Tony returned to Upper Brook Street and spent the next few hours attending to numerous matters of business. Under his father’s hand, the Blake estates had grown considerably; he was determined that during his tenure, the family’s fortunes would continue to expand.
The activity naturally brought to mind the family—the people—that fortune was intended to support. When the clock struck two, he set aside his papers and strolled around to Green Park.
David, Harry, and Matthew were delighted to see him. Alicia was rather more circumspect; she greeted him with a polite smile and suspicious eyes. The wind was brisk, perfect for kites; together with the boys, he spent a thoroughly satisfactory hour making theirs soar higher than anyone else’s.
“It’ll get trapped in the trees,” Alicia grimly prophesied.
“Nonsense.” Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. Fought down the urge to see how she would respond if he kissed her there, in the middle of the park with all the nursemaids and Maggs looking on. He forced himself to turn and look at the boys. All three were hanging on to the kite strings, shrieking and whooping as the kite, courtesy of his maneuvering now high above the treetops, swooped and tugged in the wind. “I assure you I manage the reins better than that.”
An instant’s pause ensued, then she replied, “You might. They won’t.”
She was right, but before the kite could come to grief in the leafless branches, he stepped in and took control again, and gradually brought the flapping creation with its long tail safely back to earth.
The boys were ecstatic, their eyes shining, cheeks rosy, glowing with happiness. Walking to join the group, Alicia studied the man about whom her brothers danced; no matter her suspicions, she could not doubt that he, too, had enjoyed the play. His black eyes gleamed as he shared the moment with her brothers; his lips were curved, the normally austere lines of his face relaxed.
As usual, he was dressed with consummate elegance in a perfectly cut dark blue coat over a white shirt, his long legs encased in tight buckskin breeches that disappeared into glossy black Hessians. The wind ruffled the black locks of his hair as he helped her brothers gather the long tail of the kite.
He was sophisticated, worldly, a gentleman of the ton, yet at moments like this she could almost believe she could see the boy he must have been, the boyishly open soul still lurking behind his adult glamor.
When she stopped beside the group, he looked up and grinned, still very much the boy. She smiled spontaneously in return. “Tea?”
The boys instantly raised a chorus of entreaty, but he didn’t take his gaze from her; his grin eased into a smile of quite devastating charm. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
With the boys about them and Maggs following with the kite in his arms, they headed back to Waverton Street.
Teatime was the usual relaxed and comfortable interlude. Maggs brought in the tray. The boys peppered Tony with questions on their latest interest—horses, curricles, and phaetons, and racing the same, while devouring their usual quota of crumpets and jam.
Alicia exchanged a smiling glance with Adriana and sat back, content to let Tony—Torrington!—manage as he would; although his knowledge of such male subjects was patently wide, she now trusted him to know what was appropriate to tell her brothers, and what was not.
It wasn’t them he was intent on seducing; he was more than wise enough to know he’d have more chance with her—
She broke off that thought and looked at Adriana. Busy as usual with sketches of gowns, hats, and accessories, her sister seemed quieter than usual. She seemed to be thinking, mulling—over what Alicia could easily guess.
She leaned closer; under cover of a rowdy conversation about swan-necked phaetons and their propensity to overturn, she murmured, “Mr. King sent a reply. He’ll gather his information and dine with us the day after tomorrow.”
Adriana looked up, held her gaze for a moment, then, lips firming, nodded. “Good.” After a moment, she added, “If there’s any difficulty…I need to know now.”
Alicia patted her hand, then drew back.
Although courtesy of her brothers’ eager opinions Tony hadn’t heard what was said, he noted the sisters’ exchange and made a mental note to ascertain just how serious Geoffrey was. The last thing he wanted was for Alicia to become anxious over her sister’s budding romance. He wanted her attention, as much of it as he could get, for himself.
Maggs reappeared to remove the tea tray, bending a glance on Tony that he read with ease: nothing to report. At Alicia’s command, the boys stood and took their leave, resigned to returning to their lessons. As they trooped to the door, Tony looked at Adriana.
She met his gaze, then fleetingly, conspiratorially smiled. Gathering her papers and sketchbook, she stood; directing an airy, “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” to Alicia, she followed her brothers out of the door, shutting it behind her.
The instant the door closed, Tony rose and sank onto the chaise where Adriana had been. Alongside Alicia.
She directed a wide-eyed look his way. “Ah—have you learned anything more about Ruskin, about what he was up to?”
Habit prompted him to answer with a simple “No,” and then distract her from the subject, but his decision not to conceal such matters from her weighed against such a tack. “Nothing specific—as I said, I’ve various inquiries under way.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out the originals of the lists he’d made of ships’ names, dates, and Ruskin’s payments. “This”—stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he settled back. Straightening the lists, he held them up before him—“are all we have to work with at present.”
She hesitated, but had to lean closer to look.
Her shoulder brushing his arm, Alicia read the entries; she was determined to keep their conversation focused on the safe and highly pertinent subject of his investigation. Relatively safe; clearly, he was not above using every opportunity that came his way to ruffle her senses, even this. His writing was neat, precise, but quite small; she had to press closer still to make out the dates—her senses flared with awareness, of him, of his strength, of the promise of sensual delight her wanton wits now associated with him.
She waved at the lists. “These dates. They seem to be related in some way—not exactly, but…”
He nodded. “We think—”
Without further prompting, he explained what the lists were, what he believed they meant. To her surprise, he even told her what his assumptions regarding the lists’ significance were, what he hoped to learn from the shipping companies, the ports, and the mariners, and how that might indicate further avenues to explore …it was intriguing.
She found herself enthused with a zeal to in some way assist in working out the puzzle of what Ruskin’s information was used for, and why. She’d intended to do something—pushing the investigation to a rapid conclusion would remove the most compelling excuse Torrington had to call on her, to be close to her.
About to ask how she could help, she stopped; why ask? Reaching for the lists, she drew them from his fingers. “May I make copies of these?”
His brows rose, but he nodded. “If you like.”
Tony watched as she stood and crossed to the escritoire standing against the wall between the windows. She sat, drew out a sheet of paper, then settled to copy his lists. A slanting beam of sunlight struck coppery red glints from her dark hair. In the evenings, she wore it coiled high; during the day, the heavy loops were neatly constrained at her nape, the dark silk lustrous against her pale skin.
A fleeting notion of releasing that restrained abundance, of spreading it in a sheening mahogany veil over her bare shoulders, a distracting screen about her charms, filled him. Caught him. Momentarily held him.
She glanced at him, alerted, suspicious, but not knowing why.
He frowned, surreptitiously shifted. “What do you intend to do with those?”
Laying aside her pen, she blotted the lists, then rose and turned to him. “I don’t know.
If I have them, then when I think of something…” She shrugged. His originals in her hand, she walked back to the chaise.
His frown wasn’t feigned. “If you do think of anything, or learn anything, promise me you’ll tell me immediately.”
Alicia halted before him, met his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “I promise.” What else was she to do with anything she learned?
She held out the lists. For one moment, his gaze didn’t leave her face, then it slowly lowered, eventually fastening on the sheets in her hand.
He reached out—reached farther than the sheets and grasped her wrist. Long fingers locking, he tugged.
Before she could catch her breath, she was on his lap, in his arms. In a flurry of skirt and petticoats, she tried to right herself, tried to push back.
She heard a deep chuckle, felt it reverberate through her palms, braced on his chest. “We have a few moments…” His tone was pure temptation.
Resist, resist, resist.
She drew breath, looked up. And his lips came down on hers.
He captured them, captured her mouth, bewitched her senses. She was kissing him back, flagrantly participating in the exchange before her wits caught up with her actions. He shifted; she felt him pluck his lists from her nerveless fingers, fold them, and tuck them into his pocket.
Then his arms rose and closed about her, his head angled, and he parted her lips wider, his tongue evocatively thrusting deep, then settling to a typical, devastatingly intimate game. Of exploration, of enticement.
Soon her mind was whirling, senses locked with his as together they fed their mutual hunger, created and assuaged a mutual desire. Fingers tangled in his hair, she clung, savored, appeased, and demanded.
How long they indulged in the heated sensations she had no idea, but her wits returned with a jolt when she felt his hands between them, opening the buttons down the front of her walking dress.
It took a huge effort but she broke from the kiss; he was distracted, so let her go. On a gasp, she looked down, then glanced wildly around. “Ah…”
“Don’t worry.” From under his heavy lids, his black eyes caught hers. He searched, read, then his lips twisted wryly. “Your brothers are safe upstairs, so is your sister. Jenkins is with your brothers, and the rest are in the kitchens. No one is going to come through the door, not in the next half hour.”
Half hour? What might he do in half an hour?
“That’s—” She had to stop and moisten her lips, had to whip her wits into order. She was supposed to resist, or at least… she looked down, saw his fingers dark against the skin he was swiftly uncovering, couldn’t quite suppress a tense, expectant shiver. “This is… really too… that is…”
Good Lord! Her words died along with her wits when he slipped a hand between the gaping halves of her bodice, with a flick of his fingers dispensed with her chemise, and boldly set his hand to her skin.
The touch was a sensual shock, not muted in the least by the fact she’d expected it, knew what his hand felt like there, cupping her breast, taking its weight, fingers gently kneading, then artfully teasing the already tightly ruched peak. Her lids drifted down, eyes closing as the sensations swept her—then she remembered and jerked her eyes open. Half-open. Enough to look into his face.
He was watching her. “Stop fighting it—just enjoy.”
His hand moved on her, her wits started to slide…
“No! That is…” She drew a determined breath, only to discover she couldn’t; her lungs had locked. Her nerves had tensed, not in rejection but in pleasured delight. The urge to press her breast into his warm hand was compelling, almost overwhelming. She held it at bay.
Fingers sinking into his shoulders, lids closing, she managed to shake her head. “I—you… this. We can’t—”
She broke off with a sound very close to a moan.
His hand shifted, fingers closing more definitely about the aching peak he’d so effectively tortured, with expert ministrations soothed the pain, but that somehow only escalated the ache.
“I told you not to worry.”
His words, deep and gravelly, reached through the fog of her whirling senses. “If you need to go slowly, we will. We have no need to rush.”
On the words, his hand left her, fingers trailing upward, then she felt him ease her gown over the peak of her left shoulder. Baring her breast. His hand returned to its seductive play; she knew he was watching as he caressed her swollen flesh. As he knowingly tightened every nerve she possessed.
“We can take the long road.” His voice had deepened, darkened, weaving a sorcerous spell. “And spend as much time as we wish enjoying every sight, every experience along the way.”
Her breasts ached; her whole body seemed to throb.
He leaned nearer; his lips brushed hers. “Is that what you want?”
She nodded. “Yes.” The word was a whisper between their lips.
“So be it,” he whispered back. Then sealed the pact with a kiss.
A kiss that ripped her wits away and sent them spinning. That sent heat and flame pouring through her, down every nerve, down every vein. His hand left her and he gathered her closer; holding her in one arm, he sent his hand exploring again.
Caressing her through her clothes. Not just her breasts, but everywhere. His hand traced her shoulders, her back, her spine, delineated the muscles on either side, then spanned the back of her waist. His palm, hot and hard, passed over her hip, then boldly caressed her bottom. He traced the globes, over and around, all the while holding her to their kiss, to the slow, steady dizzying rhythm of thrust and retreat he’d established.
Her senses spun as he cupped the back of her thigh, then moved down, found her knee, then swept upward. Inward.
She gasped, would have stiffened in his arms, but he didn’t allow it. His other hand shifted, gripping her bottom, holding her still. Then his questing hand splayed over her stomach; he pressed, kneaded, then held her tight, not just in his arms but sensually, too, as he reached lower, traced the tops of her thighs, then stroked, through the fine fabric of her walking dress gently probed the hollow between, caressed the soft curls beneath chemise and gown.
Teased her to life.
Until every nerve in her body was tingling, until heat pulsed just beneath her skin.
Eventually, gradually, he drew back. Eased her back.
Eventually he lifted his head, looked into her face, then brushed her lips once more with his. “If you want it slow, we’ll go slowly. Very, very slowly.”
From beneath her heavy lids, she caught the fire in his eyes.
The reassurance was what she’d wanted.
She wasn’t sure she’d survive.
EIGHT
AFTERNOON TEA IN WAVERTON STREET WAS A SOCIAL engagement Tony felt he could easily grow fond of. In contrast, balls, routs, and soirées held far less appeal; there he had to share Alicia’s attention with anyone else who thought to claim it.
However, she’d asked to go slowly, to rein in their progress, and if he was honest and viewed the whole dispassionately, there was much to be said in support of her request.
He was engaged in a serious and difficult investigation, one in which she was involved; it made sense to conclude the matter, to identify, locate, and nullify A. C. before addressing what lay between them. Before formally mentioning marriage and precipitating the associated hullabaloo.
She was right; they should take the long road. Entering Lady Cumberland’s ballroom, he tried to tell himself he accepted the decree.
He found Alicia in her usual position by the wall near Adriana’s circle. As more families returned to town, that circle grew; the quality of its members was also increasing. Adriana now had two earl’s sons dancing attendance, along with six of lesser standing, including Sir Freddie Caudel and Geoffrey, who looked somewhat tense.
Recognizing in his childhood friend some of the impatience he himself was feeling, Tony inwardly raised his brows. Luckily in his case, Alicia
seemed impervious to the frequent advances made by numerous gentlemen; she consistently dismissed them with an almost absentminded air. He was the only one she’d allowed to draw close, to impinge on her personal world. Unlike Geoffrey, he didn’t need to worry that some rake would appear and turn her head.
Reaching Alicia, all thoughts of Adriana and her swains disappeared; taking Alicia’s hand—the hand she now freely offered—he bowed, then placed her fingers on his sleeve, covering them with his.
She looked up at him, faintly arched a brow.
He simply smiled at her.
With a haughty look, she returned to her watching brief.
He studied her. Her gown of apricot silk, a warm and subtle shade, deepened the rich mahogany of her hair and made her creamy complexion glow. The gown hugged her curves, the silk flowing over her hips and down the long line of her legs. For the moment, he was content simply to stand and let his senses drink her in.
Two days had passed since he’d last had her to himself. He’d spent those days and the intervening evening pursuing a whisper Dalziel had heard of a possible link between Ruskin and someone in the War Office. Nothing, however, had come of it; while there might be someone in the War Office interested in things that were no business of theirs, there was no hint of a connection between Ruskin and anyone bar the mysterious A. C.
He’d caught up with Alicia at a ball yesterday evening; he’d had to content himself with a waltz before leaving to spend the rest of the night trawling through gentlemen’s clubs and exclusive hells.
Jack Warnefleet was busy, Gervase likewise in Devon, and Jack Hendon would arrive in town late tomorrow. Jack had conveyed his willingness to place his time and contacts at Tony’s disposal, an offer he intended to take up with all speed.
Tonight, however, the single question nagging him was: how slow was slow?
Cumberland House was a massive old mansion, one with numerous useful little rooms; he’d explored it years ago with some amorous young matron who had known more of its amenities than he. Such knowledge, however, was never wasted.
The musicians were resting; he wondered at his chances of convincing Alicia that Adriana would be perfectly safe for a time.
A Gentleman's Honor bc-2 Page 14
