They were taking the long road; there had to be more steps before they approached the ultimate intimacy. She’d done her homework as well as she could, yet although she’d found two texts purporting to describe the physical aspects of intimacy as indulged in by blue-blooded rakes, said texts were so riddled with euphemisms she’d ended more confused than instructed.
The manuals had, however, demonstrated that the spectrum of activity was wide, that if an experienced gentleman were so inclined, there were indeed a large number of steps between a first kiss and consummation.
From what she’d understood, his attentions to her breasts, even his stroking of her curls, were relatively early in the sequence. Tonight, he wished to take one step further; she wanted to know what that step was. With luck, it would allow her to gauge just how far along their long road they were and how fast they were progressing.
How much more time in his arms she had.
That knowledge—that her time with him was limited— dragged at her mind; he seemed to sense it. He lifted his head. Close, their breaths mingling in the darkness, from beneath his heavy lids, he caught her gaze. After a moment, he murmured, “You’re not frightened, are you?”
She thought, then shook her head. “No.” She hesitated, then boldly raised her hand, traced a fingertip down his lean cheek. “Just… unsure.” As far as she could, she’d be honest with him.
His lips curved, but didn’t soften. The lines of his face seemed harsher, harder. Swiftly turning his head, he trapped her fingertip between his teeth. Bit gently. Then he drew it into his mouth, sucked… she blinked, then shuddered lightly.
He released her finger. His grin was so fleeting she nearly missed it. His arms tightened; he drew her back down, bent over her, paused to whisper in his dark sorceror’s voice, “Slow. As you wish. All you deserve.”
Then he kissed her.
Tony pressed deep, let the kiss, not just a meeting of lips but a melding of mouths, sink into realms they’d not previously explored. Let the drugging, absorbing effect take full hold… until they were captive, both trapped, held but not tightly within the web of their mutual desire. A desire that glowed, warm, alive, real, not yet red hot but a thing of flame.
She was with him, as committed as he to their road; he read it in her lips, through the way she met each increasingly explicit exchange, in the way her body, lithe and supple, lay lightly tensed, poised and willing in his arms.
Regardless, he held back, held his own desires in a grip of iron and focused solely on hers. On awakening them, coaxing them, stirring them—step by step, as he’d promised—into full-blown life.
She hadn’t been down this road before; to one of his experience that was clear. Her husband…was dead, of no importance now. He set himself to search out and eradicate any lingering difficulties, any unnecessary hesitations. Any instinctive drawing back. He was committed to teaching her what could be—what should be and would be between them. All the glory he was capable of summoning and laying at her feet.
Her chemise had no straps; a drawstring secured it above her breasts. He caressed, taunted, teased her breasts through the fine layer of silk, then tweaked the tie undone and slipped his hand beneath.
Closed it about one firm mound, and felt something in her, and in him, ease in sensual relief. He drew back from the kiss, lifted his head to look down as he played. As he filled his senses and hers with simple delight, with uncomplicated pleasure.
She—they—had been this far before; despite her harried breathing, despite her racing pulse, she didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. He could feel her gaze on his face, watching him savor her, watching him fall more deeply under her spell.
He glanced at her, caught the gleam of her eyes from under her weighted lids. His answering smile was tight, dangerous. Shifting his hold, he lifted her, raising her breasts, her spine bowing over his arm as he bent his head to do homage.
In that, he held nothing back. Deliberately sent fire racing through her veins, set desire chasing hard on its heels. Her fingers found his hair, tangled, clung, then clenched as he feasted. He took all he wished, all she wordlessly offered, gave her in return all the delight, all the tight, thrilling, illicitly intense pleasure his expertise could evoke.
Alicia gasped. Her body seemed no longer hers. He suckled more deeply. Taut in his arms, a soft moan escaped her, then the suction eased, and fire flared anew; hot and scalding, it raced through her to flow into the furnace building deep within her.
Her breasts were on fire, but it was the increasingly insistent, increasingly powerful demands of her body that gripped her, shook her. Unknown, as-yet-incomprehensible demands that threatened to overwhelm her, to sweep aside what wits she’d managed to cling to. She struggled against the tide; she wanted to know more, to learn what this and their next step would be. They’d gone no further than before—yet. He hadn’t even touched her curls—yet.
This time, she knew, and waited—for that knowing touch, that oh-so-illicit caress. Her whole body was taut, quivering in anticipation. Of that, of what would follow the delight, the almost excruciating pleasure he, with clear intent, lavished upon her.
His mouth was scalding as he tasted her sensitized skin. Her nipples ached with a deep-seated pain that was intensely sweet. Then he placed his hand, large and heavy, over her waist; through the silk, she felt its heat and hardness, felt her muscles leap.
He raised his head. Looked down at her breasts. Even in the dimness, she could see the possessiveness limning his features.
His gaze rose. Black, hot, it searched her face, read her features, then his eyes returned to hers. He held her gaze, held her awareness.
His hand drifted lower.
The silk softly shushed, the last barrier between his hand and her flesh. Flesh that now pulsed hotly, nerves that slowly, slowly tightened with expectation.
Almost negligently, he caressed her stomach, then his hand drifted to the curve of her hip, then followed the line of one thigh.
Tony watched her, watched her senses follow his hand, his fingers. He did nothing to break the spell, held aside his own clamorous instincts and forced himself to keep to the same slow steady pace that had, from the moment they’d entered the room, contributed to the magic.
Orchestrated it, built it.
He needed that magic. He didn’t just want to introduce her to passion, to take her and make her his. He wanted— needed—to expand her horizons, to bring her to know, to experience, and ultimately to want to explore the outer reaches of desire with him. To achieve that he needed to show her, to make her see and appreciate that there was a great deal more beyond the simple act.
So he held back his frustration, without compunction sacrified it to their greater good, closed his mind against the drumming insistence of even deeper instincts, those that had reacted to the thought of other men—other rakes—coveting her as he did, those instincts that still, beneath all else, prowled, prodded to possessive life by the nebulous threat of her involvement with Ruskin.
He pushed them all aside, and concentrated on her. On the tale told by her rapid breathing, the way her nerves leapt as he stroked down her thigh. The armchair was commodious; her legs were a heated weight across his lap. Against one firm thigh, he was hard as rock, rigid and aching, but relief was not in the cards, not tonight. He’d survive, but he was determined in recompense to advance their one small step.
Still holding her gaze, he closed his fingers about one knee and lifted it, shifted it, parting her thighs. She permitted it, but tensed; her breathing tightened. Intent, he kept her with him and stroked his fingers, his palm, up the sensitive inner face of her thigh.
All the way to where her tight curls brushed his fingertips. He smoothed them aside, in the same movement boldly cupped her. Set his hand to her softness and covered it. Claimed it.
She caught her breath, stopped breathing entirely. His gaze locked with hers, he held still, then, adhering to that same slow steady beat, he eased his palm back, and wi
th his thumb and one finger began to explore her.
Alicia quivered, and followed his every move. She couldn’t do otherwise; he had her locked to him in some heightened state where she was shockingly aware of their flagrantly sexual play, where they were in some way connected so she both felt the sensations of his touch and simultaneously experienced something of his reaction.
Of what he felt as he learned her, caressed and boldly explored the soft, swollen folds between her thighs. She’d never known that part of her body to feel so hot, so wet, so achingly wanting. Pulsing, almost throbbing; her hips stirred, of their own volition lifted to his caress as if seeking more.
A glimmer of satisfaction flashed across his hard face. That he understood her body better than she did she didn’t doubt; his caresses changed, became subtly more deliberate, more potent.
More satisfying to both of them.
He was showing her, teaching her. She remembered his words as his thumb swirled knowingly about the tight pearl of sensation he’d found, that exquisitively sensitive spot that seemed pleasurably connected to every nerve she possessed. He swirled again and her whole body reacted; she arched lightly, heard herself gasp, let her lids fall.
“Stay with me.”
The deep words were an outright command. She forced her lids up, met his gaze. Tried to read it and failed. “Why?”
To her surprise, the single word was all sultry temptation. Not like her at all, or so she had thought, yet it was. Emboldened, she shifted her hands, until then slack on his shoulders, let her fingers stroke his nape.
In response, his fingers stroked, but more slowly, as if savoring the wetness they’d drawn forth.
“Because I want you to know this, and I want to know you—all of you. All that you feel, all that you enjoy.”
On the words, as if to demonstrate, his wicked fingers shifted, parting her folds, this time gently probing.
The action captured her attention. Completely. She moistened her lips; her gaze once again locked with his, she felt him ease one blunt fingertip between the slick folds.
Her body reacted, flushed, heated. She dragged in a tight breath. “One step.”
He held her gaze, his eyes black, intent. “Just one step.”
Slowly, he slid his finger into her.
Into the heated softness of her body, into the scalding furnace of her desire. Mentally gritting his teeth, Tony held tight to his reins and watched her outward attention splinter. Watched her focus inward, on the steady penetration of his finger into her tight sheath.
Her breathing was labored; she struggled to do as he’d asked and cling to the contact, to keep her eyes open, locked albeit unseeing on his.
Still keeping to their slow, steady rhythm, he reached as far as he could, gently pressed, then equally slowly reversed, until his fingertip reached the tight constriction that guarded her entrance. Then he reversed direction, deliberately pressing in, stroking the soft tissues, teasing the nerves and muscles beneath.
She lay in his arms, not passive but accepting, following, letting him learn her body even more intimately. Aware, as her widening eyes testified, of the building beat in her own body, of the heat, the burgeoning need.
Relentlessly, he built the rhythm until, with a small cry, she lifted against his hand. He pressed deeper, faster, clung to their visual contact as she climbed the peak, as her nails sank into his shoulders, her body bowing as the tension tightened. Heightened.
Then broke.
She came apart in his arms. The shocked awareness on her face, the stunned expression that was washed away as rapture took her, was a revelation—she’d never known the pleasure before.
As her lids drifted down, fierce satisfaction broke over him. His innate possessiveness roared, pleased beyond measure that it had been he who had brought her her first taste of sexual bliss.
He kept his hand between her thighs, one finger buried deep within her, savoring her contractions, the telltale ripples as her muscles relaxed into satiation. All her tension melted; as it did, he slid another finger in alongside the first, gently worked both deep. Stroked as she floated; she was so tight… Alfred Carrington had clearly been inadequate in more ways than one. When their time finally came, she’d need help stretching to accommodate him. Perhaps it was as well their time was not yet. Would likely be some while yet.
Eventually withdrawing his fingers from her softness, smoothing her chemise down, he settled back in the chair. And tried to ignore the musky scent that teased his senses, compounded by the warm weight of well-pleasured woman in his arms. Not an easy task.
Only one topic held the power to distract him; he turned his mind to scripting their next step.
Alicia reached home in the small hours, her wits in disarray. Her body…felt glorious. The former was a direct consequence of the latter.
She now understood something she never had before—why ladies allowed themselves to be seduced. If that evening’s sample of what a noble lover could produce was in any way indicative, it was a wonder any lady remained a virgin by choice.
A gloating whisper in her brain suggested only those ignorant of the possibilities did.
Leaving her cloak in Jenkins’s arms, leaving him and Maggs to lock up the house, she headed for the stairs.
Adriana joined her, glanced at her face. “What’s wrong?”
Alicia looked briefly her way. Wondered that her experience hadn’t left some tangible evidence in her face. She felt different from her head to her toes, yet no one in the ballroom, whence they’d eventually returned, had seemed to notice. Apparently not even her perceptive sister could see the change in her. “Nothing.”
Looking forward, she remembered the two texts on lovemaking she’d consulted. Remembered their shortcomings. “I wonder if there are advanced manuals?”
She’d mumbled—grumbled—the comment aloud. Adriana, passing on her way to her bedchamber, cast her a puzzled look. “What was that?”
She tightened her lips. “Never mind.”
Opening the door to her bedchamber, the one nearest the stairhead, she nodded a good night to Adriana and went in.
Closing the door, she stood for a moment staring into space, then she moved into the room, dropping her reticule on the dressing table, quickly unpinning her hair. She undressed and donned her nightgown—then couldn’t remember doing it. Finding herself ready for bed, standing beside the bed, she climbed in and lay down. Drew the sheet and coverlet over her.
Lay flat on her back and stared at the canopy.
Every nerve she possessed was still humming; warm pleasure still coursed her veins. Yet there was an expectation, an underlying anticipation that the evening’s small step had done nothing to assuage.
Instead, that nebulous but definite anticipation had grown.
She didn’t truly know what it was, could only guess for she’d never felt it before. But then she’d never indulged as she had that evening, never let any man touch her intimately at all, let alone as he had.
And now …having learned what she’d wanted to know, she found herself facing an even bigger unknown. An even more frightening unknown.
Knowledge, it seemed, was a two-edged sword.
By the next morning, she’d talked herself around. Her analysis of her situation, her decision on her best way forward, had been right; there was nothing in the events of the past evening sufficient to deflect her from her path.
It would, however, clearly behoove her to make a serious effort to push Torrington’s investigation along. The investigation provided his major excuse to spend time in her company, seducing her, being kind to her brothers, helping her with Adriana…
Pushing aside such thoughts, she rose from the breakfast table and went in search of the lists she’d made.
Tony sat comfortably slumped in a leather armchair in the library of Hendon House. Idly swirling a glass of brandy, he recited the story of Ruskin’s death, the subsequent revelations, and the ongoing investigation to Jack—otherwise Jonathon,
Lord Hendon—who was similiarly comfortable in another chair, and his strikingly beautiful wife Kit, presently perched at Jack’s elbow.
“So,” he concluded, “Ruskin’s been selling information on ships and dates to someone, who presumably used the information for their own gain—they certainly paid Ruskin well for it. However, we have no idea of the precise nature of the information Ruskin passed, so we don’t know how it might have been used—”
“And therefore can’t trace said user of same.” Jack met his gaze, his expression hard.
“That”—Tony saluted him with his glass—“sums it up nicely.”
Kit straightened. “Well, Jack will just have to help you learn what was important about those ships, but meanwhile, what about this widow? What was her name?”
Tony met Kit’s violet gaze. The first time he’d met her, he’d thought she was a boy—understandable given he was half-dead courtesy of a brig full of smugglers, and she’d been traipsing about in breeches at the time. Now her glorious red hair was longer, elegantly cut to frame her piquant face. Her figure, previously slender and slim, had filled out a trifle, but that only made it all the more womanly. Two children had done little to curb her fire; she was one of the most disconcertingly active women Tony knew.
He was supremely thankful she was Jack’s wife. “The widow isn’t involved, other than by the unfortunate act of stumbling on Ruskin’s body.”
Kit frowned. “Why, then, are you being so careful not to use her name? You’ve mentioned her at least six times, but always as ‘the widow.’”
Jack had turned to study his wife; now he turned, and studied Tony. “She’s right. What going on with this widow?”
“Nothing.” Tony sat forward, then froze. To Jack and Kit, who knew him well, both his tone and that movement had betrayed him. “Oh, all right.” He slumped back. “The widow is Mrs. Alicia Carrington, and she is, as you’ve guessed, of more than passable charms, and…”
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