His gaze slashed to hers. “Where did she go? Home?”
Tears collected in the back of her throat. “She does not speak of those first few years.”
“Christ.” He prowled to the foot of the bed and braced his hands against the counterpane.
Violence chiseled his handsome features into a framework she did not recognize. A fleeting thought entered her mind, and she wondered if his value to the Nexus went beyond a lady’s bedchamber.
“What happened next?” he asked.
Sitting in her chemise, in the middle of his bed, she could not share the rest of her story while under such fierce scrutiny. She averted her attention to find more neutral territory, but found none. The contours of his upper chest and arms drew her gaze and would not let go. She pulled his coat closer.
“Do not lose your courage now.” A muscle flexed in his chest. “Tell me how the two of you survived.”
She broke free of her trance and bolstered her nerves. “From what I’ve gathered, my mother did go home until I was born. But my grandfather did not approve of her bastard child, and we were soon forced to leave.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. Hands she could not seem to keep warm. “That’s when she brought me to London and did only God-knows-what to keep us alive.”
“Your mother got you through those hellish first years and then something changed—for the better, I gather.”
Nodding, Sydney said, “Somehow she managed to obtain another housekeeper position. By then, my uncle and one of my aunts had come to London. Through their combined efforts, everyone got on well enough. When I turned six, my mother placed me under the supervision of the kindly cook in the household where she worked. I rather liked cleaning vegetables while listening to Cook’s outrageous stories.”
“No wonder the Hunt Agency is so successful. You have firsthand knowledge of the positions you’re filling.”
Wanting nothing more than to be finished with her story, she ignored his observation and trudged on. “Within the year, I came to the attention of the master’s fifteen-year-old son.”
The image that had shattered their precious intimacy earlier resurfaced.
“Be quiet, little one,” the master’s son said, the tip of his finger trailed down the length of her cheek to the side of her neck. “Or I will be forced to have your dear mama sacked. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Seeing your mama begging on the streets again, hungry and cold?”
Sydney glanced at the closed door of the scullery. Tears welled, blurring her vision. “N-no, sir.”
His finger continued its descent, and Sydney bit her bottom lip, holding back her scream.
Ridgway’s son’s perversions had occurred almost two decades ago. A lifetime. But even after years of repression, the image materialized, sharp and clear and just as frightening.
A low animallike sound erupted from the foot of the bed. Ethan pushed away and resumed his pacing. He said nothing, though his agitation was clear. His strong fingers rubbed his forehead and raked through his wavy hair. He stared at the floor as if he could summon the answers he sought from the boards themselves.
“One day, Cook saw him follow me inside the scullery, and she notified my mother.”
She noticed Ethan halted, listening.
“Mother picked up one of the dirty pans and bashed the master’s son in the head, saving me, I think, from the worst of his depravity.” A smile quivered on her lips, recalling her mother’s courage. “One second he was pawing at my skirts and, the next, he was on the floor, sniveling like a baby.” Her amusement faded. “Of course, his father did not like the turn of events. He blamed me for tempting his son and then released my mother.”
“It’s always so convenient to blame brutish behavior on the victim,” he said.
With the exception of the one memory, all the others leading up to her last encounter with the son in the scullery had trickled away with the passage of time… and a great determination not to allow fearful thoughts to take root.
“Out of desperation, my mother sought out Una Wimberly, her childhood friend and the Marchioness of Shevington, who wrote her a faux letter of recommendation for another housekeeper position.” She smiled a little. “At the Pratt residence.”
“And so began Pratt’s courtship of your mother?”
She nodded. “Mother resisted for a time, but my father can be rather persuasive.”
“This is why you keep the bell?”
“Not directly, though I believe my father might have confided some of my story to Mac after I hired him. Within a couple days of opening the agency, a groomsman came to us, seeking a position. We looked into his background and found that he had been released from his past three employers for his abusive behavior toward their animals. I told the groomsman that the agency would not be able to help him, and he did not take the news well.”
“Is there anything about your life not fraught with danger?”
Where was his revulsion? And the downward pull of his features as he gazed upon her with his newfound knowledge? “One could say the same of you.”
“Jesus, you’re going to make my hair turn gray before I reach the age of thirty.” He strode to the opposite side of the bed. His beautiful eyes focused on her with a vulnerable intensity. “I’m still here, Sydney.”
“Why?” She wanted to pull back the revealing question, but it was too late.
He lifted one knee and settled it on the edge of the bed. “Because I’m not like the weakling coxcomb you entrusted the story to before. Who was he? That Pyne chap I met in the park?”
“How did you know?”
“In case I haven’t said it plainly before,” he lowered his chin, “I’m a spy. I observe and gather information. And I’m good at it.”
Her throat grew tight. “The vile boy compromised my innocence.”
The bed dipped beneath his weight. “In the not-too-distant future, I will wrench the bloody bastard’s name from you and finish what your mother started.”
“You’ll do no such thing. He must have children by now.”
“Even more reason.”
He crawled across the bed and then angled his body toward hers, trapping her in place by anchoring one large hand near her waist. They reclined nose-to-nose, hip-to-hip. If not for the combined heat of their bodies and the shivers nesting in her lower stomach, the moment would have felt deeply poignant. Instead, all she wanted to do was skim her fingers down the hard planes of his torso. So she did.
At first contact, the smooth flesh beneath her fingertips contracted as if her touch burned. Her gaze shifted from his glorious chest to his stormy eyes. Rather than encourage her with words, he leaned back to rest on his elbow, opening himself up for her full exploration.
A wave of inadequacy washed over her. Had he been with so many sophisticated women that her tentative caresses felt more like an annoying gnat, rather than a precursor to making love? The thought grew life, and she made to remove her hand. And that’s when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught an infinitesimal movement to her right.
Shifting her attention, she noticed he strained against the confines of his breeches. Like a heartbeat, his erection pulsed at regular intervals beneath the buttoned placard. Her lips parted, and she drew in a shuddering breath. Her hand drifted lower.
No longer content with a mere brush of her fingers, she flattened her palm and learned the contours of his hard abdomen. Silk and steel. Vulnerable and dangerous. Tempting and taunting. They were all there, hidden in the ridges and valleys. And she wanted to taste every single rise and fall.
“Sweet Sydney, do you know what you’re doing?”
Dipping her fingers below his waistline, she said, “Haven’t the faintest idea.”
His voice was low, menacing. “You have possibly five more minutes to figure it out, then I’m taking control before you do me permanent damage.”
“Four minutes,” he said through clenched teeth.
Her confidence returned, and she slipped her fingers free. A soft oath reached her ears. “Patience, my lord.”
“Three minutes.”
Heart pounding, she freed the buttons holding his placard closed. Then, as if opening a much-anticipated present, she peeled back the soft leather and her eyes widened with both horror and wonder. She tried to relax her posture, to call forth the calm that had never failed her. But it remained stubbornly absent.
So, she did the next thing that came to mind. She attacked the threat.
Bending forward, she kissed his chest and stomach, exploring his upper body while her hand ventured lower. He was incredibly warm down there, almost humid damp. And then she curled her fingers around the breadth of him, and the area between her legs contracted, as if trying to hold something close.
“Sydney, good God,” he hissed. “O-one minute.”
She lifted her head to watch while she tested his hard length. He thrust his hips, and her hand glided upward with remarkable ease, even though she never moved a single muscle. Shock and a sense of self-preservation compelled her to look at the man. Ethan. Her lover.
“Your time is up.”
One hand clamped around the back of her neck, holding her, while his mouth devoured her lips. She made to release his length, so she could embrace him.
“Keep those wicked fingers where they are.”
He kissed her again, this time with his tongue. The act emboldened her. She gripped him tighter and glided her hand all the way up his length and back down.
“You are,” he whispered harshly against her lips, “so good at that.”
It was all the encouragement she needed. Again and again, she manipulated his erection until a drop of moisture slipped from the engorged tip and eased over her knuckle. She swept her thumb in a wide arc, spreading the droplet. Soon, his musky scent filled her nose, causing saliva to drench her mouth.
He swallowed thickly. “Time’s up for us both, I’m afraid.” Rearing up on his knees, he grasped himself. “What I’m about to do, I’m doing so that I don’t hurt you in my haste. Understand?”
His earnest face and his moving hand divided her attention. “No.”
“You will.” Then his hand and hips set about a rhythm that made her cheeks flush with heat. On his last thrust, his face took on a pained look and he whipped the sheet over his hand. A groan ripped from his throat; its guttural syllables tangled to form a single word. Sydney.
Throwing off her covers, she rose on her knees before him, ignoring the ache in her leg. He wiped himself with the sheet and tossed it away. His staff looked so different now, less intimidating somehow. She had a rudimentary understanding of how this worked, but now, with his flaccid… appendage, she wondered about the mechanics of the act.
His thumb smoothed up the center of her brow. “So serious. Do not worry, hedgehog. I will take care of your needs in but a few minutes.”
She sent him a cross look and waved her hand toward his uncooperative appendage. “Is there anything I can do to—um—encourage it?”
The grin he sent her was designed to either melt the receiver’s heart or rub her nerves raw. “You might try removing your chemise.”
Panic gripped her chest. “I want to encourage its attention, not frighten it away.”
He scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“Do not pretend with me, Ethan. Please, not now.” She inhaled a bracing breath. “I’m sure you’re used to more svelte figures.”
Hooking his finger beneath her chin, he lifted and leaned close. “Never, ever compare yourself to another woman. Never.”
Tears bit into the backs of her eyes. She nodded.
“Promise me.”
She had to swallow to get the words out. “I promise, Ethan.”
The words barely crossed her lips before he sealed them with a kiss. When she made to wrap her arms around his neck and press her aching breasts against him, he released her. The abrupt action and her off-center position forced her to scurry for balance.
Annoyance caused her eyes to narrow on him, which he countered with a rogue’s grin.
“Now about that chemise.”
Even though she had given her promise, her mind rebelled at the thought of revealing herself to his practiced eye.
“Arms up, Hunt.” He grasped the bottom edge of her undergarment.
She grabbed his wrists. “I’ll do it.” Somehow she had to gain command of this situation and, right now, she felt at a distinct disadvantage. Over the years, she had learned how to use her height as a means of bolstering her confidence, especially around men. Perhaps she could use it now, but how? Then she knew.
“If you would be so kind as to offer me a hand up, sir?”
“Up?”
“That’s right.”
Brow furrowed, he held out his hand.
She slid her fingers into his and propped her other hand on his shoulder for extra balance, then clambered to her feet. A few seconds later she released his hand and shoulder and peered down at him. Power rushed through her when she found his hungry gaze devouring her body.
“How is your leg holding up?”
“It’s fine.” She ran her fingers along the side of his face. “Do not worry.”
Sitting back on his heels, he burrowed his hands under her chemise to clasp her legs, right above the knees, and waited.
Her recently recovered courage began to evaporate. She gathered two handfuls of linen together, intending to rip the blasted thing off and be done with it.
“Slowly,” he ordered.
Closing her eyes, she again searched for the calm she could always count on—and finally found a small measure. It was enough. She lifted her lids and followed his every expression as she pulled her chemise over her head in one deliberate and fluid motion.
His hands tightened around her knees. “Sweet Sydney, what were you so worried about?”
When she opened her mouth to explain, he interrupted, “Never mind. Just remember what I said earlier.” He smoothed his lips around the edges of her bandage. “I’m sorry,” he murmured after every other medicinal press of his mouth. Then he followed the way of her discarded chemise, edging closer and closer to the apex of her legs.
An uncontrollable shiver shook her to the marrow. He reached her bushy mound and inhaled a long, deep breath, and his palms skimmed up the back of her legs to squeeze her bottom.
“Your scent,” he whispered, nuzzling her curls, “is so intoxicating.”
The shiver moved down to her legs, and she clasped his head loosely. Whatever he intended, she did not want to disturb him. She wanted to experience every second of his lovemaking. Especially all the small nuances like the way his harsh breaths tunneled through her curls, making her squirm with excitement. She had an almost violent urge to thrust her hips forward and wrap her leg around his shoulder to help him penetrate deeper. Her body was weeping for want of him.
“Ethan.” Her fingers convulsed around his skull. “I ache.”
“Where, my sweet?”
She tried to pinpoint an exact location, but every facet of her body screamed for attention. “Everywhere?”
“Ahhh.” He slid his tongue into her navel. “I am a happy man.”
Confused, she tugged on his hair until he lifted his gaze to hers. “Why does my suffering make you happy?”
He smiled. “Sweet, innocent Sydney.” He covered one needy peak with his hot mouth. Sydney’s back arched, forcing him to take more.
When he trailed toward her other breast, he said, “Because I must make every”—he flicked his tongue against her ruched nub—“single place”—he teased the delicate pink aureole—�
��on your lovely body”—he blew cool air against her damp flesh—“feel better.” Cupping both of her breasts in his hands, he plumped them together until he could slide easily from one throbbing tip to the next.
“Oh.” She tilted her head back and gave herself over into his keeping.
As promised, he eased the aches of her body, from the delicate hollow of her neck to the pulsing, hot slit between her legs. Every caress, every kiss soothed her and drove her toward an unknown destination. She tried to reciprocate, to give him the same pleasure, but he turned her away with a gentle murmur. “Next time.”
Changing position, he sat back on his heels. “Hold on to the bedpost, love.”
She glanced over her shoulder to find the tall, stout oak column. After grasping it, she sent him a quizzical look.
“Just for a moment.” With that, he rolled onto his back, slipped free of his buckskin breeches, and returned to his former position. “Now, we are evenly matched.” He held out his hand. “Come to me.”
His appendage no longer needed encouragement. Long and thick, his staff jutted out from a nest of curly hair similar to hers. But all resemblance stopped there. Taking his hand, she allowed him to guide her forward. Instinct took over, and she positioned her knees to the outside of his thighs, effectively straddling his lap. With his hands clamped around her waist, he eased her down, watching her face—she assumed—for any signs of discomfort. Then she was seated on his lap, with her legs angled protectively around his hips.
Wrapping his arms about her waist, he drew her into his body. The heat of his flesh pressing against her tender breasts felt incredibly decadent and his hard length against her wet heat drove her mad with wanting. To take her mind off the area between her legs, she threw all her passions into her kiss. It was then she realized there was one ache he’d missed, an ache so deep and so demanding that she worried he would not be able to give her relief.
She had miscalculated. Rather than assuage her craving, their kiss magnified her need. Before she knew what she was doing, she stroked her damp cleft sinuously along his erection, the action both bliss and torture. Ethan must have felt the same, for he groaned deep in his throat and met her demand with one of his own.
A Lady's Secret Weapon Page 27
