by Alyson Chase
Brogan was only too happy to escape to speak to the manager.
He left Juliana discussing waistcoats and men’s shoes with his fellow investigators.
“I don't have new information about the investigation,” Brogan began. He leaned his shoulder against the door jamb to Wil’s office. He kept watch over Juliana, not liking how every male eye seemed fixed in her direction. He didn’t blame the arseholes. When she laughed, she seemed lit up from within.
He trusted the other men, but only to a point. Juliana was a very alluring woman.
Another burst of merriment had Brogan narrowing his eyes. Hurst was telling the story of Lord Dunkeld tossing a former agent onto the street…via a window. It had happened before Brogan’s employment at the agency, but Brogan had oft heard this account. It was spoken as a warning not to try the patience of that one particular owner. But he’d never heard it told with the exaggerated gestures and playacting that Hurst was putting into it now.
He cracked the knuckles of his right hand. He’d have to watch that one. Too familiar by half with Juliana.
Keeping his eyes on the scene across the room, he said, “I want to look into her brother again. His acquaintances give me cause for concern. But in case I'm wrong, a visit back to Bluff Hall might be in order. I might get more out of the servants without Snowdon in residence.”
“Good,” Wil said. “But that's not why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?” Brogan turned to face him.
“What's going on with her?” Wil jerked his head towards Juliana.
Brogan slowly straightened. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Wil dipped his chin. “I have eyes. Anyone can see that there's something going on between you two.”
Brogan’s chest burned. Anyone should mind their own damn business.
But the hell of it was, his relationship with Juliana was Wil’s business. Brogan had crossed every professional boundary there was. He knew it. He hated himself for it.
And he’d do it again.
“It won't be a problem,” he told Wil.
“It might already be a problem.” Wil scraped his hand across his jaw. “When you become involved with a woman, develop feelings—”
Brogan grumbled at that accusation. Not because there wasn’t some truth in it, who couldn’t like Juliana, but at the fact that his emotions were so easily discerned. When the affair ended, his associates might pity him if they suspected he had been hurt. An unbearable thought.
“—your judgment becomes compromised. I think I should assign a new investigator to her case.”
“Like hell.” Brogan took a step into the man. Physically intimidating his boss probably wasn't the smartest idea, but there was no way he was going to let someone else stand by Juliana’s side. He was going to be the one to protect her. He was the only person he trusted to take her safety as seriously as needed.
“My judgment is fine,” he said. “This is my case. She's my responsibility. Even if you took me off it, I'd be sticking by her side.”
Wil looked heavenward. “I knew I shouldn’t have accepted this job. When Summerset asked me to manage the agency, I should have said no. The whole lot of you are ungovernable. I was better off as his servant. Good food to eat, a nice roof over my head. And I only had to manage one oversized ego.”
Brogan huffed. Wilberforce might have worked for Lord Summerset, but there was nothing subservient in his manners towards the man. They were friends, it was clear. Otherwise, the earl would never have put up with Wil’s impertinence.
“Look.” Wil glanced at Juliana, then turned his back to her, facing Brogan and blocking out the others. “I'm saying this for your sake. Lady Juliana seems like a very nice woman.”
Brogan rubbed his chest. Nice wasn’t the word for her. She got under his skin too deep to be considered nice.
“But sometimes…” Wil swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Sometimes, as men, we don't get the women we want. Sometimes, life doesn’t work out the way we hope. If you can withdraw now, you'll save yourself a future of misery. Trust me on this. I know.”
Brogan slumped back against the wall. It was good advice. He eyed the man’s drawn face. And apparently learned from personal experience. And it mirrored Brogan’s own judgment on the matter.
But every time he told himself to back off, he only craved Juliana more.
Wil was right. Brogan knew his future. It didn't include the daughter of an earl.
But if his future was going to be missing her smile, her quick wit, her unconventional manners, he’d best soak in as much of Juliana in the present as he could.
His memories would have to last him.
And he wanted Juliana to have fond memories of him, as well. So, if she wanted a boring evening, full of insipid harp music and stilted conversation, by damn, he'd give it to her.
Even if he hated every moment.
“Thank you for your interest,” he said. “I know it is kindly meant.”
“But?” Wil asked.
“But I'll handle my affairs as I see fit.”
Wil nodded. “I understand.” He shrugged. “That's the most that any man can do.”
Brogan started across the office, but Wil placed his hand on his arm. “If you’re going to this musicale, you do know we have a closet full of clothes to suit any occasion. Our agents use them for disguises. I think this qualifies.”
Brogan’s shoulders drooped. It looked like he would be playing dress-up this evening. He trudged over to Juliana.
She smiled up at him, her face full of joy.
His spirits couldn’t help but lift. He shouldn’t grumble so much about dressing up for the evening.
Because when it came time to undress, she would be there. Having her in his bed was worth any sacrifice.
“What time does this evening of torture begin?” he asked.
Chapter Twenty
Juliana sighed in delight. Mrs. Joanna Bergen’s nimble fingers dancing on the harp were more than she had hoped for. “Isn’t she a talent?”
Brogan grunted an assent. He’d sat next to her for the whole performance, arms crossed and gaze sweeping over the guests in Hyacinth’s sitting room with a regularity that had so disconcerted the couple on his left, that they had found other seats halfway through the second song.
Juliana and Brogan had decided that he was to be a cousin of hers for this evening, sent by her father to chaperone her about the city. If anyone disbelieved them, they were too polite to raise an eyebrow. And the clothing he’d borrowed from the agency fit the ruse. His cravat was a lovely camel color, with a waistcoat with matching stitching. He still wore trousers, but they were finely sewn, and hugged his thighs in a way that made her belly quiver. Tall, leather boots, a tailored jacket, and he was as well-dressed as any man there.
What he didn’t look was comfortable in those clothes.
Fortunately, Juliana was of little consequence. No eyes were turned their way to see the odd couple they made. As the daughter of a poorer earl, there was no dowry for suitors to fight over. She offered no great beauty or charm for those who didn’t require a wealthy bride. Her decided manners and conversation turned many men off. All in all, she was in the perfect position to enjoy evenings out among society without having to worry about the demands of said society.
Even discounting their lie of his familial relationship to her, surely Brogan could see how inconsequential it was for her to be seen out with someone who wasn’t a peer. How easily he could integrate into her world if he chose.
Hyacinth’s sister went to the pianoforte at the front of the room and joined Mrs. Bergen in the next set.
Brogan grumbled. “I thought it was over.”
“It has only been twenty minutes,” she whispered. “It will go for at least an hour and a half.”
Brogan blew out a long breath, then resumed his statue-like posture, the only thing moving was his head as it swiveled t
o keep an eye on the guests.
For a man who spoke little of his feelings, he said much in just the way he held his shoulders. There was his ‘you’re boring me with your stupidity’ posture. The ‘I sense trouble and am ready to leap into action’ stance. The ‘I’m patient and can wait until you finally agree with me’ set of his shoulders. That one was by far her least favorite.
But tonight was different. Tonight Brogan sat, his shoulders slightly raised towards his ears, his posture all but screaming, ‘I’m uncomfortable and can’t wait to leave.’
At Brogan’s insistence, they had taken seats at the back of the room. It was easily done to take Brogan’s hand and slip from the musicale unnoticed.
“We’re leaving.” He sighed. “Thank God. I’ll ask for the carr—”
“We're not leaving.” She peered down the hall, searching for an appropriate room. Dragging Brogan behind her, she opened the first door on the right. Large, uncurtained windows let in light from the street. She opened another door, and another, until she found a room suitable for her purpose.
“What…” he began.
She dragged him inside and closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock. The music from the main room could still be faintly heard, the cheerful melody from the harp urging her to recklessness.
“I think we both need to learn the fine art of compromise,” she said. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him backwards until the backs of his thighs hit a high desk.
He plopped down. “What are we compromising on?” His eyes scanned the room before settling back on her face.
“On us both getting what we want. Me, a night of lovely music.” She paused, listening as the harpist’s efforts danced about the room. “And you…” She plucked at the corner of her fichu and dragged it off her neck. She drew her finger along the edge of her bodice. “And you get me.”
She didn't mention that she would enjoy having him as much as he would her. This compromise gave her two things she wanted to his one. But no one said compromises had to be completely even.
He wrapped his hands around her hips, squeezing. “Juliana.” His voice was a low rumble. “This is the home of your friend.”
“Yes.” She ran her hands up and down his arms. “And if Hyacinth knew how much pleasure I expect, she wouldn’t begrudge me a moment. Do you not think these rooms have been used for such before?” She pressed her lips to his jaw. “Many men get bored at these events and escape to side rooms with their wives to be better entertained.”
The fine muscles around his eyes winced, so quickly, she almost missed it. It was the word ‘wives,’ she knew. At some level, he still thought their affair immoral. But that wasn't anything she had control over.
She slid her hands under the lapels of his jacket and pushed the fabric over his broad shoulders. She widened his legs with her own, and stepped into the space between his thighs. He might think their actions immoral, that a man in his position shouldn’t be with a woman in hers, but he didn't stop her from removing his jacket. Didn't stop her from untying his cravat and tugging it loose.
He cupped the back of her neck and drew her face to his. This kiss held none of the frenzy of their first joining, nor the sweet tenderness of initial exploration. But this kiss held expertise, an awareness that couldn’t exist without some practice between two partners.
He rolled his tongue along hers, and she moaned. He dug his teeth into her bottom lip, nipping with just the right amount of pressure to make her gasp.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned against his chest. This kiss was perfect.
He slid his hands to her back. His fingers tangled in the laces to her gown.
She pulled back. “Leave it on.” She licked her bottom lip, still tasting him. “It's harder to redress a woman than it is a man.”
“Agreed.” In a movement so quick she barely had time to blink, Brogan gripped her waist and spun them around so she faced the desk and he stood behind her.
A bit dizzy, she rested her palms on the cool wood surface. “Oh my.”
He pressed his palm between her shoulder blades and urged her down until she lay flat against the desk.
Her breath grew choppy as Brogan flipped her skirts up over her hips.
He ran his thumb along her bare flesh. “No pantalets?”
“Not with this dress,” she said cheekily.
The sound of flesh smacking flesh rang in her ear a moment before the sting from his palm registered in her brain.
She blinked, shocked more than anything else. “Did you just spank me?”
“Do you regularly go about London not wearing underthings?”
“It isn't my typical mode of dress, no.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
He smacked her bottom again, the bloom of heat from the spank merging with a different heat. She rubbed her legs together, trying to ease the ache between her thighs.
“Make it a never mode of dress,” he replied.
Fabric rustled. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Brogan drop to his knees.
He gripped her arse with both hands, spreading her cheeks apart, exposing everything.
She squirmed. She was more liberated than most women of her acquaintance, but still, some things should remain private. “Brogan, I don't think—”
Her throat squeezed shut, her eyes rolling to the back of her head at the first touch of his tongue. “Dear Lord,” she whispered when she caught her breath.
He sucked at her swollen folds, switching between nipping at her with his teeth and lapping at her with his tongue. He plunged that organ into her opening, mimicking the motion of tupping. His fingers moved dangerously close to her other hole, and her modesty deserted her.
What he was doing felt so good, she didn’t care where his touch, his gaze, might land. He felt heavenly inside of her, even though his tongue wasn’t nearly large enough to fully satisfy.
Brogan dragged his lips down to her clit and latched on.
She moaned, loud and long. This was her best compromise ever. She dug her nails into the desk as Brogan brought her higher and higher. As her body coiled tighter. The sounds that left her mouth were barely human. She felt barely human. More animal, wanting without thought, needing without worry of consequence.
Before she could crash over the edge. Brogan pulled back. “No,” she wailed.
“You’re going to bring the whole damn house to us with the noise you're making.” He grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back. “Open up.”
Her forehead furrowed. “What—”
Brogan shoved the balled-up cravat into her mouth, cutting off her question.
She gurgled in protest, shooting him a baleful glare.
He smoothed his hand down her flanks, looking much too pleased with himself. “Even with your known eccentric upbringing, your reputation wouldn’t withstand someone finding us alone in this room together.” He flicked open his falls, pushing his smallclothes out of the way. “Especially not with my cock buried in your quim.”
He notched his crown at her wet channel and entered her in one smooth stroke.
The silk cravat felt awful on her tongue, but she could moan and squeal to her heart's delight, a definite benefit.
And when Brogan gripped her hip with one hand, and the back of her neck with his other, her heart delighted. A lot.
He plunged into her with long even strokes, stretching her walls, hitting all the places inside that made her quiver.
His power, his control, were all intoxicating. She was a modern woman, educated equally with her brother. She shouldn’t love being putty in a man’s hands. Being molded for his pleasure. Powerless before his dominance.
Claimed.
Her body melted into the desk.
But she did.
She could do nothing more than roll her hips with each thrust, take the pleasure Brogan gave. Her breath caught. He claimed her so thoroughly in the bedroom, it was alm
ost enough to make her forget he didn’t want her outside of it. Almost.
He drove into her faster. The smack of flesh against flesh, the wet sucking sound of his cock tunneling into her body, were a companion to her muffled screams. His hips battered the patch of skin that he had spanked, increasing the sting, making her question everything she thought she'd known about lovemaking.
Brogan Duffy fucked like the man he was.
Elemental.
Hard.
Determined.
Brogan fucked like he owned her. Like it was his right to pin her in place, take what he wanted. And a small part of her heart answered that he did. As long as he gave as much as he took, he could own her body in any manner he wanted.
She didn't think she could ever go back to the soft caresses of an artist, the polite respects of a nobleman. She reached back, needing to touch him, and gripped the waist of his trousers hanging from his hips. She dug her fingernails into the cloth as he pounded her harder.
Her muscles seized, everything inside her going tight. Her ribs wouldn't expand to give her air. Dark spots danced before her eyes.
Brogan slid his hand around her hip, the tip of his finger butterflying over her clit.
She shattered. Wave after wave of ecstasy pulsed through her body, arching her back and curling her toes.
Brogan’s fingers dug into her skin. He groaned, pulling from her. Liquid heat splashed her lower lips before he spent on her bottom. “God damn.” He released his hold and planted both palms on the desk. “God damn, you feel good.” He brushed hair off her cheek before pulling the cravat from her mouth.
“Brogan?”
“Hmm?”
“I didn’t wear pantalets tonight for you.”
His lips curved against the skin of her neck. He gave her one last kiss. “Stay here.”
That was a demand Juliana had no problem following. She rested on the desk as her heart calmed and her breath slowed. The desk was actually quite comfortable. Her eyes slid shut. She could stay here for the rest of the night.
Brogan wiped something soft across her bum, cleaning her. “The music is still going. Do you want to slip back in to the musicale?”
