He’d kept his voice low; she did the same. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving London?”
The prospect filled her with a curious disquiet. An odd, novel, uncomfortable feeling; she’d never relied on others before—she’d always been self-sufficient. Yet the thought of coping with the unfolding events stemming from Ruskin’s death by herself…
His arm around her tightened, drawing her attention and her gaze back to him.
“No—my contacts are primarily along the southeastern coast, from Southampton to Ramsgate, all within half a day from town. I can cover them in single-day journeys. Aside from all else, I need to be here to assess what the others discover, Jack Hendon from Lloyd’s and the shipping lines, and Gervase Tregarth in Devon.”
She nodded, aware of relief, but they were now too close, her bodice brushing his coat, her silk-sheathed thighs shushing against his…yet with the press of other couples about them, it was unlikely any would notice. And to the ton, she was still a widow after all.
Tony hesitated, debating, then murmured, “Incidentally, I’ve arranged for some men to keep a watch on your house. They’ll be in the street—you won’t know they’re there, but… just in case you have need, there’ll always be someone watching your front door.”
She stared up at him; he could see her thoughts whirling behind the green-gold of her eyes. First Maggs, now…“Why?”
He had his argument ready. “First the rumor, then the Watch. I want to make sure whoever A. C. is, he gets no chance to do anything more to implicate you. Or your family.”
He felt confident those last words would see her accept his arrangements without further question.
She frowned at him, but proved him right. “If you really think there’s a need…”
Whether there was or not, he would feel much happier knowing that when he journeyed out of the capital, more of his trusted minions had her and her brood under their eye. The three men he’d set to keep a constant watch on the Waverton Street house were one hundred percent reliable; nothing suspicious would escape them.
The music slowed, then ended; they whirled to a halt. Reluctantly releasing her, he tucked her hand in his arm and turned her away from Adriana’s court. “I’ll go down to Southampton tomorrow.”
Looking at him, she nodded, then cast a glance back up the room. “We should—”
“Behave as if we’re lovers.”
Her gaze snapped back to his face. “What?”
He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes at her; he opened them wide instead. “No one will find anything odd in that—it’s what they’re expecting.” Given he’d laid the appropriate groundwork over the past several weeks.
She frowned. “Yes, but—” Again she glanced back toward Adriana.
“Stop worrying about Adriana. Geoffrey’s beside her, and even if he’s distracted, there’s always Sir Freddie.” He paused. “Has he made an offer yet?”
“Sir Freddie? No, thank heavens.” She turned and settled to stroll by his side.
“Why so relieved? I thought you wanted Adriana to be able to choose among many?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I did. But as you very well know, she’s already made her choice, so Sir Freddie making an offer will simply be an unnecessary complication.”
He grinned, making a mental note to prod Geoffrey when next he had a chance. “Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t been inundated with offers.”
“I daresay I would have been if Adriana hadn’t hinted many of them away.” She shot him a severe glance.
“Strange to tell, she seems to feel that avoiding trying Geoffrey’s temper unnecessarily is a sound idea.”
He looked down at her—and hoped she read the message in his eyes; he concurred with her sister’s judgment and sincerely hoped she herself would exercise similar restraint.
The way she looked away, the hoity angle to which she elevated her nose, suggested she understood him well enough. Hiding an inward grimace at his own susceptibility, he steered her to where his godmother waited, surrounded by a number of her extremely interested friends.
Despite their interest and that shown by any number of the ton’s matrons in the relationship between them, the rest of the evening passed well enough. Through a combination of exemplary scouting and good management, he kept Alicia to himself throughout, avoiding the other gentlemen who, prowling through the crowd and attracted by the faintly exotic, definitely sensual picture she presented in her deep purple gown—something he fully intended to enjoy removing later—continually hove on her horizon.
They indulged in another waltz, after which she insisted on returning to check on Adriana and her court. Instead of permitting her to hang back as she usually did, he led her to join the circle of gentlemen and two other enterprising young ladies gathered about Adriana.
Alicia shot him a suspicious glance, which he met with a bland, wholly deceptive smile, but she consented to do as he wished. Thus protected from further incursions— the gentlemen who looked her way were not the sort to dance attendance among the younger crew—they saw out the end of the evening.
As soon as guests started to leave, Alicia turned to him; he got the impression she was tired, then recalled…hiding a smug smile, he gathered Adriana and Geoffrey; together with Sir Freddie, they joined the exodus. In the foyer downstairs, they parted. Sir Freddie bowed easily over Adriana’s hand, bowed courteously to Alicia, nodded to Tony, and lastly Geoffrey, then left. Geoffrey scowled after him, then turned to farewell Adriana and Alicia.
Tony exchanged a nod and a glance. Geoffrey returned both, an acknowledgment that Tony would see both ladies safe home.
When he accompanied them to their carriage, Alicia shot him a wary frown. He ignored it, handed first Adriana, then her up, and followed.
Adriana accepted his presence without the slightest question. Alicia glanced at him, then gave her attention to the facades they rolled past. He leaned back, content to feel her soft warmth beside him, perfectly aware of what was going through her mind.
When the carriage rocked to a halt in Waverton Street, he stepped down, and handed both sisters down. He shut the carriage door; the carriage lurched, then rumbled off. He turned to find Alicia standing on the pavement, eyeing him uncertainly. Suppressing a smile, he took her arm and guided her up the steps. Adriana had already knocked; Maggs opened the door, and she swept in. He steered Alicia in her wake.
“Good night.” Adriana headed for the stairs with barely a backward glance.
Maggs shot the bolts on the front door, then bowed to them both and took himself off.
Alicia watched him go and wished she knew what would happen next. She shouldn’t encourage any illicit interlude; she steeled herself to bid Tony good night. Determinedly ignoring the twitching of her senses, the skittering anticipation afflicting her nerves, she tensed to swing about—
His long fingers slid around her wrist. “Come into the drawing room.”
She turned, tried to read his face, but he was already moving, drawing her with him. He opened the door; leaving it ajar, he led her into the dimness beyond the shaft of light shed by the candle left burning in the hall.
Halting, he faced her, smoothly drew her into his arms—and kissed her.
Stormed her senses.
She was kissing him back, fully participating in an increasingly heated exchange before she caught her mental breath. Even when she did, it was impossible to draw back, to pull away from the engagement and the spiraling escalation of hunger and need it fueled.
Whose hunger, whose need, she couldn’t have said; they were both greedy, ravenous, both wanting.
Her hands were sunk in his hair, holding him to her as their tongues dueled, as their lips feasted. One of his hands had closed about her breast, kneading, leaving it swollen and aching; the other was wrapped about one globe of her bottom, crushing the silk as he held her to him.
He rocked against her, deliberately evocative; heat pulsed within her—she heard a soft moan.
Holding her tight, her body molded to his, he broke from the kiss, raised his head, but not far. With an effort she lifted her heavy lids, and found his black gaze on her eyes.
“There’s no reason to step back.”
She knew he didn’t mean from their kiss.
His gaze fell to her lips, then returned to her eyes.
“And don’t think to deny this.”
She couldn’t; given what was so manifestly flaring between them…he was right—there was no point.
He bent his head again. She was lifting her lips to meet his when she heard his soft murmur, “Or me.”
She set her hand to his cheek as he took her mouth again; he was all heat and fire, tempting and familiar. This, she accepted, was the way it would be; if he wanted her, she was willing.
A minute later, he broke from the kiss to murmur, his voice dark and gravelly, “Upstairs.”
He turned her. His hand remained on her bottom as he guided her into the hall, then up the stairs to her bedchamber; her skin didn’t cool in the least.
Then they were in her room, and he closed the door. She’d halted in the middle of the floor, the candle in her hand. The flame wavered, but was enough to shed a golden pool of light into the general gloom.
He glanced at her, then at her dressing table; he waved. “Put it down there.”
She moved to do so. Leaning over the stool, she set the candlestick down on the polished top, straightened—and saw in the mirror that he’d followed her.
His hands slid around her waist. He shifted her slightly so that she stood directly in front of the three-paneled mirror with its wide central panel flanked by two narrower wings. The rectangular stool stood before her knees. She glanced down at it, then looked up as his hands slid farther and gripped, anchoring her as he stepped closer, trapping her before him.
She caught her breath as, in the shadowy mirror, she watched his dark head bend beside hers; releasing her waist, one hand rose, gliding upward over the purple silk, now deep as the midnight sky, to close possessively over one breast. His other hand splayed down, covering her stomach, pressing in, gently kneading, pressing her hips back against his hard thighs.
Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder at his face; inches away, she saw his teeth gleam in a fleeting smile.
“Bear with me,” he murmured, then his lips touched the corner of hers, then cruised back along her jaw to trace her ear. “I want to see you naked.”
He whispered the words, dark and erotic, into her ear.
It took a moment before she realized what he meant— he wanted to see her naked in the mirror.
Her nerves seized; before she could think of any protest—even decide if she wished to protest—he nudged her head back. She complied without thought; his lips traced downward along the column of her throat, then fastened over the spot where her pulse leapt.
His lips moved on her skin; his hands moved over her silk-clad body, roaming, caressing, then his fingers found her laces.
She closed her eyes, leaned back against him as he loosened her gown, then his hands rose to her shoulders and pressed the soft fabric down.
“Lift your arms.”
Opening her eyes just enough to see beneath her lashes, she watched her reflection in the mirror as she obeyed, sliding her arms free of the tiny sleeves. His palms swept down, over her breasts; the gown slithered down to her waist. His hands followed, pressed the folds past her hips; with a soft swoosh, the dress pooled at her feet.
For an instant, he paused, surveying what he’d uncovered. She caught the gleam of his eyes from beneath his heavy lids, felt his gaze briefly roam. In the flickering candlelight her chemise was opaque, the shadowy valleys and contours it hid mysterious.
He looked down. His hands rose and gripped her waist. “Kneel on the stool.” He lifted her, and she did; with his knees he nudged her ankles wide and stepped between, so his chest was again a warm wall at her back, his erection a promise against the swell of her bottom.
The candlelight reached her, but didn’t light him well; he was a dark presence behind her, his tanned hands contrasting starkly against the whiteness of her skin, the ivory of her chemise. He was a phantom lover, come to claim her, to lavish pleasure on her and take his own.
Her breath caught. He looked up, in the mirror trapped her gaze—as his hands slipped beneath the front hem of her chemise. She steeled herself, anticipating his touch, the fiery delight of his hands on her flesh, skin to bare skin. Instead, he turned his hands, caught the fine fabric and lifted it. Without touching her at all, he raised the diaphanous garment; lungs seizing, she lifted her arms and he drew it off over her head.
She put out a hand to steady herself as the cool air caressed her skin—the only firm purchase she could reach was his thigh behind her. Sinking her fingers into the hard muscle, giddy, she stared at the vision in the mirror—that of a slim, slender woman, her dark hair elegantly high, totally naked but for her silk stockings and the ruched satin garters that held them in place, circling her thighs.
Lifting her gaze to his face, she sensed rather than saw his satisfaction; it was a tangible thing, filling the air, surrounding her. She realized she still had on her ballroom slippers; even as the thought occurred, she saw him glance down, then his fingers caressed each ankle, and he slipped the shoes from her feet and let them fall.
He moved close again, and reached around to her garters. But instead of easing them down, as she’d expected, he ran his fingertips around the upper edge of each. And smiled. “They can stay. For now.”
The timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. It took effort to remain upright, yet pride dictated she keep her spine erect; she could feel the fabric of his coat and trousers gently abrading her bare skin.
His gaze had returned, slowly, to her face. He studied it, then shifted back a fraction, just enough to shrug off his coat. Seconds later, his waistcoat joined it on the floor.
He had to step back to deal with his cravat and shirt; she had to let go of him. She watched as he flung the shirt aside, then looked down, his hands going to his waist. His trousers hit the floor, and he stepped out of them, returning to her, his hands sliding over her hips, over her waist, drawing her back against him, against the heat of his skin, the rock-hard wall of his chest and abdomen, the hard columns of his thighs.
“Lean back. Let me love you.”
The words were an erotic whisper in the darkness.
“Let me see you. Watch you.”
She did as he asked, leaning back against him, eyes almost closed, committed to following his lead, only later, as his hands made free with her body, with her senses, fully understanding what he meant.
At first, his hands simply roved her body, a basic pleasure, heating her skin, teasing her senses to even greater awareness, evoking a deeper, persistent hunger. Flaring need grew as he weighed and caressed her breasts, taunting the tight, aching peaks, then tracing the lines of her body, sculpting the curves with his palms before gliding his fingertips down her thighs, then nudging her knees farther apart.
She watched, immersed in the sensations as he stroked the quivering inner faces of her thighs, then laid his hand over her stomach, the other sliding across her waist, holding her, surrounding her with his strength, giving her a moment to assimilate the heated, raspy reality of his skin, his muscled body pressed to her, locked about her.
In the mirror, she could see his shoulders above hers; his chest was wider than her back, his arms a cage in which she willingly waited.
He murmured something in French—she didn’t catch the words but let her head rest back against his shoulder, watching, watching as he shifted, then the hand at her stomach slid lower, long fingers gliding over, then through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. He reached farther; the breath strangled in her throat, her lungs seized. The vise about her chest locked tight as he stroked, caressed, then deliberately probed.
Farther, then yet farther, until his hand was pr
essed between her thighs, until her body was awash with flame. Her hands fastened on the arm locked about her waist, fingers sinking into the hard muscle as she watched him watching her—watched his hand, so much darker than her skin, rhythmically lavish fiery delight upon her senses.
She gasped, felt her body tighten, arching, reaching for the beckoning peak. He didn’t stop but steadily pushed her on, on, on—until she fractured.
Her soft cry hung in the air; he wrapped her in his arms, in his strength, held her safe as she slowly drifted back from the crest.
She turned her head, glanced at him. He met her gaze, but briefly. His lips curving in what wasn’t quite a smile, he glanced down at her body, soft, pliant, still locked against the hard aroused length of his. Then he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the point where her neck met her shoulder.
“First course.”
His tone made it clear he intended to feast.
Reaching out, he moved the single candle, still burning bright, across and back on the dressing table, positioning it near the central pane of the mirror, at the very center. Reaching farther, he tugged first one side panel, then the other forward, angling them so they reflected the candlelight back at them. At her—it was her smooth, white skin the light illuminated; in contrast, his darker, tanned, and haired limbs seemed to disperse the light. Yet she could now see him clearly. The new position of the side panels let her see beyond her shoulders.
His hands returned to her body; they circled her breasts, gently kneaded, then slid down, tracing her sides, then he gripped her hips. Bent his head and murmured, his breath a heated promise, “Lean forward—hold on to the edge of the dressing table.”
She did, and felt his hand caress the globes of her bottom. He traced the backs of her thighs, then reached between. Touched, stroked.
On a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes; she had only an instant’s warning—an inkling of what he would do—before he shifted, pressed close, and entered her.
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