Meet Me at Midnight

by Suzanne Enoch

  “No need for that in here,” he murmured, sweeping his arms behind her and swiftly undoing the first few buttons down her back. Tugging the loosened gown forward, he bent his head and claimed her left breast, caressing her nipple with his lips and his tongue.

  She arched against him, gasping. He was already hard, and as he repeated his attentions to her other breast he coaxed her up onto her knees, gathering her heavy skirts into his hands and lifting them. She immediately realized what he was doing, and bent forward to unfasten his breeches and free him.

  With a low, throaty chuckle she straddled him, and he guided her down onto his lap. He groaned as he entered her, reveling in the hot, tight slide of her flesh around him.

  “Like this?” she panted, rising up a little and then sinking down again.

  “Just like that,” he encouraged, grinning. “You learn fast.”

  She repeated the rising and sinking motion, watching his face intently with half-closed, glittering eyes. “Are there other ways to…do this? Other ways for us to be together?”

  Good God, he’d made it to heaven, after all. “Several,” he groaned. “Dozens.”

  She kissed him again, hot and open-mouthed. “I want you to show me all of them,” she panted.

  “Repeatedly.” He groaned again, lifting his hips to meet her and praying that he lived long enough to do so.

  Victoria opened her eyes. Her head lay on Sinclair’s bare chest, which rose and fell softly with his light breathing. Muffled beneath his ribs, she could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart.

  Morning sunlight splintered through the gaps in the master bedchamber’s heavy green curtains, falling across the foot of the bed like long, thin bars of precious gold. Their clothes were still piled on the floor where they’d dumped them, and Lord Baggles lay curled and sleeping in the chair by the fireplace. She hadn’t even realized he’d slunk into the room.

  She felt far too sated and comfortable to move, but by shifting her head just a little she could see that the dressing room door between the two bedchambers stood open.

  “What is that?” Sin asked quietly, humor touching his voice.

  Victoria lifted her head to look at his face. “What is what?”

  He untwined his fingers from hers and pointed upward. “That.”

  By shifting in his arms, she could turn enough to see the small gray parrot perched on the headboard and eyeing them. “Oh. That’s Mungo Park.”

  “Mungo Park. After the explorer?”

  “Yes. He just flew into the kitchen one day, looking half starved. Cook wanted to make parrot pie of him, but I disagreed. Strongly.”

  “How long do you think he’s been there?”

  “‘Oh, Sinclair, that feels so good,’” Mungo Park said, in a passable imitation of his mistress in the throes of passion.

  “Oh, no,” she squawked, mortified, and buried her face in Sin’s broad chest.

  Her husband gave a shout of laughter.

  “That is not funny,” she protested, pulling the sheet over her head.

  “Yes it is,” he managed, wrapping his strong arms around her and laughing harder.

  “‘Oh, Sinclair, that feels so good.’”

  “How long do parrots live?” he mused.

  “About another five minutes.”

  He hauled the sheet down again, pulled her further up along his lean, muscular body, and kissed her. “You did say that several times. You can hardly blame Mungo Park for noticing.”

  “My mother thought it was terrible when I taught him to say ‘Dash it all.’ She’ll drop dead if she hears this.”

  “She did give birth to you,” he countered. “Your parents have had intercourse on at least one occasion.”

  “Yes, but I doubt they enjoyed it.”

  He lifted her so he could look into her eyes. “Did you?”

  “‘Oh, touch me there again, Sinclair.’”

  A grin tugged at her husband’s sensuous lips and he glanced up at Mungo. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Victoria started to answer him with an enthusiastic affirmative, but with the parrot still perched over their heads, she thought better of it. She twisted free of his loose grip and squirmed closer. “I never imagined,” she whispered into his ear. “And I could never imagine being with anyone but you.”

  Sin gently brushed a lock from her face and searched her gaze for a long moment with his deep, whiskey-colored eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Just then Roman rapped on the door, and Henrietta and Grosvenor trotted into the room, barking at the intrusion.

  “Stay here,” her husband said, and rose. Pulling a blanket off the back of a chair, he wrapped it around his waist and knotted it, then waded through the dogs and cats and opened the door.

  Victoria felt like barking at Roman herself. Pulling the blanket up to her neck, she watched Sinclair as he and Roman spoke, her husband dangerous-looking even barefoot and with nothing but a knitted blanket around his waist. He let everyone think he was a scapegrace and a wastrel, but seeing him like that, natural and unguarded and at ease, she didn’t know how anyone could mistake him for anything but a patriot who had risked his life for his country more times than he would probably ever tell her.

  She was going to help him, whether he wanted her assistance or not. Until he solved this murder, he would never be able to trust anyone—not even her, not completely. And until he had put this behind him, she would never have all of him, as she had for a few moments last night, when he’d been briefly able to forget everything but her. Maybe she was being selfish, but she wanted that Sinclair Grafton. And if it took finding a murderer to have him, then so be it.

  Chapter 11

  “Lucien, do you have a moment?”

  Lord Kilcairn looked up from his billiards table. “Alexandra isn’t here,” he said, and returned to lining up his shot. “She and cousin Rose went shopping.”

  Victoria stayed in the doorway. “I wanted to speak to you actually.”

  “Then grab a stick.”

  That was as much of an invitation as she was likely to get from him, so she pulled a billiards cue off the rack on the wall and approached the table. “You know all sorts of nefarious people, don’t you?”

  The earl took his shot, missed, and straightened. “Not as many as I used to, but I can probably find a scalawag or an assassin or two without much difficulty. Why?”

  Leaning over the table, Victoria carefully lined up the cue, made her shot, and sank the ball. “Oh, I’m splendid at this, aren’t I?”

  “Beginner’s luck.”

  She straightened, ready to launch into her speech, but Lucien motioned her to take another shot. “I have something of a problem,” she said, sizing up the table again.

  “So I gathered. What can I do for you?”

  Her shot missed, and she moved out of the way as Lucien walked around the table. “I’m not certain. What did you know of Thomas Grafton?”

  “Althorpe? Not much. We didn’t socialize.” He made his shot. “What is it you want to know? Personal, or professional?”

  “Both. I’m…assisting Sinclair with a project of sorts.”

  “A project involving dead relations-in-law.”

  She blushed. “Something like that.”

  He leaned on his cue. “I don’t know who killed Althorpe, if that’s what you’re after, but in the months before he died, he didn’t make any new friends in Parliament.”

  Eventually she would learn simply to ask Lucien a direct question instead of leading up to it with polite, roundabout chitchat. “Why is that?”

  “A great many of the old titles have holdings in France. He wouldn’t acknowledge the difference between keeping a four-hundred-year-old piece of land and actively engaging in commerce with Bonaparte loyalists. Some of them didn’t like the implication that they were traitors because they chose not to divest themselves of everything French.”

  “Did he stop at implications?”

  “In public he did. P
rivately, I don’t know.” The earl shrugged. “You might ask Kingsfeld or Lady Jane Netherby about that. They socialized.”

  There had been a female involved. “I’ll do that. If you think of anything else, will you let me know?”

  He nodded and went back to his shot. “I’ll do that.” As she turned for the door, though, he straightened again. “Vixen?”

  She stopped. “Yes?”

  “Just remember what they say about curiosity.”

  Victoria smiled. “Meow.”

  She knew exactly where Lady Jane Netherby resided, but it took her a full day to arrange for a casual, coincidental meeting over some new French fabrics at Newton’s. Waiting until Lucy and Marguerite were occupied with hair ribbons, she suddenly became interested in calico fabrics, as that was what Lady Jane was looking at.

  “The blue definitely complements your eyes,” she said, smiling.

  Lady Jane, a tall, classically featured lady in her late twenties, lifted the bolt of fabric again. “Do you think so? I thought it might do for a spring walking dress.”

  Victoria nodded. “That’s fetching idea. You didn’t see any gray or violet patterns, did you? I would do the same thing myself.”

  “Welfield, didn’t you say you had some gray in the back?”

  The clerk nodded. “I’ll fetch it right away, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” Victoria held out her hand. “I’m Victoria, Lady Althorpe.”

  The auburn-haired woman’s smile faltered as she returned the handshake. “Lady Jane Netherby. You married Thomas Grafton’s brother.”

  “Yes, Sinclair. You knew Thomas?”

  Lady Jane lifted another bolt of fabric, holding it up to the window’s light. “Yes. We were friends.”

  “I knew him only a little,” Victoria returned. “But I did like him. It’s so sad, to learn only after someone is gone that they would have been someone you would like to have known better.”

  The taller woman’s wan smile returned. “Indeed. Knowing someone too well, though, has its own drawbacks.”

  “How so?” Victoria asked, taking the gray calico from the clerk as he returned. Was she being warned off? Or was Sinclair making her paranoid?

  “Everyone has faults, Lady Althorpe. While someone lives, their acquaintances see whatever the individual wishes seen. After someone dies, though, their reputation becomes what everyone else chooses to make of it.”

  “You mean if someone looks for ill they’ll find ill, and vice versa.”

  “Exactly.” Lady Jane summoned Welfield again. “I’ll take ten yards of the blue one, Welfield. Have it sent to Madame Treveau’s dress shop, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The older woman offered her hand to Victoria again. “I apologize, but I have an engagement this afternoon. It was very pleasant to meet you.”

  “And you,” Victoria said warmly, watching the lady out of the store and still not certain whether she’d been given a message or whether Lady Jane Netherby was simply odd. Whichever it was, Jane knew something.

  She wanted to ask Sinclair his opinion, but then he would know she was still investigating. She hadn’t promised to stop, but she knew he assumed she had. He still had secrets himself, though, so keeping this one simply made them even.

  Pondering Lady Jane’s words, she returned to her friends. “That one’s pretty, Marguerite,” she said, pointing at one of the dozen hair ribbons her friend had draped over her arm.

  “Yes, I thought so, too, if I wear the yellow silk.”

  “To what?”

  “To your ball, of course. Only I wore yellow at the opera last week, so perhaps I should wear the green and ivory instead.”

  “The yellow silk is prettier,” Lucy countered.

  “Yes, but I don’t want him to think I wear nothing but yellow. He’ll begin to call me ‘the daffodil’ or something.”

  Victoria frowned. “‘He?’ Which ‘he’ are you talking about?”

  “Kit Grafton, I’ll wager,” Lucy said slyly, giggling.

  “Lucy!”

  “Well, you’ve talked about no one else for a week. Who else could it be?”

  “Kit? Really?” Marguerite had been batting her eyes at Christopher then. He’d be relieved to know that the night at the opera hadn’t been a complete waste. “He mentioned to me that he was fond of yellow.” Or he would become fond of it, as soon as Victoria informed him of his preference.

  “I’m buying the yellow ribbon then,” Marguerite announced.

  Lucy giggled again. “What are you going to wear, Vixen?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “But it’s tomorrow night! You always plan what you’re going to wear weeks ahead of time.”

  “Well, this time we’ll all be surprised.”

  As they continued with their shopping along fashionable Bond Street, though, she kept thinking about what Lucy had said. Ever since she’d debuted, she’d been in a frenzy: teas, luncheons, balls, recitals, and soirees, one after the other. She was popular, and she knew the silly things men liked to converse about—that was easy, since their favorite topic was invariably themselves. But even with her days and nights and every waking moment filled with things to do, she’d been utterly and deathly bored.

  Now, though, her social calendar had slowed a little, and she’d used the open spaces for more important things. Charity luncheons, bringing clothes and food to the underprivileged, and helping Sinclair all took up the same amount of time she’d spent before, but with one gaping difference: the days did not bore her any longer. If nothing else, she owed Sin for that.

  When she returned to Grafton House, Milo informed her that Lord Althorpe was out in the stables. She went to find him, smiling to herself as she decided how she wanted to thank him—though that depended on whether any of the grooms were about.

  Thankfully, when she pushed the squeaky door open and stepped into the cool dimness of the stable, he was there alone, leaning over the stall door and feeding Old Joe an apple.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, her pulse beginning to race as it always did when she was alone with him.

  “How was shopping?” he asked, leaving the stall and coming to meet her.

  “Very productive. How is Old Joe?”

  “Now that he’s begun to fatten up a little, someone could almost mistake him for a horse.” He slid his arm across her shoulders, tucking her against his side with a familiar possessiveness. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Don’t you have a stud herd at Althorpe?”

  Sin raised an eyebrow. “I believe I do, but I am not letting him loose with the mares to make little Old Joes everywhere.”

  Victoria laughed. “I’ll think of something then.”

  He started them toward the door, but she halted, glancing up at the loft. Still no stableboys.

  “What is it?”

  She ran both hands down his chest, feeling the play of the muscles across his hard, flat stomach, and stopping at his belt. “Where are all your employees?” she asked.

  “Errands,” he answered promptly. “Mrs. Twaddle is making apple tarts for dinner. I say we go steal them while they’re hot.”

  “You’re so domestic,” she cooed, and unfastened his belt.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, clear surprise in his amber eyes. “I’ve created a monster.”

  “Kiss me,” she murmured, already hot and shivery for his knowing touch.

  “Inside the house,” he stated, putting his hands on her shoulders and turning her back toward the large double doors.

  As she spun back again, she glimpsed something for a moment before it was gone in the deep gloom in the corner. A sleeve of dark superfine, unless she was greatly mistaken. Apparently she’d discovered another of Sinclair’s clandestine meetings. Since he’d spent the last eight nights with her, he had to be holding them some other time.

  Annoyance flashed. Obviously he still didn’t trust her a whit. And obviously she’d become co
mpletely befuddled by him if she hadn’t realized he was still meeting his mysterious friends directly behind her back.

  “Let’s go in,” he repeated.

  Victoria leaned back against him and wriggled her bottom. “What’s wrong with the stable?” she asked, just loudly enough so that their unseen audience could hear.

  “Straw and dirt,” he said. The words sounded clipped, as though he had his jaw clenched. “I’m sure we can find somewhere cleaner and more comfortable. You can tell me all about your day.”

  She wriggled again. “I don’t want to talk.” Stifling a grin as she felt his muscles jump, she bent forward at the waist. “Oh, dear, I have a stone in my shoe.”

  “You little…” he began, then stopped. “Inside. Now.”

  “But you promised me another lesson.”

  “I think you’re learning fast enough on your own, Vixen.” His hands encircled her waist, and he drew her upright again. “Inside, where we can take our time,” he murmured, pulling her closer and shifting his own hips.

  Well, she’d succeeded in arousing him. Now she wasn’t certain what to do next. She certainly didn’t want him falling on her with his friends watching. Victoria turned in his arms to face him. “There are two things you can show me, Sinclair. One of them is your friends hiding behind those bales of hay.”

  He scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Stop playing games,” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot.” She jabbed her finger toward the corner. “I saw at least one of your friends, over there.”

  “Just now?”

  “Yes, just now.”

  He let her go and launched himself over the bales of hay. Straw and dust exploded into the air, and someone yelped.

  Gasping, Victoria grabbed a rake and charged around the bales. And nearly skewered the stranger Sin flung toward the door.

  “No, Victoria!” Sinclair bellowed.

  Shrieking, she heaved the rake sideways and managed to turn the pointy end away and just clip the fellow across the shoulder with the stout handle. His solid, off-balance weight against it knocked her over, and the three of them landed in a tangled heap of limbs with her on the bottom.

  “Damnation, Wally, get off my wife!” Sinclair snarled, and the constricting weight left her chest.