by Thea Devine
And he might never have a good night's sleep again.
or
He slept, he didn't expect to fall asleep, and he was dreaming was it a dream? There was Wyland saying, find the
woman, but he'd found the woman. Didn't Wyland see that? Right here, next to him. The woman.
When had he gone to London anyway?
Wyland: No, the woman . ..
Oh, the woman. He remembered, circles, signs, signals, the party, the white rose . .. that woman. What was her name? Find her, bring her to Wyland—she could testify, and then it would be over; they'd bring Venable down—Wyland had distinctly said, that was the way ...
He jolted awake. Holy hellfire. He had almost let that slip by him.
Find the woman. He'd found her. Or she'd found him. The woman with the white leather rose. Irene.
And all he had to do was take her to Wyland and the whole Tony Venable thing would be over .. .
Simple. No complications. That was the way ...
Angilee had felt shunted off into the bedroom too soon and for specious reasons, but she'd fallen asleep so fast and so deeply that she could not be irritated at the fact she'd been that tired and they really all wanted her to get some sleep. Getting married was tiring, after all.
Married. It sat strangely in her mouth and on her tongue. For real. Forever. That was what Mrs. Geddes had counseled, and now she was, and to the only one of all them with whom she could reasonably foresee staying with for any length of time.
But every time she thought about what had happened at the garden party, she felt mortified at what she'd done. To have forced Kyger Galliard to acknowledge her as his wife. To have abandoned Mrs. Geddes to her father and Wroth like that. To have disregarded her every piece of advice, her every caution, her every admonition and to do it right in front of her—it was beyond bad manners, beyond impropriety.
She owed Mrs. Geddes so much, and she owed her an apology and something more, which would probably take monetary form in the end. But still and all...
And yet, she had what she most desired: the bull had agreed to become her husband, and her father could do nothing about it. Weigh that against anything she'd done to upset Mrs. Geddes, and she might owe Mrs. Geddes nothing.
Well, they'd go back to London in the morning, and she would straighten it all out. All of it. From that town house in Belgrave Square.
Really? Did she believe any of that was true?
She believed one thing only and that was her husband was deep asleep beside her, she had defeated her father, and victory was hers.
And her husband's. Irrespective of whether he had any personal fortune in diamonds, or that town house, it was nothing compared to the Rosslyn wealth, and she was her father's only heir.
Unless he'd turned everything over to Wroth in exchange for those introductions to men of influence and power.
Oh, God.
But if he had done that, why would he need or want to force her to marry the man? No, she didn't want to know the answers now. Or ever. Wroth would never be a factor in her life again.
She had what she wanted—the bull. And the rest she'd think about later.
But in the early hours of the morning, when everything was diffused with the soft early glow of rebirth, she felt him touch her, and she turned to him, and into his touch, and she was reborn.
At that hour, when time was suspended, the past was as if it never had been. His kiss was gentle, his touch like silk, sliding over her body with reverence and care, rediscovering all those hollows and valleys and mysterious places that made her who she was and who he wanted her to be.
It was such a tender exploration, she felt her bones melting and her body unfurling, opening wide to let him seek, explore, examine each and every crevice, her softness, her darkness, the unending elusiveness of her—all of that she gave into his hand, in trust and in marriage.
And he gave to her his body, his heat, his penetrating hardness that took her with a forcefulness that made her swoon. Here was the moment of truth and trust—this was what she never would have achieved with any other man, this communion, this coupling, this joining into one.
So slow, so sweet, so impossibly deep and filling, so gorgeously naked and raw, the way she cradled him between her legs, the way he fit her, the measured rocking of their bodies in sensual cadence.
The silence, the dark, the deep, the need, all of it played on her
senses, made her vulnerable and needy in ways she had never thought of herself. Made her sink into the billowing pleasure that mounded up between her legs, made her push for more and more of the feelings, the pleasure, the peak that she could only sense beyond the pleasure.
It was coming, coming, coming . .. she resisted it, she wanted to pull it out like a long, thick string of taffy—pull it, and stretch it and elongate it until she couldn't bear it anymore, until her body was tight with it, taut with it, explosive with it, to the point that one more thrust would detonate the blast.
It was there, oh, it was there—she spread herself wider, she hooked her legs over his thighs to pull him deeper, she lifted her hips in a primitive dance of enticement, and still, still it wasn't enough.
What was enough? There would never be enough. She didn't want it to end, this mindless, seamless burrowing into her body. She pressed him tighter, harder, reveling in the rigid voluptuous feel of his penis driving between her legs.
It was torture, it was pleasure, it was unspeakably carnal, it was wholly and irrevocably theirs ... and she wanted it always, forever. She had committed to always and forever ...
She reached for it then, for the peak, for the crest, the hard rock ridge on which she could break her fall, and hot pinwheels of pleasure came whirling out of nowhere, dilating through her body wildly, recklessly down her body between her legs, lodging there, coalescing there, becoming the breaking point on which her orgasm spiked and exploded into a long, hard rhythmic culmination.
He let go a moment later, blasting into the backwash of her pleasure, his body primed, hot, volcanic in its eruption and in his ultimate claim on her.
And done. For now.
Forever.,.
And now he was content to just root in her, nestled between her legs, rocking against her, rubbing his pubic bone against hers, enjoying the rough feel of being mounted on her, enfolded by her, embedded in her . . .
This was enough. Just this, his elusive virgin finally pinned down, wedded, bedded and physically bound to him.
Tomorrow would be the beginning of the end. He would head for London. He'd find Irene, he'd take her to Wyland, they'd take down Tony Venable, and he would have fulfilled his mission. And then he'd deal with Angilee's father, and the insidious Wroth, too, and get them out of her life forever.
So many forevers when time was so short and there seemed as if there could never be enough of it.
But he could wait for that. Time was at a premium right this minute. He'd been so haunted by Tony Venable's sins, and he still had things he must do to end that fully and finally. All of that would take time, and he had so very little of it to squander.
He had what was left of tonight, and he needed to use this precious time to not think about Tony Venable or his brother's shocking announcement.
Right at this minute, the night seemed to stretch into a timeless void. Tonight all things were possible, and nothing was exempt from consideration.
Not even a future with Angilee.
Tonight, he had the advantage: he had her sinuous edible body tucked tightly beneath him, and he never had to leave her. He could just wedge himself there forever. Push at her gently, thrusting lightly, tightly, sensually. Keep her ripe, wet, hot, wanting.
Simple. All he needed was time.
He moved in her, feeling the urgency to fuck her building in him again, because time really was fleeting. He felt her body give as he pushed against her, felt her soften, widen, brace herself for his first forceful thrust.
Felt himself go wild as
he propelled himself into her like a piston, as he felt himself just lose control, of his penis, of his body, of himself, of the moment. There was nothing else, just her heat, his hardness and the galvanic and elemental drive to own her body.
She held him at bay, undulating to entice him still further in her own primitive dance of invitation, pulling him deeper and harder into her body, taking him to the hilt and pushing for more.
He gave her more, pounding into her in a long, hard steady rhythm that made him crazy with wanting to come—but he held
on and held off, playing with her, tormenting her, fucking her until she could take it no more.
Her body seized at the last culminating thrust; her body melted all over his engorged penis, bucking and writhing and taking it, taking it, taking it until he burst wide apart and spewed a flood of his hot fertile seed deep into her shuddering core.
And he couldn't stop. He pushed to stay, wanting to wallow in the feeling of his thick hot semen engulfing her, and to submerge his still engorged penis inside her soaked hole. He wanted to fuck her all over again and drown her in his seed. He wanted her naked the whole night in his arms, he wanted her naked forever. He wanted—
He wanted morning not to come, and morning came too soon.
He made her stay in bed as he rummaged in his closet for some old clothes, packed the wrinkled clothes he'd gotten married in and readied himself for the long ride back to London.
And it was as if the night had never been.
"But I'm coming," Angilee protested.
"No, I think you're not. I have some things to do that it would be better if I knew you were here, safe, with Lujan and Jancie."
"But..."
"We can take care of everything else later." That didn't much reassure him or her for that matter.
"That's what you always say," she muttered, knowing full well it was how she had always operated.
"I'll be back in a day or so. I have some things to take care of, and then I'll be back."
This sounded so suspiciously like what he had said to her after they'd escaped the Bullhead and returned to his paltry rooms in Cauldwell Gardens, that it gave her pause.
"Men always have things to take care of. I have things to take care of, too."
"Like confronting your father?"
Oh, she'd forgotten about that. Who cared about her father now?
"Like apologizing to Mrs. Geddes."
"Mrs. Geddes can wait."
She supposed Mrs. Geddes could, but—"Maybe you could—"
"No. No time for Mrs. Geddes,"
"A note to the agency, then."
"What agency?"
"The Streathem Agency, Miss Burnham. That's where I found her. Just say ... damn, I don't even know what I would say."
"You went off and eloped with a stranger against all best advice, and left your dragon in the lurch. It can wait, Angilee."
She took a deep breath. "I suppose it can."
"Isn't it enough you've—we've—sidetracked your father's plan to marry you to Wroth?"
It should have been enough. It was enough. After last night, it was more than enough.
"Yes," she said forlornly.
She was almost too. much to resist. Especially after last night. Kyger pulled his kit together roughly to mask his feelings.
God, it was damned hard to leave her. He had to leave her. He had to wind the thing up with Wyland. It would only take a day. Maybe two. Possibly three.
He didn't even know. He didn't want to leave.
He bent over their rumpled bed, and touched her chocolate hair, her ear, her face, cupped her raspberry-tipped breast. "Then just let me finish up my business in London, and we'll go on from there."
Business in London. Men always had business in London. Angilee would bet Lujan had the excuse of business in London, too. She'd have to ask Jancie.
And anyway, Kyger was adamant that he didn't want her to see him off. He'd be back before she knew it. She should stay in bed and rest, after last night. Like she was porcelain or something.
She was the least breakable person she knew.
She jumped out of bed—stopped . ..
No clothes. For God's sake ... no clothes. Nothing. Her wedding gown and underclothes in a heap on the floor. Nothing else.
That was her business in London. Damn it. The last thing she wanted was to borrow something from Jancie, but almost as if Jancie were aware of her distress, she knocked on the door softly and asked if Angilee was awake.
Angilee dove back into bed. "Come in."
And there was Jancie with a shirtwaist and skirt in hand. "I thought these might do temporarily. Men never think of these things."
"No, they only think about business in London," Angilee said tartly. "Does Lujan ever have business in London?"
Jancie thought a moment. "Now that you mention it, yes, he does. About once or twice a month, he goes off to London on some business or the other."
"I knew it," Angilee murmured.
Jancie was curious but didn't question that comment. "Someone will come help you wash and dress in a few minutes, and I'll send up some tea."
"Thank you," Angilee said.
"My pleasure,"
It seemed to be. In no time at all, little Mary with her efficient hands and her country brogue was entertaining Angilee as she helped her nip and tuck the clothes to fit her, and fixed her hair.
"There you go, miss. They're waiting for you down in the dining room."
Angilee made her way down to join Lujan and Angilee at yet another bountifully laid out breakfast. "This is too much. Surely you don't have this every day?"
"Do we?" Lujan looked at Jancie.
"Well, perhaps we don't eat quite this luxuriously day to day," Jancie said.
"There, you see—it's all for you, Angilee. And for my baby brother, if he had stayed. He does have a massive appetite in the morning. As you'll learn, I'm sure."
"He had business in London," Angilee said.
"Of course," Lujan agreed, grinning at her. "Men always have business in London."
Lujan completely understood. Angilee loved Kyger's brother even more just because he understood.
"Exactly," she said, helping herself to some toast and eggs while Jancie poured her tea. "Why don't women have business in London? / have business in London, but Kyger wouldn't let me come."
"Interesting you say that," Lujan murmured. "I happen to be going to London tomorrow—on business. I'd be happy to take
you in. I mean, Kyger gave no strict instructions that you should be immured here until he returns. If you'd like to spend the day, we could arrange to meet and come home late this afternoon."
Angilee blinked. "I would."
"Then it's done."
God, she loved Kyger's big brother. He completely understood.
Kyger had formulated a plan as he rode back to Town, the first objective of which was to find Irene, Which meant seeing if there were invitations to a party or dinner she might conceivably attend.
He came back by the London bridge and into tight mid-morning traffic as he made his way to the town house.
London looked strange in daylight. London looked . .. normal. Nothing preternatural. Everything calm, the atmosphere quiet, with the usual sounds and movements of the early day.
There was none of the sense he'd had of Tony Venable's death dominating things, although there were card pockets still pinned everywhere. Some were empty; some still had cards in them. He took one: love faith future return . .. The ghost of Tony Venable never gave up. But now the ghost would be trumped—by the reality of who he was and his secret pornographic life.
If he could find the mysterious and accommodating Irene. If he could offer her enough incentive to talk. But that would come later.
First to the town house, where Cryder was surprised to see him return, and sent the maids in a flurry to see to his room.
Kyger took his mail to the parlor and asked for sandwiches and tea while he se
ttled down to go through the invitations and see what was viable.
There were a half dozen visiting cards and three invitations. Dinner and cards. A small private party. And a reception tomorrow night for a minor visiting royal who was in Town for both the Season and the Queen's Diamond Jubilee at the end of June. The reception seemed the most likely. There would be a crush and a crowd, and everyone loved meeting a royal no matter how far down the line of succession he might be.
But—it would be a very formal event. So he had to lay out
that crushed and wrinkled suit to be cleaned and pressed. He needed to write out an acceptance for the reception, which he did right then, and that went on the hall table to have a footman deliver it.
And he decided over his sandwiches and tea not to report to Wyland just yet. It was a calculated decision. He wanted to have something concrete to tell him; he wanted that proof—he wanted to convince Irene, if he could find her tomorrow night, to talk to Wyland. To tell him why she had been at the garden party.
Jusr that. If he could do that, it would be over, they'd all be free, and he could think about some kind of future with Angilee. He liked the sound of that—a future. A wife. A home. Children? Something of his own.
Not quite yet. There were still things to do: visit that Streatham Agency that was so important to Angilee, see her father, get that proof of marriage business settled. Find Irene. Make one last trip to the Bullhead ...
What? Why was he even considering that? He wasn't. That would be suicidal. It was tantamount to putting himself right in the enemy's sights. And what could he possibly discover there that would prove anything?
He needed Irene. Or someone like Irene, now that he knew what to look for and what it meant. Someone who'd be willing to tell the truth about the significance of the white leather rose. Now that he knew the secret of the sevens. But don't forget—they know you know. Jesus. It was too easy to forget that, too. He'd been so immersed in getting Angilee out of harm's way, he wasn't thinking about them.
And they'd be watching him. Hackford had warned him. Wyland had cautioned him. He had known it from the moment he caught on at the garden party and the Haverdenes had tried to outmaneuver them.
