All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  They encountered the bands wound tight over her breasts; his hands froze. She thought she heard him groan. Then his hands slid around, locking over her back, and he hauled her against him. That she understood. She pulled her hands free, wound them around his neck, and pressed herself to him, giving him back kiss for wild kiss, caress for heated caress.

  She wasn’t sure her feet were touching the ground. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to get closer, to combine her heat with his.

  His hands slid lower, over her hips, until they cupped her bottom. He lifted her against him, into him. His desire was very evident. She let her body press like a hand to him, as if with her soft stomach she could caress him there.

  Something changed. Not in a flash, but in a steady rush of power. Something new rose between them, something so vital, so intense, she ached to hold it, to know it. She tightened her arms about his neck and kissed him more deeply, sharing the driving need. He kissed her back. The power swelled and spread through them until she was glowing with it, aching with it, and he was the same.

  Their lips parted. They both needed to breathe. A curious hiatus held them; she glanced at his face. His eyes were shut; his breathing was as ragged as hers. What next? She had no idea. She was quite sure he did.

  She brushed her lips against his. “Teach me.”

  His harsh laugh was mostly groan. “Dammit—I’m trying to spare you!”

  “Don’t.” She would have frowned, but his eyes were closed. Was he being chivalrous? Or pigheadedly protective? Was there any difference? And did she care? “Stop making my decisions for me.”

  “You don’t even know—”

  “Stop arguing and show me.” She kissed him—hard, forcefully. He reacted instantly and kissed her back fiercely. Her head spun. She didn’t draw back, she refused to retreat—she kept kissing him, sinking against him, using her body against him. She sensed the moment when she won, when desire triumphed over whatever misguided male notions he’d held.

  A shudder went through him, then heat and glory welled between them again, even more powerful than before.

  The tenor of their kiss changed—the giving and taking shifted to some deeper level of intimacy. She gave readily, took gladly, and refused to back away.

  A deep sigh coursed through him and his hands firmed about her bottom. His fingers flexed, then kneaded; heat spread in a prickly wave over her skin.

  He backed her further into the hedge. One hand cradling her bottom, he held her there, pinned by his weight, while, with fingers quick and sure, he undid the buttons closing her breeches.

  She should have been shocked, but she wasn’t—she wanted to know. Now. Tonight. Here. With him.

  Long fingers splayed over her stomach; they gently pressed and she lost her breath. His lips firmed and she took her breath from him, and rode the spiraling sensation of his touch, of his exploration.

  He didn’t hurry. He took the time to savor, to learn. Nerves tightening to excruciating sensitivity, she followed his every move.

  Followed his fingers through the springy thicket of her tangling curls, felt the long slide of his fingers between her thighs. Sensed the heat, the curious dampness he encountered, thrilled to the flash of pure sensation that speared her when he caressed, then fondled.

  His knowing fingers touched her, parted her, explored her—waves of pleasure rose and swamped her. They pushed her on. On toward something; the urge to reach it grew, swelled, until a near-mindless want consumed her.

  She didn’t know what she wanted; she was sure he did. Holding tight to him, to their anchoring kiss, she tilted her hips, opening herself to his hand, begging . . . she knew not for what.

  He cupped her, fingers sliding slick in a soothing caress; then, very slowly, he entered her.

  So slowly she felt the intrusion keenly—no force, no pressure, just the yielding of her body to his penetration. He reached deep, then stroked.

  The heat within her tightened, coalesced, then contracted even more. He stroked again, finger within her, thumb upon her—she would have gasped, cried out, but he drank the sound. And stroked again.

  Her heat fractured, imploded, then erupted. Hot glory and pleasure spilled down every vein. Fierce delight, tangible in its sharpness, ran across her skin, through her body, scattered her wits and left her senses sighing.

  Clinging tightly, she gave herself up—to him, to the splendor of desire.

  Lucifer watched her face as the pleasure rolled through her, his awareness centered within her, savoring the rippling caresses as she eased. Every demon he possessed was slavering, expecting its customary reward; he didn’t know how he was going to hold them back, only that he would.

  Somewhere, a line had been crossed, some Rubicon beyond which there was no turning back. He didn’t know where or when, but there was no longer any point pretending he hadn’t, at least partly deliberately, taken the fatal step. Whether it had been fifteen minutes ago, when the realization that he’d already nearly lost her had hit, whether Horatio’s garden was to blame, or the inheritance as a whole—or if he’d decided in that instant when first he’d laid eyes on her face—didn’t matter. She was his. So the only matter he had to concentrate on right now was not giving in to his demons.

  Not easing her breeches farther down, lifting her, and taking her here, now, against the hedge.

  Studying her face, eyes closed, her expression beatifically serene, helped—so did easing his fingers from her, gently drawing them from between her thighs.

  Her musky scent rose, teasing, taunting his demons. He slammed a mental door on them, shut his ears to the howls.

  He’d have her—he’d decided that days ago, even if he hadn’t let himself think of it—but not here, not tonight. For all that she’d insisted, she deserved better than a shrubbery hedge. And he seriously doubted, when the time came, that once would be enough—not now. He’d known from the first that abstinence was not a good idea.

  A whole night. If he exercised appropriate caution and skill . . .

  Leaning into the hedge beside her shoulder, he was still watching her, her breeches done up, his hand resting on her hip on top of her loose shirt, when she drew in a deeper breath and opened her eyes.

  She blinked. Her gaze flew to his face.

  Even in the dimness, he saw awareness bloom; through his hand on her hip he felt tension reinvest her spine. She stared into his eyes, then swiftly scanned his face before once more meeting his gaze.

  His lips curved, not so much a smile as a gesture of intent. He leaned into her. “That was just the appetizer.”

  He brushed a kiss across her swollen lips, then captured her wide-eyed gaze. “Next time, I’ll have you naked, on a bed, and I won’t let you go until I’ve had you. Multiple times.”

  At eleven the next morning, Phyllida closed the side door of the church and started down the path. The vases were done for the services tomorrow—one item she could cross off her list.

  Jem, the Grange’s youngest groom, was lounging in the lych-gate; he straightened as she neared. She’d requested his presence on her errand to protect her from the murderer or to protect her from Lucifer—she wasn’t sure which. If the latter, then she’d failed. A pair of blacks pranced before the lych-gate; she had not the slightest doubt who would be holding their reins.

  Jem opened the gate and she stepped into the lane. Lucifer was listening to Thompson, standing beside the curricle, but his blue gaze was all for her.

  Thompson saw her and broke off to nod.

  Lucifer seized the opportunity. “Good morning, Miss Tallent. Would you prefer to drive back to the Grange?”

  No one would believe her if she said she wouldn’t; in truth, she was perfectly amenable to meeting him again. In public. “Thank you.” She sent Jem home, then strolled to the curricle’s side. Although still engaged with Thompson, Lucifer held out a hand as she neared. She considered it, then calmly put her hand in it and allowed him to help her up. In public, she’d be safe.

 
; Settling beside him, she shamelessly eavesdropped.

  “So you want new locks on all the doors and windows, the kind that can’t easily be slipped.”

  Lucifer nodded. “I haven’t any idea how many will be needed, but I want every window secured.”

  “Aye, well—no point otherwise.” Thompson straightened. “I’ll be along this afternoon to count up. I knows just the sort you want, but it’ll take a week or more to get ’em in. Come from Bristol, they do.”

  Lucifer nodded. “Get the job done as fast as you can.”

  “I’ll do that.” With respectful nods to them both, Thompson stepped back.

  Lucifer clicked the reins and the blacks stepped out. He glanced at her, but had to look back to his horses. They passed Jem, swinging down the lane. “You have no idea,” Lucifer said, “how pleasantly surprised I am to see you with Jem in your train.”

  “Why? I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

  “You didn’t say you would, either, and you are the most contrary female I’ve ever met.”

  She couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or insulted. “Why are you ordering locks? Because of last night?”

  His gaze touched her face. “Because of the intruder.”

  A frisson of awareness raced through her; she carefully kept it from her face. She wasn’t going to let what had happened last night inhibit her from continuing with their joint investigations. She had a shrewd notion he’d be quite happy to see her retreat from the field, a victim of consciousness. But last night had come about by her insistence; just because he’d given her precisely what she’d wanted—even though, as he’d observed, she hadn’t known for what she was asking—she wasn’t about to convert into some mindless ninny.

  She wasn’t about to let his warning about the next time worry her, either. It would be up to her if ever there was a next time, and she hadn’t yet made up her mind.

  Shocking, of course, but there it was. She should be swooning, not sitting beside him, calmly if warily. She might not have appreciated last night’s possibilities, not until she’d been in the middle of them, but she was twenty-four. She knew what he’d meant by his final words.

  They’d been uttered like an oath. One that had carried a great deal of conviction. After a tense moment, face hard, all angular planes, he’d stepped back and let her slip past him, out onto the lawn. She’d looked back just once and seen him standing, a dark, forbidding shadow at the entrance to the shrubbery. Lucifer, indeed. All hot desire.

  Temptation was his middle name.

  And she’d felt safe, utterly and completely safe—safe not just physically, but at some much deeper level—while in his arms.

  Why that should be so was a mystery, but it was pointless to cavil. Just how far that sense of safety might tempt her she didn’t know, but in all her twenty-four years, he was the first to make her feel that being a woman desiring and desired was an experience available to her.

  Deep in her mind lay a very strong feeling that just as he was the first, he might also be the last.

  “The intruder”—she grabbed the curricle’s rail as he took the corner into the main lane—“how did he get in?”

  “There was a window with a loose latch—the one in the dining room facing the side lawn.”

  “So that’s how he got out so fast.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he’ll return?”

  “Not immediately, but sometime. Whatever he was after, he hasn’t found it. If it was enough to commit murder for, then he’ll be back.”

  “Are you sure the intruder is the murderer?”

  He grimaced. “No. But unless there were four people visiting Horatio on Sunday morning—the murderer, you, me, and the intruder—and we’ve found absolutely no trace of the murderer, then the intruder is the murderer.”

  The gates of the Manor appeared around the bend; he didn’t slow. “Bear with me.” He flicked her a glance. “Bar your father and brother, you’re the only sane and definitely innocent person I can talk to about this, and for obvious reasons, I can’t yet talk to your father or brother.”

  She regarded him calmly.

  He had to look to his horses. “I believe Horatio was killed because of some book. Everyone knew that on Sunday morning, the Manor should have been deserted. The downstairs doors were never locked. The murderer—a local who was not at church—left his horse behind the shrubbery and went to the drawing room. He started examining books, pulling them from the shelves—then Horatio disturbed him. On Monday afternoon, I noticed three books not properly pushed in.”

  “Where?”

  “Bottom of the last bookshelf against the inner wall.”

  Near the gap where she’d surmised the murderer must have hidden. “So—the murderer is after a book.”

  “Or something in a book.”

  “Could the book be the item Horatio wanted you to appraise?”

  “No. Horatio wouldn’t have asked me to appraise a book. He was the foremost authority in the field. If he’d found something spectacular, and all the signs suggest he had, he wouldn’t have needed my opinion to be sure.”

  They’d reached the road to Axmouth; he slowed and turned the curricle. When they were rolling back to Colyton, Phyllida asked, “Why did you say something in a book?”

  “Many books are valuable, not because of the book itself, but because of what’s subsequently been written in them. Sometimes it’s the notational information that adds the value, but most often it’s the identity of the writer.”

  “You mean inscriptions—that sort of thing?”

  “Inscriptions, instructions, messages—even wills. You’d be amazed at what you come across.”

  “So at present it appears that the motive for the murder is some information noted in a book?”

  “That’s my best guess.” The Grange gates loomed; deftly, he turned through them.

  “What about the item Horatio wanted you to look at?”

  “That remains a mystery. The fact that Horatio was killed just after he’d discovered it is looking more and more like coincidence. No one beyond myself and Covey knew he’d found anything. Covey knows no more than I.”

  “We’ll have to search all the books.”

  “I have Covey doing that. He’s used to handling old and valuable tomes—he’ll be careful yet thorough.”

  He drew up before the Grange steps; the blacks pranced. Phyllida climbed down without assistance. On the steps, she turned and met his blue gaze. “Thank you.” She didn’t add anything more.

  One black brow arched; he searched her face, consideration in his eyes.

  She smiled, inclined her head, and turned toward the door. “Until next time.”

  She didn’t look back to see how he reacted, but his wheels didn’t start turning until she’d stepped over the threshold and Mortimer was closing the door behind her. Still smiling, she headed for her room. Why she was teasing him, she didn’t know. She knew it wasn’t safe.

  She didn’t know if she was teasing, either.

  By the time she reached her room, her smile had converted to a frown. Lucifer was focusing on Horatio’s books, which meant he’d be unlikely to go inspecting a writing desk. But he’d ordered new locks and he’d order them used, at least until the murderer was caught.

  So she had a week’s grace—the time it would take for the locks to arrive. She would have to search the Manor’s upstairs rooms one night soon. Mrs. Hemmings had told her Lucifer had taken the room at the front right corner, leaving Horatio’s room as it was.

  Phyllida grimaced. “All I can do is pray that damned writing desk is not in the front corner bedroom.”

  Not to be outdone by the Fortemains, the Smollets had arranged to host a dance that evening. It was a large affair with guests driving in from miles around. Many Lucifer hadn’t met; he spent half the evening being introduced and exclaimed over—he was the main attraction, after all.

  While doing the pretty, he kept an eye on Phyllida. She’d arrived in good time with he
r father, brother, and Miss Sweet. Lady Huddlesford had swept in later, Frederick at her heels. Percy Tallent had not appeared.

  In her gown of bronze silk, a simple gold chain around her throat and gold drops in her ears, Phyllida was the least fussily dressed woman in the room, and easily the most stunning. She drew many men’s eyes, yet few, Lucifer realized, properly appreciated the sight. Cedric, Basil, and Grisby—those he paid most attention to—clearly viewed Phyllida as a desirable chattel, one that, if possessed, would add to their consequence. None of them seemed to see her at all. Fools, the lot of them.

  Her expression serene, she did her best to ignore them, chatting instead with the many others present—doubtless dispensing aid and succor in various forms. Yet she could not entirely avoid her would-be suitors.

  She danced the first dance with Basil, their host. By dint of superior strategy, Lucifer avoided the reciprocal fate; Jocasta Smollet danced the measure with Sir Jasper. Phyllida then danced a cottilion with Cedric; later, he saw her going down a country dance with Henry Grisby.

  Her attitude at the conclusion of the dance—that of relief that her duty had now been done—failed to puncture Grisby’s self-absorption. Less than impressed, Phyllida retreated to speak with the Misses Longdon.

  From the side of the room, Lucifer watched her, and considered his best avenue of approach.

  “There you are!”

  He turned as Sir Jasper joined him.

  “Wanted to ask—have you uncovered anything about this blackguard who stabbed Horatio?”

  “Nothing positive. There’s no evidence anyone rode in from beyond the village, at least not from the east. I’ve yet to check in Honiton, but at present, all signs point to the killer residing locally.”

  “Hmm. This intruder you surprised last night . . . ?”

  “May well be the murderer.”

  Sir Jasper let out a long sigh. He looked away, over the room. “I’d hoped, y’know, that it wouldn’t be someone from round about. But if they’re still searching . . .”

  “Precisely. It can’t be anyone from far afield. They’d be noticed.”