“Explain.” As stiff as steel, his mouth barely moved. “And be quick about it, before I lose my patience.”
“Our fathers, and my uncle Edward as well, served in the wars together,” she said. “Our parents remained close friends afterward. Even after their deaths, Victoria’s mother continued to bring the princess to visit us at my uncle’s estate. Until she became heir apparent, that is.”
Yearning, sharp and raw, came over her as she recalled those untroubled times and how abruptly they had ended. “We did not see Victoria again until about six months ago. She needed us then, just as she needs me now. You see, we are her secret servants.”
“Secret ...” Lord Harrow’s jaw squared. “What kind of claptrap is this? I’ve every mind to—”
“You swore. You can’t go back on your word now.”
His eyes blazed across the dim shadows. “You are in no position—”
Ivy surged to her feet. “I am indeed, Lord Harrow. And that position is backed by the queen’s authority. Yes, I came here under false pretenses. Yes, I poked through your belongings behind your back.”
Hands fisted at her hips, she shook away the curl that fell into her eye. “I did so at first under orders from the queen. But I did so also because I believe in your innocence, and I wished not only to prove that you do not have Victoria’s stone, but to clear you of all complicity in the matter. Now, if you find you cannot return my faith with a little trust, then please do summon the local magistrate.”
With that, she closed her mouth and compressed her lips.
The silence stretched into an eternal, excruciating moment during which her bravado drained away by the bucketful and her knees all but knocked together. Would he summon the magistrate? Oh, she had no wish to spend the next several nights in a cold jail cell, until word could be sent to her sisters and the queen.
Why didn’t he say something? Just when she could bear it no longer, he folded his arms across his chest. “What’s this about a stone?”
Ivy collapsed back onto the settee. “I didn’t mean to mention that quite yet.”
“Too late. Talk.”
Ivy muttered two quick prayers, one that she wasn’t making an irretrievable error in judgment, and two, that Victoria would forgive her for this breach in her promise. But with Lady Gwendolyn’s failure to turn up at Harrowood, matters had become a great deal more complicated than Victoria had anticipated.
Beginning with the night the queen had knocked at the door of the Knightsbridge Readers’ Emporium, Ivy told him everything. The stone, where it originated, what its discovery could mean to the queen. She considered leaving out the tale of Victoria and Albert’s illicit engagement, but how else to make him understand the urgency of recovering the stone?
When she concluded, he sat frowning and shaking his head. “I knew she was impetuous, but I can’t believe Gwendolyn would steal from the queen. The queen, for heaven’s sake.”
“You truly had no idea at all?” Ivy raised a skeptical, though also sympathetic, eyebrow. “No one would blame you for trying to protect her.”
“Someone shall have to protect her from me when I get my hands on her.”
Ivy believed the denial inherent in his words. She also believed his sister would come to no harm at his hands, that her disappearance concerned him far more than her actions angered him.
“So the queen believes my sister stole this stone as a peace offering to me?”
“Given the circumstances, it does seem a likely possibility. Perhaps she is waiting for an opportune moment to approach you.”
“Or perhaps she lost her nerve and changed her mind altogether. Damn it, Ned, you should not have waited so long to tell me the truth. Gwendolyn’s been missing more than a week now. God only knows how much more trouble she’s gotten herself into.”
Ivy dropped her gaze to the floor. “You are right, and I’m sorry. But please understand that I had to be certain of you before I revealed anything. Do you have any idea where your sister might be hiding?”
His mouth tightened as if at an unsavory flavor, and he swore under his breath. “I believe I may. At least, I believe I know who might be able to enlighten us. It could be that she never meant to give the stone to me at all.”
Heaving himself out of the chair, he went to the liquor cart beside the hearth and pulled the stopper from a decanter. When he returned, he handed a snifter to Ivy. He took a second one and settled back into his wing chair.
She sniffed the contents. The fumes scorched her nose, but she took a sip anyway. Though the liquid seared like fire on her tongue, she welcomed the smooth warmth that spread through her body.
“I must admit that I wouldn’t mind experimenting with this stone.” He swirled his brandy and stared at the dancing candle flame. “The possibilities . . .”
“If we recover it before any damage is done, Victoria might allow you to do so.”
“She really believes the incident could damage her position?”
“She is convinced of it.” Ivy shrugged a shoulder. “But perhaps that is something a man cannot understand.”
“I understand many things, Ned . . . Ivy. Sorry.” He ran a hand over his chin. “I understand that your remaining here will jeopardize your reputation and my credibility. Which is something neither of us can afford.”
“There is no danger if no one discovers the truth. I’ve done exceptionally well so far.”
“Have you?” His voice took on a distinct note of challenge. He got up from the chair and came to sit beside her on the settee. “You didn’t have me fooled for very long. All I had to do was look at you.” He trailed his fingertips across her cheek. “Truly look.”
At his touch, a quivery thread twined with the brandy’s heat to tug at her breasts, her womb. Instinct urged her to pull away; desire held her where she was. “They say people see what they wish to see.”
“Then perhaps I should close my eyes.” As he did so, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers, a gentle kiss that tasted of potent spirits and sweet demands. Her senses glided into a slow spin, and she closed her own eyes and let the kiss possess her until her mouth opened and her tongue boldly sought out his.
She spiraled in heat and longing and the delicious contrast between his firm body and softly commanding mouth. Then he eased away and cupped her face in his palm, compelling her to open her eyes. When she did, she met with stormy desire, drowning in waves of regret.
“You see, my Ned? We cannot pretend this won’t happen again. We cannot both be here.”
“Oh, but ...” Yes, yes, she did see. To deny that this passion growing between them blotted out logic would have been a lie.
She hadn’t come to Harrowood seeking passion, certainly not love, but in a few short days she had found both. Found it in his stern looks and his brilliant mind and his acceptance of her abilities, despite her being a woman.
She wanted neither love nor a husband, not even him. What she wanted was the freedom to pursue the interests she held dear. In this man, she had found, finally, a partner who shared her dreams and ambitions in ways no one, not even her sisters, could ever comprehend. To a woman, especially one of such obscure and humble origins as hers, that was as close to a miracle as could be imagined.
Yes, Victoria needed her to remain here and see her mission through. But for Ivy herself, it was simply too soon to relinquish that miracle. There were so many reasons for her to stay, and only one forcing her to leave—the fact of her womanhood.
Tears of frustration pushed against her throat, but she steeled herself to deliver an argument he could not refute. She wouldn’t bother explaining what her time at Harrowood had meant to her; she believed he understood that well enough, but that he judged the risks to far outweigh the benefits. So be it. Would he feel similarly inclined when it came to his sister?
With a quick clearing of her throat, she launched into the only battle she had a chance of winning. “You need me,” she said evenly, “to help you find your sister, and t
o intervene on her behalf with Victoria. Only I can do that, and I will, as long as we find the stone intact and no one has learned of its origins.”
She perceived her victory in the subtle narrowing of his eyes and the slight bob of his Adam’s apple. “You’ll do that for her?” he asked.
“I owe you that much.”
He held her gaze and nodded, though whether in a wordless pledge to allow her to stay in exchange for her help, Ivy couldn’t be certain. “Tomorrow, then, we’ll follow the one lead I believe I have concerning Gwendolyn’s whereabouts.”
She would have liked to have had more from him, a real pledge that until they found his sister, he wouldn’t send her away. But if she pushed him, would he banish her from the house that very night? Her fate uncertain, she came to her feet, only to sway on slightly wobbly legs.
Unused to spirits stronger than wine, she was tipsy from the brandy. She placed the glass on the mantel and made her way toward the door, mindful not to trip over Lord Harrow’s long legs as she passed him. “I’ll return to my room now.” Some demon that would not be subdued prompted her to ask, “Must I begin packing, or not?”
She was almost to the door when his answer reached her. “Do neither.”
His sultry tone sent a shiver through her and brought her to a halt. As she turned back to him, he stood and held out his hand.
“Stay, Ned. Stay here tonight.”
“Here?” She glanced about the room as if suddenly shocked to find herself there. “With you?”
“I am not suggesting any compromise of your conscience.”
Her mouth curved in a cynical pout; Simon laughed softly.
“Go if you don’t trust me. I merely thought ...” What? He had been trying to resist her ever since he first recognized the sway of her hips for what it was. He had failed wretchedly, and now found himself not only falling in love against his wishes and his better judgment but also lusting for an agent of the queen.
Treason? All the more reason for her to go. Except . . .
Going to her, he combed his fingers through her curls, liking the way they stood on end between his fingers before springing back into place. He liked, too, that even the shadows couldn’t conceal the high color that stained her cheeks, turning them nearly as rosy as her lips. Cupping his hand round the back of her head, he drew her to him and kissed her, long and luxuriously.
They both emerged bemused and breathless.
Her bosom rose and fell sharply. “You thought that, did you?”
“Yes. But only that. I swear.”
She said nothing, but the emotion melting in her dark eyes gave him all the permission he needed to swing her up into his arms. The act stabbed at his loins yet brought a grin to his face. “Have you any idea how odd it is to lift a woman and not feel the weight of trailing skirts?”
Her arms encircled his neck, and she met his smile with one of her own. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. All I want tonight, Ned, is to hold you.” His voice became husky. Silently, then, he completed the thought. To reach across the mattress and feel warmth again. To not be alone.
No, God help him, that wasn’t all he wanted, nowhere close. He might have taken any number of women into his bed in the months since Aurelia died, and any one of them would have served the superficial purpose of heating the mattress.
But this woman, Ned . . . Ivy . . . He didn’t care what he called her, but she alone seemed able to make him feel whole, healed. It had been so long since he felt that way, and it was too compelling a prospect to resist now.
For tonight, then, and only tonight. Tomorrow he would come to his senses and remember that one could not find completion in another human being. That was a fairy tale, an illusion that crumbled too easily beneath the vagaries of happenstance. Disease. Fire. A door inadvertently left open . . .
“Ah, Ned,” he whispered, and held her tighter.
“My name is Ivy,” she murmured against his neck.
Lord Harrow. Ivy dreamed of having his arms around her, of seeking the flame of his embrace willingly and eagerly; permitting it, as she knew she should not. Needing it, as she knew she must not.
His warm, broad hands ran her length from shoulder to thigh, tracing her shape beneath her clothing. However wrongly, she pressed herself more fully into his palms and exhaled her desire against his linen-clad chest. Gently he tugged her shirttails free, and she allowed the glide of his fingertips, her breath catching with delight with each hot shiver that rippled across her skin.
When he reached the bindings that flattened her breasts beneath her shirt, he hesitated, and she thought he would tug the ends free and unwind the strips. Instead he explored her breasts through the silk, discovering the hardening peaks of her nipples through the slippery barrier. His restraint made his touch all the more sweet and squeezed tears into her eyes.
Like a burning wind, over and over he spoke her name against her neck, then across her belly until it quivered. Not her true name but the one by which only he called her, like a secret code that freed her dreams and unlocked the yearnings of her heart. She yearned now as she wrapped herself around him, as she gave herself over to the pleasure of his hands and solid limbs and the wall of his heated, pulsing torso. With a hushed urgency that blended with the murmur of the winds riding over the house, he bade her to trust him and then breathed a question against her sensitized flesh.
Do you wish it, Ned? Shall I, Ned?
Her answers were Yes, and Yes, and Please, and then a wordless cry she could not contain.
A cry that echoed palpably in her ears. Her eyes flew open and the startling details of a room that was not hers filled her view . . . and a shocking realization lashed through her that those strong arms and seeking hands were not imagined, but firm and solid and still upon her, and the heights of pleasure to which he’d taken her had been no dream but provocative, torrid reality.
For Simon, the night became an excruciating test of both his fortitude and his honor, as he held Ned—Ivy—in his arms and gritted his teeth against the throb of an erection that could be allowed no release.
Each time he gained control over his rampaging lust, she would move in her sleep and unwittingly wiggle her sweet little bottom against his thighs, or she’d roll and sigh a caress across his cheek, one that bore the breathless syllables of his name.
No, not his name, his title. More than once, he’d have sworn she whispered an impassioned Lord Harrow and sir. Eventually his resistance had crumbled and he’d gathered her to him, claiming as much of her as he dared without claiming all.
It hadn’t helped that they’d slept in their clothes, each of them having removed only boots, waistcoat, and neckcloth. With that last he had helped her, standing temptingly close as he worked the knot free, his fingertips grazing her chin and throat, and she staring up into his face with those large, almond eyes full of questions and doubts that mirrored his own. The only difference was that beneath her uncertainties a light of trust blazed, a trust in which he himself dared put no faith.
Because even through their clothing, the heat of her body inflamed him, until he could not stop envisioning her naked breasts in a silver wash of moonlight. Until he ached to have those small, perfect orbs in his hands, the dusky nipples between his lips.
Why had he asked her to stay? Even as he had made the mad suggestion, he had predicted with stunning clarity the torment her presence in his bed would cause him. Had he wished to make himself suffer? Oh, suffer he did. With each whimper his wandering fingertips had coaxed from her lips, he suffered by not sharing in her ecstasy, by being left only to ponder what wonders her touch might have wrought on him.
Yet not once did he consider unwrapping his arms from around her and moving to the leather chaise at the foot of the bed. The thought of leaving her had been more torturous than nuzzling against her squirming form and filling his lungs with the scent of her lust. A perverse sort of challenge? If they could get through the night
without his ravishing her, then they could get through anything, including continuing her charade until they located his sister.
Ah, but he had ravished her . . . or very nearly. As near as he dared without treading into the territory of permanence. Because nothing—nothing—in this life could ever be trusted to be permanent.
The touch of dawn against the windows brought him as much relief as it did dismay. Relief because she would leave him now, hasten back to her own room. The servants must not find her here or what would they think? What tales would they spread about their master and his assistant?
Dismay, too, because along with the morning’s pallid chill came the reaffirmation of all he knew to be true and cruel about life, about his own existence, destined for precious little happiness. It simply wasn’t in his stars.
With his sweet assistant he might perhaps find temporary respite for his grief, but as soothing a salve as she might be, she could not heal his battered soul. Loss would always be there, lurking in the back of his mind, a pitiless reminder of what he had endured, and what he could endure again if he dropped his guard.
Drawing in her fragrance one last time, he slowly exhaled and released her, then smoothed his fingers across her cheek. “Ivy?”
She stirred and blinked. Her eyes fluttered open. At first she didn’t move, but lay gazing up at the ceiling, then the posts at the foot of the bed. With a gasp she bolted upright. “Where—?”
“You’re in my room.” He sat up beside her. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but I thought it best to wake you now.”
She glanced down at herself, then over at him. Her hand went to her shirt, still tied at the neckline but loose at the waist. With apprehension claiming her features, she peered beneath the bedclothes and released a breath of relief. Her trousers were still very much fastened. Simon hadn’t needed to bare her there to send her body soaring.
He couldn’t help a low chuckle. “Don’t worry. We didn’t. Just as I promised we wouldn’t.”
Outrageously Yours Page 14
