Her lungs locked; her hips lifted, but he held her down, moving lower, his shoulders sliding from her weakened grasp.
He looked down, watched as he worked his hand between her spread thighs, as he worked his finger within her, then he glanced up at her face, with his thumb circled that critical spot he’d discovered before, simultaneously reaching deeper still.
On a moan, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back. This had to be wicked; it was too glorious to be right.
A wave of sheer sensual delight swept through her, caught her wits, trapped her mind in sensations. Wild, wanton, indescribable pleasure flooded her; this time, he seemed content to let the wave lap at her, lap at her, rather than build.
The deliberate, flagrantly intimate repetitive penetration encouraged her to wallow in the warmth, to let her body simply enjoy every moment.
She was hardly relaxed, yet with every minute the landscape grew more familiar, less threatening. The urgency hadn’t infected her yet, but she knew it would. Before it did…
She managed to catch her breath and look down at him. Reach for him, with her fingers brush his shoulders. He looked up; his eyes were so black she could read nothing of his thoughts, but his face was a graven mask etched with a desire she comprehended instinctively.
“You…” She moistened her dry lips. “I’m the one who’s grateful. I want to give to you, not…”
Her gesture encompassed her body, thrumming with warmth and pleasure, and him, now propped between her knees, one shoulder cushioned against one of her thighs.
His hot black gaze didn’t flicker. He glanced briefly down to where his hand steadily pandered to her senses, then he looked up and met her eyes.
“Then lie back, close your eyes, and let me take this, at least.” His thumb swirled about the tight nub nestled within the now slick and swollen folds.
She tensed, but he held her with his eyes.
His words reached her, gravelly, low, primitively dark. “If you can’t be mine yet, give me this instead. Let me claim this much.”
Caught in his eyes, captured by the sheer need she could feel pouring from him, she tried to think, couldn’t—didn’t care. “Take—whatever you wish.” Caution reared. “But…”
His gaze seemed almost blank. “Just one more step.” He shifted further back. “Do as I asked—lie back and close your eyes.”
He waited; she could feel her pulse hammering in the soft flesh his fingers were tracing. She had no real idea… couldn’t imagine…
She closed her eyes, let her head fall back.
“Just like that—try not to move.”
She didn’t get a chance to reply. At the first touch of his lips, she lost all capacity even to think. Sensations buffeted her, rose and crashed through her. The intimacy all but slew her.
She heard her gasp, followed by a long moan as his fingers slipped from her sheath and blatantly, holding her thighs wide, he settled to feast.
His mouth worked, and she thought she might die. Of their own accord her hips lifted, twisted, but his hands had closed about them and he held her down, held her in position so he could, as he’d wished, claim her in this way.
A brutally explicit, intensely intimate claiming.
As she squirmed helplessly, struggled to breathe, the fact he knew of no reason to hold back, to withhold from her any degree of his transparently well-educated expertise, was forcefully borne in on her. He knew just what he was doing, to her, to her nerves, to her senses, to her mind.
To, in some way she didn’t comprehend, her heart.
She might be giving, he might be taking, yet he gave selflessly, too. If she’d harbored any doubts that lovemaking was in essence a sharing, the long, heated moments she spent under his hands, under his mouth, with his tongue stroking, probing, lapping at her softness, burned every shred of doubt away.
The flames built, expertly stoked, until the conflagration simply became too much. Too much for her to resist, to hold back from the beckoning delight. She would have warned him if she’d been able, but he didn’t look up, didn’t pause in his increasingly potent ministrations even when she tugged his hair.
And then she was there, at the heart of the firestorm, and for one blinding moment nothing else mattered but the intense, golden glory. It held her tight, a vise of his making, then she fractured, and the glory shattered, sharp shards streaking down her veins to melt deep within her, beneath her fingertips, under her skin.
Exulting, Tony savored the powerful contractions, savored her release, then licked, lapped. Eventually, he eased back and lifted his head.
Ignoring the fiery pressure in his loins, he looked at her, spent, dazed, gloriously sated. Gloriously exposed. He let his gaze travel slowly down her body, seeing and claiming anew, then he bent and placed a kiss on her damp curls, pushed up her chemise, and dropped a gentle, lingering kiss on her belly.
Next time. He promised himself that.
Lifting away, he shifted higher and lay down once more beside her. Propping on one elbow, he laid a hand on her breast, and settled to watch her return to earth and welcome her back.
An hour later, lying in her bed with the house silent about her, Alicia tried to take in, to understand, all that had happened. Not physically; shocking though that had been, stunning beyond her wildest imaginings—or, apparently, those of the authors of both sexual texts she’d consulted—she knew, to her bones, exactly what had happened, what part of him had touched what part of her, and how.
That was a problem in its own right, but what consumed her, what mystified her, was the connection she sensed, the link that steadily, day by day, interlude by interlude, seemed to be growing, forged in the fires between them.
That was something else. Something beyond the facts she’d considered when she’d decided to adhere to her widow’s role, to pretend to be as experienced as she was not.
He’d agreed to go slowly; by his standards, he probably had. Even though it was now patently clear that they’d all but arrived at their final destination, it wasn’t panic over that that filled her mind.
From the first, she’d responded to his practiced caresses instinctively, had been forced to rely on instinct to guide her. It seemed instinct had, but in a way she hadn’t foreseen, in a direction she hadn’t intended to take.
She hadn’t foreseen the danger. Not at all.
Rolling over on her side, she clutched a pillow to her and tried not to think about him, tried not to feel…tried not to be aware of the compulsion that had grown to give him more than she at any stage had contemplated.
Yet the more she fought it, the more she tried to turn her mind from the prospect, tried to deny it, the more it grew.
Fascination had turned into something more.
Something a great deal more powerful.
At an unusually early hour the next evening, Tony entered Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom. Without glancing at anyone else, he made his way to Alicia’s side.
Truth be told, he didn’t truly register anyone else’s presence; his mind, all of his awareness, was centered on her.
Not by choice. He felt driven, whipped along at the mercy of emotions he’d never before had to conquer. Mild possessiveness was one thing, but this?
There was so much in her life he wanted to spare her— more, that some part of him felt driven to fix, almost as if his very self—his honor, his name, his self-respect—depended on it. Taking care of her, protecting her, keeping her safe, ensuring her happiness, had become that important.
How, he wasn’t sure, but to his mind reasons were by the by. He knew how he felt; he knew what he wanted. He knew how he needed to act.
Reaching her side, he took the hand she smilingly offered, raised it, and placed a kiss on her fingers, then without pause, pressed another to her palm.
Startled, she searched his eyes. “Are you all right?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Perfectly.”
A lie, but he didn’t want her asking questions he couldn’t answ
er.
Tucking her hand into his elbow, he pretended to survey the other guests. The dancing had not yet commenced. “Has anyone behaved oddly toward you or Adriana today—here, or in the park?”
She glanced at him. “No.” After a moment, she went on, her voice lowered, “Are you expecting rumors about me being taken up by the Watch?”
“Possibly. I want to know if any surface.”
He could feel her gaze on his face, studying; he glanced at her, arched a brow.
She held his gaze. “What have you done? Tell me.”
He debated whether to inform her he wasn’t one of her brothers, but couldn’t see it stopping her interrogation. “I’ve asked Tante Felicité and her bosom-bows to keep their ears open. I told her the bare bones of what happened yesterday—she and the few other grandes dames who were present were shocked and suitably outraged.” He squeezed her fingers before she could protest. “This is the sort of thing that in different circumstances might happen to them. They have a vested interest in ensuring the customs of the ton aren’t manipulated for subversive purposes.”
Alicia frowned, then nodded, conceding the point. “I’ll tell you if Adriana or I encounter any difficulties.” She continued to study his face; he seemed more tense, more on edge than he usually was. “What else did you do today?”
He paused, to her now-informed eye deciding where to start rather than deciding whether to speak.
“I passed the information about the ships on to Jack Hendon.”
“The friend who owns a shipping line?”
“Yes. Now he knows what to look for, we’ll get along faster. I also sent word to another friend who’s checking along the southwest coast. With luck, we’ll have a clearer idea of what’s been happening soon, then we can start following the trail back to the perpetrator.”
“A. C.” Remembering the fright of the day before, she shivered. Feeling Tony’s gaze on her face, she met it. “He must be someone quite knowledgeable, mustn’t he? He knew how to start those first rumors, knew how to trick Bow Street into seizing me.”
Lips set, he nodded. “He’s intelligent, and cold-blooded.”
He hesitated, then went on, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the back of her hand. “I heard back from Smiggins. It seems his ‘anonymous information’ came via a flower seller who’d been paid by a well-to-do gentleman, one expensively dressed, to take the information to the Watch. She can’t describe the man beyond that.”
The vision of a gentleman wrapped in an expensive coat with an astrakhan collar, viewed through the mists of a chilly night, slid through Tony’s mind. For him, A. C. was no phantom, but a dangerous adversary, one he’d yet to put a name to.
Which, of course, only made it harder to protect Alicia from the danger. He let his gaze drift to Adriana’s circle; through her connection with Alicia, she, too, was in danger. There were six gentlemen gathered about her; Sir Freddie Caudel was, as usual, one of the crew. He was engaged in describing some play to Adriana; prettily, she hung on his words, her attention politely all his, at least for the moment. Tony was not at all surprised to see Geoffrey hovering even more determinedly, more definitely possessive.
From beside him came a small humph. “I daresay, if Lord Manningham is all you and Mr. King tell me he is, then I’ll shortly be entertaining an offer from him.”
He glanced at Alicia, caught her eye. “I should think that’s a foregone conclusion.” He paused, then asked, “Will she, and you, accept Geoffrey’s suit?”
She looked at Geoffrey and Adriana, hesitated, then nodded. “If she’s happy, and if he wishes to hold to his offer once he’s fully informed of the family’s circumstances.”
He arched a brow. “Circumstances?” He knew precisely what she meant—the fact she and her brood were as poor as church mice. She, however, didn’t know he knew; he wondered when she’d tell him.
She met his gaze, her expression open. “There’s the boys, of course, and myself—not every gentleman wants to marry into such a close family.”
More fool them. He raised his brows noncommittally, and let the matter slide. Time enough to see how she reacted to his proposal once he’d made it. With her and her family in A. C.’s sights, eliminating A. C. had to be his top priority; there would be time aplenty to speak of marriage once they were safe.
More guests were arriving; her ladyship’s rooms were fast filling. He remained by Alicia’s side; with only two weeks to go before the start of the Season, tonnish entertainments once more resembled the melee he recalled, one through which wolves of various hues prowled.
Felicité waved from across the room, then Lady Holland stopped by to compliment Alicia on her and Adriana’s gowns. The comment drew his notice; as usual, the sisters were superbly turned out…again he wondered how they managed it. Then he recalled Adriana’s preoccupation with fashion; she was forever sketching the latest designs, or similar designs artfully modified.
He looked again at their stylish attire. Understanding dawned; he saw Adriana in a new light.
“Good evening, Torrington—I trust you will introduce me to your lovely companion. I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.”
The perfectly modulated tones, still distinctly accented, jolted him from his thoughts. Lowering his gaze, he smiled easily and bowed. “Your Grace.” His gaze passed on to the lady—yet another grande dame if appearances spoke true—by Her Grace of St. Ives’s side. The lady smiled with charm, and a hint of determination.
“Allow me to present my sister-in-law, Lady Horatia Cynster.” The Duchess of St. Ives smiled at him, pale eyes alight. She waited while he bowed over Lady Horatia’s hand, then continued, “Bon! And now you may introduce us both to this lady, if you please.”
He nearly laughed; one of his mother’s oldest and dearest friends, Helena, Duchess of St. Ives, was both incorrigible and unstoppable. She was a petite force of nature, and woe betide any who thought to say her nay. He turned to Alicia. She met his eyes; he smiled encouragingly. “Ladies—Mrs. Alicia Carrington, allow me to present Helena, Duchess of St. Ives, and Lady Horatia Cynster.”
Alicia dipped into a curtsy of precisely the right degree.
Impulsively, Helena took her hand and waved her up. “Your sister is ravissante, as all the ton now knows, but you, too, will do very well I believe.”
Alicia smiled, but demurred. “I seek only to establish my sister.”
Helena bent on her a look of patent incomprehension, then glanced at her sister-in-law.
Whose lips were not straight. “My dear, a word of advice—you may not seek, but the gentlemen assuredly will. Indeed”—her gaze slid teasingly to Tony—“I’m quite sure they already are.”
The only way to deal with such females was to meet their jibes with polite impassivity; Tony did so. They stayed by Alicia’s side, chatting about this and that, for nearly ten minutes, then moved on.
Before Alicia had time to draw breath, two other haughty matrons stopped to speak kindly. He stood by her side, suavely urbane, and thought cynical thoughts along the lines of: where Cynsters led, others followed.
He was grateful for Helena’s support; he knew her well enough to know the gesture had been intentional. To be seen to be accepted by the elite of the haut ton provided a social cachet which was of itself a protection. Rumors were simply much less likely to be credited. Socially, Alicia and Adriana were gaining a status it would require a major public indiscretion to shake.
As more of the ladies on whose opinion the ton turned made a point of acknowledging Alicia, either by stopping for a few words or by exchanging nods across the room, he felt increasingly reassured on the social front.
Other fronts, however, were not so secure.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carrington.”
The deep timbre of the voice sent Tony’s hackles rising. He turned to see a dashingly handsome gentleman with unruly blond curls bowing over Alicia’s hand; from the look on her face, she hadn’t meant to surren
der it. The gentleman had approached from the rear, escaping Tony’s watchful eye, which endeared him to Tony even less.
The gentleman straightened and smiled at Tony. “Your servant, Torrington.” Exchanging a brief nod, he looked back at Alicia. “My mama chatted with you earlier—she told me your name. I’m Harry Cynster.”
His smile thawed Alicia; she returned it, relaxing. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
It took Tony a few seconds to make the connections. Harry Cynster, he of the guileless blue eyes and a distinctly predatory streak. Horses—he was a renowned whip, a legendary rider, in more than one sense, appropriately nicknamed Demon.
He was chatting with Alicia, his voice a deep, fashionable drawl, deploying the charm for which the Cynsters were notorious. “My mama dragged me along. Now we’re all of us back from the wars, it seems our mothers and aunts are determined to marry us all off.”
“Indeed?” Alicia returned his innocent look with one of polite scepticism. “And what of you? Doesn’t marriage figure among your ambitions?”
His eyes met hers, their expression rather less innocent. “Not just yet.”
The undercurrent beneath the words registered as a warning.
Harry raised a brow. “I believe that’s a waltz starting up.”
To her surprise, Tony reached across; his fingers closed about her hand. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me, Cynster.” He smiled urbanely, and drew her to him. “Mrs. Carrington has promised me this dance.”
Over her head, blue eyes met black. There was something—some form of masculine challenge—behind Tony’s polite mask. She glanced from one to the other, then Harry Cynster raised both brows, faint surprise in his face. “Well, well. I see.” Then he grinned and saluted her. “A pity, but I wish you good riding, my dear.”
Before she could reply to the strange comment, Tony whisked her away.
“Mrs. Carrington doesn’t often dance at all,” she informed him as he drew her into his arms.
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