by Allison Lane
A book lay open in her lap, but she was not reading. Instead she stared sightlessly at the hearth, probably rehearsing set-downs.
So he would confound her. Unless she raised the subject herself, he would pretend that the journey from Peterson’s hadn’t happened.
“Are you ready for dinner?” he asked mildly, crossing to poke at the fire.
“Of course. Is Pe—” She halted.
“His son has taken charge of his shop.”
“Good. I didn’t like just walking away.”
“But neither would you have liked having your name associated with his death.”
Tweed announced dinner.
“Shall we?” Alex held out his arm.
Manners forced her to take it, but she moved stiffly and remained so far away that she nearly ran into the doorjamb. When she saw her place set next to his instead of at the opposite end of the table, she scowled.
“We have much to discuss, and I would rather not shout,” he said calmly. “About Peterson,” he added, producing the journal when she blushed and tried to pull back.
“Of course.” Curiosity replaced suspicion in her eyes. She sat, then smiled at Tweed when he placed a plate of soup before her. Once they were alone, she resumed speaking. “Did you pick that up in his shop? What is it?”
“Records of the information he sold. He was known as the best source of information in town, both for rumors associated with antiquities and tales unsuited to the ears of society’s ladies. With luck it will contain notes on his buyers, which will allow me to identify Emerson’s employer. I’ve all but eliminated the other two collectors.” As Tweed returned to pour wine, he explained what he’d learned at his club.
“Peterson’s death made them less viable anyway,” she said, shrugging. “I doubt anyone known to be interested in Sarsos would risk attacking him.”
“That’s only true if the attacker expected anyone to connect Peterson’s death to Sarsos. But he didn’t. No one saw him enter or leave. No one arrived while he was there. He left behind no evidence to raise suspicion. And Peterson’s penchant for collecting information made him dangerous to any number of men. If Peterson hadn’t revived long enough to mention Sarsos, we would know nothing.”
She flinched. “Peterson claimed the man was a stranger.”
“Which means he was not one the agents Peterson knew well. He also claimed the man sought information about you.”
“Why would anyone go for Peterson for information on me?”
“The easy answer is that he sought your direction so he could offer for the stone now that John is dead. But since that’s a legitimate request, he would hardly attack Peterson no matter what Peterson’s response. They might have come to blows over the price Peterson demanded, of course, but I don’t think that likely. I suspect that he either plans to steal the stone once he verifies that you have it, or he already has the stone and fears that you can connect him to its theft – your sudden trip to London could raise suspicions either way. Killing Peterson would prevent you from comparing your information to his.”
* * * *
Eden laid down her spoon, sipping wine to combat her suddenly dry mouth. Had Peterson died because of her?
“It wasn’t your fault,” Alex said firmly, apparently reading her mind. “You are not responsible for the thoughts and actions of a madman.”
“I know, but—”
“—it’s a shock,” he finished lightly. “Not to worry. I know an excellent remedy for shock.”
The twinkle in his eye made her whole body tighten. “No!”
“See? I’ve diverted your mind already.” He sobered. “On a serious note, it is prudent to assume that Peterson’s killer is seeking you and that his intentions are not good.”
“How bad is not good?” She almost wished he would continue flirting, for it was frightening to think that someone who had just killed a man was now seeking her. She’d not truly believed that the horseman had aimed at her.
She still didn’t believe that. Why would he have expected she would even be there? Why would he risk his own neck waiting for her to call? Had they arrived so soon after he left that he’d seen them? The thought that they might have discovered him still in the shop made her blood freeze. And the idea that he’d recognized her in the middle of a busy London street was worse.
Tweed removed the soup, replacing it with squab.
Alex studied her for a long moment. “The worst case is that the stone’s current possessor has decided to eliminate everyone who might know John had it. That would explain John’s death, the thief’s death, Peterson’s death, and both of your encounters with horsemen.”
“Olivia!” she gasped, bolting from her chair.
He caught her, holding her close until she ceased struggling. “Don’t panic,” he murmured. “Even if that is his goal, he is in London, so Olivia is perfectly safe. He will hardly hare off before dealing with you.”
She sat. “Of course. How silly of me. But—”
“Relax. Olivia may be in no danger at all. That was merely the worst scenario. And frankly, it stretches credulity to think that a madman has been trying to kill you for more than a week without doing any real damage. In the meantime, I’ve set men to watch the house in case someone is after you and knows where you are staying. So eat your dinner. Afterward, we will study Peterson’s journal. Tomorrow will be soon enough to leave for Ridley.”
“But— You are dining with your family tomorrow.”
He glared. “What gave you that idea?”
“I was in the hall when the invitation arrived.”
“There was no invitation.” All warmth had fled his voice.
“But—”
“Orders are not invitations.” He continued speaking, allowing her no further objections. “We will stop at the Home Office on the way out of town. They can conduct the London investigation I’d planned.” He didn’t look happy about it.
“You really are concerned about Olivia.”
“No. You are concerned. You are of no use to me when you are terrified for her safety. And seeing that she is protected is prudent. Today’s attack all but eliminates Sir Richard as a suspect, but I do want to look more closely at young Jeremy, and for that, I need to be at Ridley.” He bit into his squab, terminating the subject.
Eden followed suit, concentrating on dinner as she mulled his information. Why had today’s events focused his attention so closely on Jeremy? She couldn’t see the connection, but perhaps he had another reason for leaving so precipitously. Was he fleeing Stratford’s command?
His cook had produced a delightful meal, considering that she’d been on the job only a few hours. Alex had given so little notice of his arrival that the caretaker had hired the staff just that morning. Yet the table groaned under nearly as many dishes as Eden served at a dinner party – squab, braised pork, scalloped oysters, rosettes of potato, broccoli florets, asparagus in butter, and a plate of hothouse strawberries arranged around a bowl of thick cream. The new cook must be showing off her skills.
* * * *
Alex ate automatically, tasting little. He’d been mired in unwanted memories since the moment Eden had mentioned Palfry. It was bad enough the man had invaded the sanctity of Alex’s house, but how had he known Alex was in town? Had the bastard convinced the caretakers to keep him informed?
He cursed himself for not considering the possibility earlier. Closing his town house had meant replacing his trustworthy staff with an elderly couple whose primary job was to air the rooms once a month and forward any mail to Cliffside. Most of his former staff now served the man who had stepped into Alex’s position at the Home Office and thus needed servants capable of absolute discretion. But though Alex no longer needed secrecy, he would not tolerate disloyalty. Tweed must pension off the caretakers immediately, and if any of the new staff worked for Palfry or divulged information on his activities…
Tweed would put the fear of God in the new hires.
As for dinner
, Palfry would grow old waiting for him. Alex would never enter Stratford House again. It had taken him weeks to recover from the last visit.
That had also been a dinner invitation, issued the day he’d tendered his resignation to the Home Office. He would not have accepted if thirty others had not also been invited, which should have protected him from Stratford’s lashing tongue. He’d planned to leave London the following day and still hoped somewhere deep in his core that Stratford might eventually come to accept him…
But Stratford had abandoned all pretense of manners that night. The moment the ladies withdrew, he’d launched the most vicious tirade yet, recounting in exaggerated detail every mistake his worthless son had made in thirty-odd years. That he would do so in front of Palfry, several cousins, and four unrelated lords had made it worse. That Palfry and the cousins echoed every charge, adding new criticisms of their own, made it intolerable.
He should have known Stratford’s hatred would push him beyond civility, but he’d been too injured to think clearly – two brushes with death in the previous week had cracked his ribs and left him so bruised he could barely move. So he’d had no choice but to sit there.
Explaining himself would have been useless. Stratford hated quitters. Never mind that Alex had been a wreck after living double and triple lives for ten years. All that mattered was that Alex do what Stratford wanted. Injuries were proof of a reckless nature. No gentleman would be so careless. No Portland could condone his behavior. Every ancestor must weep to see the dishonor he was heaping on the family name.
Stratford had disowned him, loudly and viciously, in front of thirteen witnesses. There was nothing further to say.
His hand clenched, snapping the stem of his wineglass.
Eden gasped, pulling his thoughts back to the dining room.
“Forgive me,” he said as Tweed mopped up the spill. “It is rude to let my mind wander when a beautiful lady graces my table.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course. Not even a scratch.” He grinned. “Would you kiss it and make it better if there was?”
“Of course not.” But her harsh tone must have bothered her, for she glanced at his scars, adding, “You obviously heal easily enough without assistance.”
“Never easily. Some injuries can take months, but I’m sure your help would hasten the process.” His gaze held hers, sinking into the mossy depths of her eyes, letting their tranquility drive his memories back into hiding.
Tranquility sharpened to something potent. Desire?
He resumed eating, but he couldn’t pull his gaze from Eden. The bands on his control loosened…
* * * *
Eden cursed her flaming face. He had an uncanny ability to rouse awareness. And he did it deliberately. His gaze penetrated every barrier she’d thrown up, devouring her essence. When he’d stripped her bare, exposing her most secret desires, his gaze wandered slowly, seductively, to her breasts, setting her flesh ablaze as it passed. When her heart raced in response, he smiled that crooked rake’s grin and lifted a broccoli bud to his mouth.
Tweed slipped from the room.
Alex’s teeth closed around the bud.
Her nipples surged painfully to attention. Heat burst from her core, instantly flushing every inch of skin before pooling in her womb. She tried to tear her eyes away, tried to remember Olivia and responsibility and her resolution to ignore him.
But she couldn’t. The memory of those teeth sharp on her tongue revived every detail of that carriage ride, swamping her with lust.
He swallowed audibly, then met her gaze and licked his lips.
Not until her plate scraped across the tabletop did she realize she’d leaned closer to follow the motion, recalling his lips warm against hers.
Cursing her loss of control, she straightened. But nothing could tear her gaze from Alex. He mesmerized her, his eyes so hot she wondered how she could ever have thought them icy. Even his scar seemed enticing tonight, a moonlit path drawing her gaze to his mouth where mobile lips pursed, waiting to drive her to even greater pleasure.
Smiling seductively, he raised the dish of oysters, inhaled deeply to savor the aroma, then scooped one onto a spoon. Pausing a moment, he licked it clean, his tongue curling this way and that to capture every drop, then sucked it into his mouth with a loud smack.
Need enveloped her, scorching her skin. She fought for calm, determined to overcome the tremors that tried to shake her hands. She could not afford to lose control of her senses again. To maintain her dignity and carry out her responsibilities to Olivia, John, and Ridley, she must remain strong.
And she was strong, she reminded her treacherous body, wrenching her eyes away to glare at her plate. How else had she endured finding her father’s lifeless body? How else had she accepted marriage to a stranger old enough to be her grandfather? How else had she raised a fragile infant to become a diamond of the first water?
Use that strength, she urged herself. Don’t let him turn you into a boneless wanton willing to do anything he asks if only he’ll touch you again. Turn this game against him.
She might have inadvertently triggered his desire by watching him too closely, but he’d eagerly leaped to appease it. It was time to teach him that she would not succumb. He was at least as susceptible to lust as she. If she frustrated him enough, he would turn his eyes elsewhere. Men could not risk remaining unsatisfied for long…
Boldly meeting his gaze, she speared the fattest stalk of asparagus, then licked it slowly from end to end, savoring the butter. Her teeth delicately nipped off the tip.
Alex’s eyes nearly popped out.
Smiling, she dredged it through the buttery sauce, making sure it was thoroughly coated, then curled her tongue to wipe it clean.
Heat exploded across his face, raising an answering heat in her.
Steady, she admonished herself, brutally thrusting her body’s rebellion aside. Her purpose was to frustrate him into abandoning all thought of seduction, not to fall into his arms. But her control wavered as he scooped up another oyster, sucking it in and out of his mouth before devouring it.
She nearly whimpered.
Determined to bring him to his knees, she selected the ripest strawberry, dipped it in cream, then mimicked him, sliding it in and out of her mouth to remove every drop, savoring the flavor and texture.
He moaned.
She sighed in exaggerated ecstasy, then dredged up more cream. This time she laid the strawberry against her cheek, then stretched her tongue to lap it dry. A drop of cream slowly drizzled toward her chin.
“If it falls, it could stain your gown,” he choked hoarsely, reaching for her.
“It won’t.” Batting his hand away, she scooped the drop onto one finger and rubbed it across her lips. Her womb throbbed as his eyes followed.
“It’s still there.”
“Not for long.” Her tongue traced the path with agonizing slowness, his intent gaze making her lips tingle.
“Are you finished?” he panted, face flushed, eyes bright. His fingers actually trembled as he laid his napkin on the table.
“I believe so. Time to read Peterson’s journal.”
“Later.” He pulled her into his arms.
She wanted to arch into him, taste him, tear his clothes… But she rallied her determination and stepped away, then stared intently at his groin. Already rigid, it thickened further under her gaze, making him shudder from head to toe.
Somehow, she found her voice. “You do have a problem, don’t you, Alex. While you find someone to take care of it, I’ll read the journal. We can discuss its contents when you return.”
He froze. “Witch. You’ve been teasing me.”
“No more than you’ve been teasing me.”
“I’m not teasing.”
“But you are a gentleman. You won’t force a lady. Since I’m not interested in assisting you, you must seek relief elsewhere.” She stepped back, meeting his eyes. “I’ll be no man’s mistress, Alex. And no
man’s wife. I’ll not destroy my reputation for you or anyone.”
“No one will know.”
“You think not? Servants talk. Tweed might be trustworthy, but no one else in this house even knows you.” Relief weakened her knees when intelligence replaced the heat in his eyes. “Olivia has no dowry, making it difficult enough to find a willing suitor. The slightest tarnish on her reputation or mine will make it impossible. I’ll not condemn her to a life of spinsterhood.”
When he made no comment, she turned for the door. “I’ll study this in the library so your staff can clear the table. If you wish to discuss business, you may join me. But leave the flirtation behind. All of it.”
* * * *
Alex followed, castigating himself for losing control. The encounter in his carriage had shocked Eden into rigid virtue. The change in her gaze had likely been shock rather than desire, which made his response unacceptable.
Olivia was a bigger problem than he’d realized. But she provided an opportunity to ease some of the guilt he’d suffered since discovering that his mistakes had contributed to Higgins’s death, leaving both girls orphaned. Olivia needed a dowry, and he could easily supply one. He could also find her a husband.
The decision wasn’t altruistic, he admitted. Eden would never consider her own needs until Olivia was settled. Only then might she consent to explore her passion. It was stronger than he’d suspected. She’d been so aroused he was amazed she’d found the strength to pull back. He was equally amazed that he’d been capable of doing so. Never had a woman so nearly brought him to his knees without even a touch. He had to have her else his heart would burst.
But for the moment, he stifled his need and let Eden enjoy tonight’s victory. That odd protectiveness was growing. He could do nothing to hurt her.
