All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

The promise of something new, illicit, sensual—a taste she’d not tried before.

  She sank into his arms. He closed them around her, aware to his bones of her warmth, of the enticement of her soft flesh. He breathed deep and her scent wreathed through him—his arms locked. He shackled the sudden urge to seize. Instead, he traced her lower lip with his tongue, and waited.

  She hesitated for a heartbeat, then parted her lips. He traced their contours, encouraging her further, until, almost giddy with need, with triumph, he could enter and taste her as he wished.

  One taste was what he’d promised himself; he savored the moment, then, reining in his rakish impulses, drew back.

  Their lips parted, by half an inch. Their breaths mingled; she didn’t draw back. Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her lids were heavy, veiling her eyes. As he watched, they lifted and she met his gaze.

  Her eyes were darkened, sultry, yet filled with innocent surprise, and with a womanly wondering . . .

  He kissed her again, not, this time, for his pleasure but for hers. To show her just a little more of what could be, a little more of the wonder.

  Phyllida tightened her hold on his lapels and gave herself up to the kiss, to the slow surge of his tongue, the intimate caressing and exploring. Warmth seeped through her; a sharp lick of sensation whipped to her toes and slowly curled them.

  His head angled over hers and she clung; he deepened the kiss and she willingly followed. For years, she’d dreamed of being kissed like this, kissed as a woman, a woman desired. It was frightening and enticing. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She certainly wasn’t in control. Instead of scaring her, that thrilled her. Foolish, certainly, yet she felt no fear. Only a wanton eagerness.

  Lips and mouths melded; tongues tangled, sliding, caressing . . . for one magical instant, the world fell away.

  He tasted of heat and wildness, of something primeval, something barely tamed. Male—hard where she was soft, beast to her beauty. She sensed the leashed power simmering beneath his lips, held back behind his experienced facade.

  Then he started to draw back, to retreat and end the kiss.

  It was a surprise to realize she’d stretched up on her toes, that she’d pressed herself against him. Her knees had weakened, her skin felt too hot, her wits were whirling. His chest was a solid wall supporting her; she spread her fingers and pressed, enthralled by the resilient hardness beneath the crisp layers. His arms had locked, iron bands caging her; she didn’t care.

  She wanted to hold him, to prolong the precious moment—she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t know how.

  On the instant their lips would have parted, he paused. Then he returned, surging deep, a swift, hard invasion that mentally rocked her—the hidden power she’d sensed was no lie.

  Then he lifted his head and straightened, and she was standing on her feet, his hands rising to close about hers, clenched again on his lapels. She blinked and released her grip, then drew her hands from under his.

  Dazed, she met his eyes, and wasn’t at all certain what she saw. Something dark and dangerous prowled behind the blue. “Why did you kiss me?”

  That was suddenly very important to know.

  He didn’t smile, didn’t try to turn the awkward question aside with some glib and charming quip. His eyes held hers; they’d widened slightly at her question—she could almost believe he was as dazed as she.

  “Because I wanted to.” His voice was gravelly; he blinked, drew breath, and added, “And to thank you for your help—yesterday and today.” He met her gaze. “Regardless of all else, I sincerely appreciate all that you’ve done.”

  Lucifer tried to find a charming smile and couldn’t, so he clung to impassivity and gestured, urging her ahead of him along the path.

  With one last, wondering glance, she acquiesced. He followed, breathing deeply, thanking his stars that she’d accepted his answer. Walking before him, she couldn’t see the effort it took for him to reshackle his demons. He hoped she never guessed how close she’d come to meeting them.

  At least he’d answered her truthfully. About that first kiss. There was no need for her to know his reasons behind the second, and even less his reasons for the third. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d warned a woman away, but for her own safety, she should keep her distance.

  Frowning, he strolled at her heels, through the gathering gloom. He’d taken what he’d wanted, that one simple taste, but what had it cost him?

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  They’d reached the Grange lawns when he closed his fingers around her elbow and drew her to a halt. She faced him, brows rising, her expression all but blank. The shadows were too dense for him to read her eyes. “I kissed you because I didn’t want you seeing me as some ogre, bent on browbeating the truth out of you.” Releasing her, he held her gaze. “I’m not the enemy.”

  She studied his face, then her lips lifted as she turned away. She stepped out, heading for the house. Her cool words drifted back to him. “I didn’t think you were.”

  Phyllida knew why he’d kissed her. He wasn’t an ogre, he wasn’t her enemy, but he was a masterful seducer. She was a novice in that sphere, yet she realized he’d kissed her to rattle her, to weaken her resolve so she’d tell him all she knew. She’d asked him why, but she’d known the answer the instant she’d voiced the question.

  Seated in the second pew, she glanced across the aisle of the church to where Lucifer sat. His expression was impassive as he listened to Cedric read the lesson. Covey hunched beside him; farther along, Mrs. Hemmings wept into her handkerchief. Hemmings patted her arm awkwardly. White- faced, Bristleford stared straight ahead. While the rest of those present might have lost a friend and a neighbor, Covey, the Hemmingses, and Bristleford had lost a beloved master and their livelihoods had been rendered uncertain.

  Phyllida returned her gaze to Lucifer’s face—it wasn’t expressive, yet she encountered no difficulty in following his thoughts. They were presently centered on the coffin resting before the altar, jeweled by shafts of light playing through the stained-glass windows. His thoughts, however, were not on Horatio but on who had put him in the box.

  She faced forward once more. Cedric continued to drone. She let her mind slide back to its most urgent consideration—how to deal with Lucifer.

  That name was the one that sprang to mind; it suited him so well. She’d known what type of man he was the instant she’d set eyes on him, although she hadn’t fully appreciated the whole until she’d encountered him fully dressed and fully conscious. Then, what he was had been obvious.

  The reason matrons preened and women lost their wits when he smiled was blatantly apparent—he didn’t hide his light under any bushel. Even more to the point, his powerful aura of masculine energy, raw edges smoothed by graceful elegance, hadn’t come about by accident—it was even more than cultivated—it was part of a practiced art.

  An art he intended practicing on her.

  Luckily, she knew it. She was confident and in control of her world, bar him. And his kisses hadn’t rattled her in the least. She hadn’t expected them, but, on consideration, she hadn’t been surprised. He’d thought about kissing her when he’d held her trapped on his bed the night before. The woods had simply been a more amenable venue.

  Would he kiss her again? The question hovered in her brain. She’d enjoyed the experience; she hadn’t felt the least bit threatened, or coerced, or even in danger. But wishing for more might be tempting fate.

  Besides . . . She glanced sideways to where a small man in severe black sat, pinched features blank. Mr. Crabbs was Horatio’s solicitor, come from Exeter to read the will. And in Mr. Crabbs’s train had come his clerk, Robert Collins.

  With luck, this evening, after speaking with Robert, Mary Anne would release her from her oath. Then she could explain to Lucifer what had happened in Horatio’s drawing room and they could join forces to track down Horatio’s murderer.

  That was her aim and she wasn’t a
bout to be deterred, even if succeeding meant dealing with the devil. He was definitely the most fascinating devil she’d ever met, and deep down, she was convinced he’d never hurt her.

  Impatient, she waited for Cedric to have done.

  When the service was over, Lucifer stepped forward with Cedric, Sir Jasper, Thompson, Basil Smollet, and Mr. Farthingale; they hefted the coffin and slowly carried it out to the graveyard. During the short burial ceremony, Lucifer noted the faces of the men he’d not yet met as they stood about the graveside. Was the murderer present? The ladies did not join them, but gathered in a dark group just beyond the side porch of the church.

  When earth rained down on the coffin, Lucifer joined Sir Jasper and Mr. Farthingale. As they walked back to the church, he learned enough to place Mr. Farthingale as a minor Sir Jasper—backbone of the county, absorbed with his land and family, unlikely to have any connection with Horatio’s murder.

  Together with the rest of the men, they joined the waiting ladies; family groups formed and started down the common. Sir Jasper led the way, Jonas beside him. Phyllida followed; Lucifer fell in beside her. She slanted him a glance; her eyes held no hint of censure or trepidation. If anything, they held a question: What next?

  “If you’d be so kind as to introduce me to those I don’t know . . . ?”

  She inclined her head regally. “Of course.”

  She acted as if he’d never kissed her. Lucifer hid a frown.

  Followed by, as far as he could tell, the entire congregation, they went through the Manor gate, crossed Horatio’s garden, and filed into the house.

  The wake was the perfect opportunity, not just to meet the locals, but to have them explain their relationship to Horatio. Most discussed their last meetings with him without prompting, and aired their views on his murder.

  Phyllida hovered near, graciously steering people his way, in each case providing him with the right information to place the person in the context of village life and establish his or her connection with Horatio. If he’d thought she’d played any role in Horatio’s murder, he’d have been suspicious. Instead, he stood by the side of the room and appreciated her social skills.

  “Mr. Cynster, allow me to present Miss Hellebore. She lives in the cottage immediately next door.”

  Lucifer bowed over Miss Hellebore’s hand. Old with a sweet, lined face, she stood no higher than his shoulder.

  She clutched his hand. “I was in church when it happened—so unfortunate. I might have heard something otherwise. They’d just dropped me off before they found you—what a to-do that was! But I’m so glad, dear, that you were not the one.” She smiled vaguely, her eyes dimming. “Horatio was a dear soul. Such a worry, this happening.”

  Her voice faded; Phyllida took her other hand and patted it reassuringly. “You needn’t worry, Harriet. Mr. Cynster and Papa will find out who did it, and then all will be peaceful here again.”

  “I do hope so, dear.”

  “There’s some asparagus on the table—would you like some?”

  “Oh, yes. Which table?”

  With a glance that said she’d be back, Phyllida steered the old lady away.

  Lucifer watched them go. Despite the fact that Phyllida was unmarried and neither the oldest nor the most established lady in the room, it was to her the locals unhesitatingly turned—for reassurance, for order. Her character, her personality, cast her in the role—that calm, collected air of being perennially in control.

  The desire to see her in an uncontrolled frenzy surfaced—again. He swiftly doused it and looked away.

  “Mr. Cynster.” Jocasta Smollet, as haughty as when she’d passed them in the lane the previous evening, approached on the arm of Sir Basil. She extended her hand.

  Basil performed the introductions.

  “I do hope,” Jocasta said, “that you’ll be remaining in Colyton for a few days yet. We’d be pleased to entertain you at Highgate—I’m sure there’s little else hereabouts to interest a gentleman such as yourself.”

  If Jocasta’s nose rose any higher, she’d tip backward.

  “I’m unsure how long I’ll be staying.” Lucifer watched Phyllida returning through the crowd. She didn’t see Jocasta until she was almost upon them. Her smile faded; she changed tack so she could slide past them.

  Calmly, he reached out, caught her hand, and drew her to his side. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he looked at Jocasta. “Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I’ve enjoyed meeting those round about. People have been very welcoming.” He glanced at Phyllida. “Miss Tallent has been particularly helpful.”

  “Indeed?” There was a wealth of meaning in the word. Jocasta drew herself up and stiffly inclined her head. “Dear Phyllida is so good to everyone. If you’ll excuse us, I really must speak with Mrs. Farthingale.”

  She glided away. Basil, embarrassed, didn’t follow. He chatted inconsequentially; Lucifer determined that he’d been in church when Horatio had been murdered.

  When Basil moved on, Lucifer looked down at Phyllida. “Why does Miss Smollet so dislike you?”

  She shook her head. “I really don’t know.”

  Lucifer glanced across the room. “There are three gentlemen I’ve yet to meet.”

  The first proved to be Lucius Appleby. Phyllida introduced them, then left to chat with Lady Fortemain. Lucifer made no effort to disguise his purpose. Appleby answered directly, but was hardly forthcoming.

  Collecting Phyllida, Lucifer guided her down the room. “Is Appleby always so reserved? So self-effacing?”

  “Yes, but he’s Cedric’s secretary, after all.”

  His eye on their next target, Lucifer murmured, “What was Appleby before he became Cedric’s secretary? Has he ever mentioned?”

  “No. I assumed he always was a clerk or something similar. Why?”

  “I’m sure he’s been in the army. He’s the right age—I just wondered. Now, who’s this?”

  A moment later, Phyllida said, “Allow me to present Pommeroy Fortemain, Sir Cedric’s brother.”

  Lucifer held out his hand.

  Pommeroy’s eyes bulged; he edged back. “Ah . . .” Wide-eyed, he looked at Phyllida. “I mean . . . well . . .”

  Phyllida sighed exasperatedly. “Mr. Cynster did not murder Horatio, Pommeroy.”

  “He didn’t?” Pommeroy glanced from one to the other.

  “No! This is Horatio’s wake, for heaven’s sake! We wouldn’t knowingly have invited the murderer.”

  “B-but . . . he had the knife.”

  “Pommeroy”—Phyllida spoke very distinctly—“no one knows who the murderer is, but the one thing we do know is that it could not be Mr. Cynster.”

  “Oh.”

  After that, Pommeroy behaved reasonably, answering Lucifer’s questions with, if anything, an overeagerness to please. He’d accompanied his mother to church on Sunday and, he assured them, knew nothing about anything.

  “That last is unfortunately true.” Obedient to the touch on her arm, Phyllida moved to the side of the room.

  “So I’d gathered.” Lucifer was looking ahead. “Our last potential suspect is scanning the bookshelves.”

  She’d guessed who it was before they stepped around the Farthingales and came face-to-face with Silas Coombe, fingering a gold-plated spine. He snatched his hand back as if the book had bitten him and stared at them, blank-faced.

  “Good day. Mr. Coombe, is it not?” Lucifer smiled. “Miss Tallent mentioned you know something of books. Horatio’s amassed quite a collection, don’t you think?”

  His glance along the shelves clearly invited Silas’s opinion. It was a masterly stroke. Phyllida practiced self-effacement while Silas waxed lyrical, putty in the hands of a gentleman he didn’t even realize was his interrogator.

  “Well, I don’t normally confess this, but you’re a gentleman who knows a bit about life.” Silas lowered his voice. “Not much of a churchgoer, you understand. Got out of the habit in my youth—can’t see the point in rubbing shoulders
with all the starched-up matrons, not at my age. I’ve better things to do with my time.”

  Silas’s gaze ranged the nearby shelves. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who will inherit these, do you?”

  Lucifer shook his head. “No doubt we’ll learn soon enough.”

  “Ah, yes—the solicitor fellow’s here, isn’t he?” Silas scanned the room, then frowned. “He’s staring at you.”

  Lucifer looked; Phyllida did, too. It was instantly apparent that Mr. Crabbs was hovering, hoping for a word.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Lucifer murmured, “I’ll see what he wants.”

  The instant they stepped away, Crabbs headed toward them. Lucifer stopped by the bookshelves and waited. Crabbs smiled perfunctorily as he joined them.

  “Mr. Cynster, I just wanted to be sure that it would be convenient to read the will immediately the guests leave.”

  “Convenient?” Lucifer frowned. “For whom?”

  “Why, for you.” Mr Crabbs searched Lucifer’s face. “Well, dear me—I assumed you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That, barring some minor bequests, you are the sole principal beneficiary of Mr. Welham’s will.”

  Crabbs’s statement had been uttered within the hearing of Lady Huddlesford, Percy Tallent, and Sir Cedric and Lady Fortemain. Within seconds, all of Colyton had heard the news. The wake terminated as if a gong had sounded. People quickly took their leave, their alacrity plainly due to a wish to have the unexpected details of the will disclosed as soon as possible.

  Despite the fact that the reading had been attended by very few, for the last hour the attention of Colyton had been focused on Horatio’s library.

  Pushing back from the desk, Lucifer laid the will down. He’d just finished going through it a second time with Crabbs, making sure he understood the details. For someone familiar with the complex assignment of a ducal purse, Horatio’s stipulations were straightforward. Leaning back in the leather chair, Lucifer scanned the room.

  At one corner of the desk, Crabbs sat checking documents. At the sideboard, his assistant, Robert Collins, was carefully packing a satchel. The Hemmingses’, Covey, and Bristleford had slipped out after the reading, all intensely relieved, all clearly pleased with the outcome.