Where the Heart Leads

by Stephanie Laurens

  “No nephews?” Stokes asked, as if he were merely curious. Discussing all manner of crime was, after all, normal East End gossip.

  “Nah.” Maida shifted. “Not much of that this way—more the toffs who go fer that sort of thing and we’re too far from their playgrounds. Mind you, I’m sure Arnold wouldn’t mind having some male in the house to share the load—those girls keep him in there most of the time. He may be old, but he’s a hulking sort—good protection. And if he’s their uncle, what’s he to do? Got him all tied up, those girls have, no mistake.”

  Griselda frowned, as if remembering. “My old da used to know an Arnold somewhere round here—used to be a bit of a fence, in that game anyway. What was his name?” She stared at Stokes as if searching for inspiration, then her face lit. She looked at Maida. “Ormsby—that was it. Arnold Ormsby.”

  “Hornby,” Maida corrected. “Aye, that’s our Arnold. He was in that game, but he ain’t in it now. Farthest he gets from his house is in here. Moans about the old days and how he’s lost all his contacts and how’s a man to get along.” She shrugged. “Unless his nieces leave, he’s got no hope—they’ve got first call on his time, seems.”

  And that, Stokes judged, was all they were likely to get from Maida. He caught Griselda’s eye. “We’d better get on.”

  She nodded. He stood, waited for her to do the same, then dropped a few coins on the table. Turning, he flipped a sixpence at Maida. “Thanks, love. It was good grub.”

  Moving faster than a hornet, Maida’s hand snagged the sixpence out of the air. She grinned and nodded as they passed her. “Aye, well—stop by again sometime.”

  Griselda smiled and waved.

  Stokes caught her arm and steered her determinedly back toward the city and civilization as he knew it, the words “not in this lifetime” ringing in his mind.

  Penelope lurked in Lady Carnegie’s drawing room, pretending to listen to the political discussions going on about her. Her ladyship’s November dinner was a major event in political circles, one of the last before Parliament rose and most members retreated to their far-flung estates for the winter.

  For them, tonight was their chance to rally for the last surge of activity in the houses.

  For her, tonight figured as a gilt-edged opportunity to learn more.

  Barnaby would have been invited. Quite aside from being his father’s son—and the earl had his finger in numerous political pies—his connection with Peel and the police force made him a sought-after source of information for those present tonight; they would far rather question him—one of their own—than any of Peel’s official deputies.

  Regardless, in this company, she could disappear for a few hours and not be missed, and after the initial round of questioning in the drawing room prior to going in to dinner, Barnaby, too, should be ranked as excusable.

  Smiling encouragingly at Lord Molyneaux, who was holding forth on the new reform laws, Penelope went over her plans, and her expectations. Last night had been a good first step in learning of desire, of what hers encompassed, what fueled it, but it was plain that, however enthralling the previous night’s endeavors, she’d only scratched the surface.

  In the wake of last night, a small host of questions had suggested themselves, popping into her head at odd moments through the day, distracting her. Step by step whipping her curiosity to new heights.

  To gain any degree of satisfaction, she was going to have to learn more.

  Without being obvious, she scanned the crowd again. And inwardly frowned. If Barnaby had decided not to attend, she would simply have to hunt him down.

  She still had her cosh.

  As if her mental threat had summoned him, he walked through the open doorway, Lord Nettlefold at his elbow. He paused to greet Lady Carnegie; whatever he said made her ladyship laugh. She patted his cheek, and waved him on. Nettlefold followed, intent on continuing a conversation with Barnaby.

  Halting, Barnaby let Nettlefold talk to him while he scanned the room. His blue gaze swept over the various groups—until it reached her, and landed on her face.

  She allowed her gaze to meet his for an instant, then she turned to respond to Lord Molyneaux. From the corner of her eye, she saw Barnaby remain where he was, turning to speak with Nettlefold.

  Good. Nettlefold was one of the few present of their generation; in the past, he’d shown a diffident but definite tendency to see her presence at such events as declaring her a potentially eligible parti. In reality she was there to keep abreast of any legislative maneuverings that might impact on the Foundling House, and also to keep in touch with past and potential donors.

  She really didn’t want to spend her evening hinting Nettlefold away.

  Barnaby apparently agreed with her; only after he and Nettlefold had concluded their conversation and parted did he make his way, in fits and starts via various other groups, to her side.

  Eventually he arrived, and took the hand she offered him. A medley of emotions washed over her as his fingers closed on hers; relief of a sort that he was there, that she would indeed be learning more that night, welling expectation over what tonight’s lesson would encompass, and a frisson of something more acute, arising from a suprisingly clear tactile memory of his hands on her breasts, on her hips, between her thighs.

  She flicked open her fan and plied it. “Good evening, sir.”

  She waited while he and Lord Molyneaux exchanged greetings. Thankfully, the police force wasn’t one of Molyneaux’s interests.

  Lord Carnegie, their host, came up at that moment, keen to have a word with Molyneaux. With smiles, the four parted; setting her hand on his arm, Barnaby guided Penelope to a spot closer to the wall, out of the immediate circle of the conversing groups.

  He met her eyes, read the determination that burned in the dark depths. “We can’t slip away yet.”

  “Of course not.” She glanced over the rest of the guests. “After dinner. You know what they’re like once the gentlemen are well primed. They won’t miss us for at least a few hours.”

  “Your mother’s here?” He hadn’t sighted her.

  “No. She cried off. She sometimes does.”

  “So you’re here unchaperoned?” He was faintly amazed. He glanced at her, recalling. “And I know perfectly well you’re not twenty-eight.”

  She shrugged, nose elevating. “Your Mostyn is an old woman—adding a few years made it easier to calm him.”

  He snorted. “He was totally confounded when he learned I’d miraculously recovered enough to take you home.”

  She shrugged again, signifying it mattered not at all to her. “I’m here as the administrator of the Foundling House, not as Miss Penelope Ashford. That’s why the hostesses—most of whom have known me from birth—think nothing of it if I appear without Mama.”

  He raised his brows, but had to admit that having no one specifically keeping an eye on her would make it considerably easier and safer to slip away from this sort of gathering; it was far less crowded than a ball, and therefore not so easy to believe that members of the company would be lost from sight for any length of time while actually remaining in the drawing room. “After dinner then, once we return to the drawing room.”

  She was right; the discussions would go on for hours, and would only grow more heated, holding the attention of the company even more avidly than now.

  “You haven’t heard anything from Stokes, have you?”

  His gaze on the company, he shook his head. “No—I would have sent word if I had.”

  She nodded, then said, “There’s a lovely parlor on the other side of the house.” She glanced up at him. “While I have no experience from which to judge, I would imagine it to be perfect for…consideration of that subject we both wish to explore.”

  His lips twitched. After a moment, he inclined his head. “Very well. But until then, behave.”

  “Of course.” With a haughty glance at him, she left his side and swanned off to join Mrs. Henderson’s group.

 
He watched her until she’d merged with that circle, then went off to join one of his own, allowing the other men present to pose the questions they wished to ask on the current state of the police force. His father was in town, but attending a cabinet dinner tonight; he would drop by later, but until then, Barnaby was in large measure his surrogate. If he wanted to slip away with Penelope and keep his absence unnoticed, he needed to satisfy all queries first.

  While he moved from group to group, applying himself to that task, another part of his mind tried to think ahead, to plan how tonight’s engagement should go.

  Unfortunately, while his goal—to marry her—was now clear, and his route to achieving that—convincing her that marrying him would have more benefits than risks—obvious, that very route dictated that, in large measure, he had to let her direct their interaction.

  He needed her, of her own accord, to reach the conclusion that she had nothing to fear in marrying him, that as her husband he wouldn’t curtail her independence, let alone seek to control her. If he was lucky, once she’d made up her mind she would act and propose; that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. Given she’d instigated their liaison, it seemed only fair that she be the one to bring it to its appropriate end.

  To attain that ultimate prize, however, he had to show himself willing to indulge her in allowing her to take the dominant role. Once again, he had to let her lead, and relegate himself to following.

  The concept wasn’t one that, until her, he’d ever contemplated, and not even his sophisticated self approved of it, much less that more primitive side that, when it came to her, dominated in his mind.

  However…as they went into dinner, and he found himself seated on the opposite side of the table to her, he realized he was simply going to have to grit his teeth and bear it.

  Grit his teeth and remind himself of the ultimate benefits.

  The dinner was an extended one, with much conversation during courses, but eventually the last was removed. As was common at such gatherings, the men did not remain at the table but followed the ladies back to the drawing room, where port and brandy were served to lubricate the vocal cords for further discussion.

  Shaking his head at a footman offering him brandy, Barnaby made his way to Penelope’s side. By the time he reached her, she’d dismissed the gentleman who’d partnered her at the table. As was customary, the lamps had been turned low, allowing shadows to cloak sections of the room; often the discussions held in this later stage were sensitive, and those undertaking them preferred to keep their expressions masked from potential observers.

  The shadow Penelope had chosen for her own hid the expectant anticipation glowing in her eyes from all but him.

  For which he was grateful. Lady Carnegie was a close friend of his mother’s and very far from blind.

  Taking Penelope’s hand, he set it on his sleeve. “Where’s this parlor?”

  Penelope gestured to a side door. “We can reach it through there.”

  He steered her the few paces to the door, concealed by the angle of a minor wall in the irregularly shaped room. Opening the door, he ushered her through, then followed, shutting it behind him.

  The corridor was unlit, but enough moonlight seeped in through uncurtained windows to allow them to see. As she led the way down it, Penelope’s instincts prodded, increasingly insistent; something wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t quite believable.

  Halfway down the corridor, she halted and turned to face the looming presence at her heels.

  Through the soft gloom, she studied his face, confirming, affirming, defining what, exactly, didn’t add up.

  Studying her face in return, he arched one brow in arrogant query.

  Underscoring her instincts’ accuracy.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being far too…amenable over this. You are not the sort to follow meekly at any lady’s heels.”

  A second ticked by, then he said, “When the lady is heading in the direction I wish to go, there’s little point in arguing over who’s in the lead.”

  She frowned. After a moment, she asked, “Does that mean that if I choose to go in a direction you don’t wish to, you won’t follow?”

  The line of his lips subtly altered, more a warning than a smile. “No—it means that if you attempt to go in a direction that has no value, I’ll…redirect you.”

  Brows rising, she held his gaze. “Redirect me?”

  He met her gaze steadily, and made no reply. Leaving her no longer so certain she was, as she’d assumed, in charge of their affair, controlling it by defining when they would meet, and what aspects she was interested in pursuing.

  If he allowed her to be in charge…did that count as being in charge? Especially if he could, at any time, rescind his follower status and take control?

  She blinked, no longer so sure where they stood—her or him—in relation to each other.

  After a moment more of searching his blue eyes, and gaining no further insight, she waved down the corridor. “And tonight?”

  His lips curved a fraction more; graceful yet intent, he inclined his head. “Lead on.”

  She turned and did, awareness slithering down her spine. Odd. Exciting. She was in charge—he would let her retain control—as long as her direction suited him.

  Which left her with the challenge of “suiting him,” a challenge she was, at this point, apparently meeting.

  Reaching the parlor, she opened the door and walked in. She glanced around, confirming it was as she’d recalled, a square room overlooking the deserted side garden, comfortably furnished with two well-padded sofas angled before the hearth, an armchair, and numerous side tables. A bureau stood against one wall, and a harp occupied one shadowed corner.

  No lamp or candle had been left burning; the room hadn’t been prepared for guests. But moonlight, soft and pervasive, streamed in, a gentle illumination that, at least to her, seemed more conducive to their purpose.

  Halting between the sofas, she turned; he’d paused just inside the door. She spread her arms. “Is this suitable?”

  He’d been scanning the room. Now he looked at her. In the silence, she heard the lock on the door click. Leaving the door, he slowly walked toward her. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

  More. But exactly what, and how…she met his eyes as he halted before her. “I’m aware that ladies and gentlemen of our station frequently indulge in encounters at events such as this, in rooms such as this.” That was one of the reasons she was keen to try it, to experience whatever illicit thrill was associated with such an encounter. To learn what more it might teach her of desire.

  His gaze had lowered to her lips. She wondered if he was imagining kissing her.

  Boldly stepping closer, she raised her hands, pressed them to his chest, then slid them slowly up, over his shoulders, moving closer yet so her breasts brushed his chest as she linked her hands at his nape. “I thought…”

  His gaze was fixed on her lips. His hands rose to grasp her waist, fingers flexing as he gripped, and held her.

  Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, she watched his eyes track the movement. Felt deliciously sinful—deliciously sirenlike and in control as she continued, “That perhaps we might play it by ear, so to speak, and see where desire leads us.”

  His eyes rose, at last, to meet hers. To search them briefly, then his lips curved. “What,” he murmured, his breath a warm wash over her lips as he bent his head, “an excellent idea.”

  She stretched up as he bent; their lips met—she couldn’t have said who kissed whom. From the first touch, the engagement was intent, fiery, and entirely mutual, driven by the desire that, somewhat to her surprise, seemed to flare all but instantly, from spark to flame to raging inferno.

  Stronger than before, more certain, more powerful, it spread beneath her skin, and left her sensually gasping.

  Desire wasn’t pleasure but the need for it, not delight but the hunger that craved it.

  Within minutes their kiss had becom
e a wanton duel of deliberate incitement—a contest to see who could more deeply, more completely, evoke the other’s passions. While he was unquestionably more experienced, she had enthusiasm, eagerness, and the blind faith in her own invincibility that was the hallmark of the innocent.

  Mouths melded, lips locked, tongues tangling and claiming, he plundered while she taunted, and the flames between them roared.

  Neither won. She wasn’t even sure such a concept applied, not in this sort of contest.

  Her body was heated, breasts swollen and aching within the restrictive confines of her bodice, long before he stepped back, taking her with him; without breaking the kiss, he sank back and down, onto one of the sofas, lifting her, then setting her on her knees, one on either side of his thighs, so she could lean into him and continue their heated kiss.

  While his hands rose and pandered to her needs, swiftly unbuttoning her bodice so it gaped, then with a flick of his long fingers dispensing with her chemise so his hand could make contact with her flushed skin and ease her.

  Soothe her, and excite her.

  The duality in his touch was plain to her, even through the distracting fire of the kiss. When his fingers found her nipple and traced, then tweaked, she gasped as pleasure radiated through her, but escalating hunger swam in its wake.

  For every touch he gave her, she wanted many more. Every brief burst of pleasure, of delight, only deepened her craving.

  She reached for the buttons closing his shirt.

  He stopped her, his hand closing over hers. He drew back from the kiss, only a bare inch, just enough to inform her, his voice a dark rumble, “No—we have to return to the drawing room. You wanted this type of encounter—you have to play by the rules.”

  In control, yet not. She licked her swollen lips. “What are these rules?”

  “We remain more or less fully clothed.”

  She blinked. “Can we?”

  “Easily.”

  He proceeded to show her how. How, with her as she was on her knees before him, he could arrange her skirt and petticoats, spreading the back free over his legs, tugging the fronts from beneath her knees, leaving the silk skirt relatively uncrushed, the froth of her petticoats no longer between them—leaving the sensitive inner faces of her thighs riding against the fine wool of his trousers and the steely muscles beneath.