just Amy."

He stiffened. "I couldn't possibly!"

She giggled. "We've slept together twice now, and ye can't call me by me first name?"

"That's not the point! Calling a lady by her first name, that..."

That was something taboo. Something special. Something done among people of good breeding only, if ever at all, between...between a man and his...

He swallowed, and nodded. "Amy."

Right then and there, he felt something inside his heart shift, and settle in place. Intensely, he studied her face. Did she feel the same? Did something deep inside her move and—

Her stomach rumbled.

***

A moment or two passed in silence, as Amy tried her best to sink through the bed into the floor.

Damn, blast and horse crap! Why did that 'ave ta 'appen now of all times?

A corner of Patrick's mouth quirked. "I think it's time we get up."

Amy glared up at him, blushing.

Blushing? Blushing?! Why the hell was she blushing?

Maybe 'cause ye woke up in bed with a man ye didn't sleep with? 'ow outrageous! Ye're ruining da good reputation of all respectable ladies of the night!

Shut up, inner voice! And most of all, shut up, stomach!

"N-no...I'm not..."

Patrick grinned. Standing abruptly, he pulled her up and straight into his arms. "Let's go. Let's make breakfast for you!"

Amy's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. At the same time, she felt a surge of warmth inside her. "R-really?"

A peer of da realm! A bloody peer of da realm is goin' ta make breakfast for me?

"Of course. Come along."

Opening the door, he carried her out of the room and, gently setting her down, pulled her down the corridor, through the quiet house, until they stepped into the kitchen. Still smiling, Amy watched as he looked around the kitchen, frowning.

He continued looking around for quite a while, frowning.

Amy cocked her head. What was the matter? The pots and pans were all there.

"What are ye lookin' for?"

He gave her a "duh"-look. "The cook, of course."

Amy covered her eyes with her hand. Let's make breakfast for you...

She was thinking of bashing her head against the wall, or bashing his, just to check whether blue blood would come spilling out. Or maybe she should check his mouth to see if there was a silver spoon stuck in there. This bloody man...!

Slowly, she lowered her hand, just in time to see a frowning Patrick peek into the pantry on the search for the stubbornly hiding kitchen staff.

"Oh, out of da way, ye!"

Shouldering him aside, Amy strode towards the stove and, pulling open a cupboard, took out two pots, two eggs and some bacon.

"What? But you are a guest in my house!" Patrick protested. "You should sit down, and relax, and—"

"—starve ta death?" She smirked. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Within a few minutes, the stove was heating up and a piece of butter was sizzling in the pan while Amy was already cracking the eggs into a porcelain bowl.

Smirking, she glanced over at Patrick. He was standing stiff in his own kitchen, glancing around as if he were in enemy territory. It was...adorable.

Innocently, she pointed at the bowl. "Can I trust ye ta beat the eggs, or will you be sending yer butler ta fetch you a cudgel?"

He sent her a most dignified, lordly look. "I'll have you know I am perfectly capable of cooking."

"Really? What?"

He hesitated.

"Water," he admitted. "But that's beside the point!"

"Of course, it definitely is."

"Stop smirking!"

"Hm...maybe. If ye start beating."

Gathering all his noble dignity, Lord Patrick Day strode forward, grabbed the whisk and started beating. Amy almost felt like applauding, but wisely decided to refrain. For some time, they just worked in companionable silence, glancing at each other now and again. It felt so comfortable. So much like a...what was the word?

A home.

Home? This was a bloody nobleman's town house! Heck, it was half a palace, with golden chandeliers in every room, and more servants than she could count! How the heck was she suddenly feeling at home here?

"Here."

Sending her a smile, Patrick held out the bowl with the eggs. Amy reached out, and their hands brushed. Accidentally, of course! Purely accidentally!

Aye, and that tingle on yer fingers is also purely accidental, eh?

Amy swallowed, glancing up at Patrick. One long second passed. Then another. It took quite a while for Patrick to successfully hand over the bowl. Amy didn't really mind, though. After all, it was a very complicated process, right? No need to hurry.

"Thank you," Amy whispered.

He smiled. They continued to gaze at each other for another long, long moment. Slowly, Patrick leaned towards her until...

He pulled a face.

"Blast! What is that infernal odour?"

It was then Amy noticed the smoke rising from the stove. Oops.

"Blast! Dratted rat's faeces!"

Hurriedly jumping back, Patrick flailed his hand, trying to dispel the stench of burning eggs. Giggling, Amy grabbed the pan from the stove, started picking out the burnt pieces, and then held out the magnificent result.

"Behold, our masterpiece!" She grinned.

Never in a million years would she have expected his reaction. Patrick, Lord Patrick Day the sovereign of snobbishness and king of fine cuisine, reached out with his fingers, snatched up a piece of greasy, half-burnt scrambled egg, and plopped it into his mouth.

"Very...tasty. Your cooking is...excellent."

Amy grinned. "Ye know ye look really adorable when ye're trying not ta vomit?"

"Ehem." He swallowed, his throat working harder than it probably ever had in its life, and finally managed to dump the semi-edible egg in his unfortunate stomach.

"Come on." Interlinking arms with him, Amy pulled him out of the kitchen. Around them, the house was slowly waking up. The unfortunate scullions and maids that had the earliest jobs to perform rolled out of bed and started preparing the house for the day. The rising sun shone through the window, and birds twittered in the trees outside. Hand in hand, they slowly meandered towards the drawing room. Once inside, Patrick settled down on the sofa and poured two cups of tea, waiting for Amy to settle down beside him.

Of course she didn't. Why would she, when she had this delicious opportunity. Wiggled her hips seductively, she sidled up to him, in full-on maid mode.

"Breakfast is ready, My Lord," she murmured, gazing at him through half-lidded eyes. "How would you like me to serve you?"

She had the distinct pleasure of seeing Lord Patrick Day nearly choking on his tea. "You...you...!"

"Yes, My Lord?" Leaning over, she placed the tray on the table, showing quite a bit of cleavage—totally by accident, of course. "Is there anything specific that would please you, My Lord?"

The shock swiftly disappeared from Patrick's face, only to be replaced by fierce determination. And something more than that. Something that Amy immediately recognized, and for the first time in her life, didn't mind: desire.

"Come here, you!"

In a blink, he had snuck an arm around her waist and captured her in an iron grip. She tried to resist, told herself she wanted to...but her legs went weak, and within moments, her face was only inches away from his.

"My Lord?" she whispered.

For some reason, it didn't sound the least bit facetious this time.

Capturing her face in his hand, he forced her to look straight into his eyes. "Not My Lord. Patrick." One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Or you can call me Pea, if you want."

She felt a surge of warmth inside her, probably because of the little devil inside doing a fist pump. "I'll remember that."

His grip tightened. Without knowing how or why, she felt herself leaning forward, until their lips—

Ding-dong!

They both froze.

"Err...am I wrong," Amy asked, "or was dat da doorbell?"

Her question was answered a moment later when they heard the creak of the front door opening.

"Good morning, Your Ladyship," Amy heard a distant voice. "What can I do for y—"

"No pleasantries today, Griffiths! You know why I've come. Where is my son?"

Son?

Amy's whole body froze, abruptly becoming aware of her bedhair, and the very, very compromising position she was in.

I 'eard wrong just now, right? Please tell me I 'eard wrong!

"Your son Lord Patrick, Your Ladyship? I believe he is in the drawing roo—"

Before the butler could even answer, a sharp staccato of heels on wood approached down the corridor. With admirably unscrupulous speed, Patrick shoved Amy off his lap, leapt halfway across the sofa, grabbed a nearby newspaper and had gone into cover behind the title page when the door to the drawing room was thrown open.

"Patrick Day!" In the doorway stood a tall, golden-haired, middle-aged lady with the face of the dignified queen. The kind that liked to chop off heads as a hobby. "What is this I hear about you being seen around town with a young lady?"