by Elisa Braden
He held his silence, though the rhythm of his breathing quickened a bit.
Her finger returned to stroking his pin. “During my season, I experimented. I let two separate gentlemen kiss me. My sisters had filled my head with nonsense, of course, so perhaps my expectations were too high, but even accounting for that, both occasions were … well, disappointing would be putting it mildly. The first gentleman was reported to be quite expert, but I found his efforts appallingly invasive. A bit like someone forcing a bite of food into your mouth. Firstly, that bite of food had best be ham, not some dry, stringy duck peppered with snuff. Secondly, I should prefer to wield my own fork, thank you.”
While she spoke, Holstoke had moved closer. Now, he leaned into her, his hands bracing on the desk beside her hips. She liked this position. It let her rest her forehead against the soft, fine wool of his lapel. She turned her head to keep her eyes on the emerald, her thumb stroking and stroking.
“I assumed I had simply selected the wrong gentleman. So I tried again with another. If anything, he was worse. I’ve had more pleasurable experiences being mauled by Lady Wallingham’s hound.”
“What is his name?” Holstoke said softly.
“Humphrey. He is a good dog. Quite lovable, really, if a bit exuberant.”
“Not the dog. The gentleman.”
“Oh. Preston. Mr. James Preston. Another expert.” She snorted.
“And the first gentleman?”
She sighed. “It’s of little consequence. He married one of Lord Aldridge’s daughters two years ago, and they are dreadfully happy.” She smoothed Holstoke’s cravat and studied his waistcoat, a fine silver brocade. “No, there is something wrong with me. For a time, I considered whether I suffered from an unnatural distaste for gentlemen of a certain stature. The ton is afflicted with vapidity, you know.” She paused, gathering her courage.
Holstoke was her husband. He should know the truth.
“The scandal,” she continued, “was another experiment.”
He stiffened against her, his shoulders going rigid, his voice going dark. “The footman?”
“I had formed a hypothesis. Is that not what a scientist does?”
He did not answer, holding very still.
“Well, I may not be a scientist, but I needed the answer, Holstoke. I needed to know for certain whether I was … indifferent.”
She closed her eyes, remembering that night. She’d worn a lovely white gown with puffed sleeves and an exquisite shawl of French lace. Her hair had been elaborately plaited and woven with pearls and orange blossoms.
She’d imbibed enough orgeat punch to tip the world sideways. Then, she’d permitted herself to flirt with the handsomest footman she’d ever seen—one she’d likely never see again. She’d paid a second footman for information, gladdened to discover the first footman was known for “dallying with his betters.” The ideal choice for an experimental assignation.
She’d lured him to Lord Reedham’s conservatory, a glass room turned blue by moonlight. Heavens, he’d been handsome. Tall and strong. Confident in his every movement. She’d invited him to kiss her, certain it would feel different.
It had not. Instead, it, too, had been an invasion, foreign and strange. The footman had touched her, grasped her, stroked her with effortless persuasion. He’d kissed her neck and her shoulders. His breath had been hot and damp. She recalled thinking it felt as though Humphrey were breathing upon her.
She’d wanted to enjoy his attentions. Wanted so badly to experience what her sisters had described. But she’d felt nothing. No tingles. No excitement. Only vague distaste and hollow despair.
“What was his name?”
Genie blinked. Her eyes widened. Drat. Drat, drat, drat. She had blurted out her entire pathetic tale to her new husband. Well, except how it all had ended. The end was the most pathetic part.
“His name? I—I don’t remember, really. Thomas, I think. Or Edward. I was a bit tipsy.”
Holstoke’s chest pumped deeper now with every breath.
She lifted her cheek away from his coat and glanced up, but angled above her as he was, she could not see much—only the lower part of his jaw. The muscles there were flickering.
“You mustn’t be cross, Holstoke. The scandal was my doing, not his. Had I imbibed less punch, perhaps I would not have chosen a room made of glass for our—”
“Based on three experiences, you have concluded that you are frigid.”
“Well, yes. Rather persuasive evidence, you must admit.”
His chest shuddered. He hung his head then shook it. The new position gave her a better view of his face. His eyes were closed, his features unsmiling and carefully still. He blew out a breath and opened those exceptional eyes. “Eugenia.”
She searched his face, tracing the lines of his mouth. Her heart gave a restless kick. “Yes?”
“I propose a fourth experiment.”
“I fail to see how this will help—”
“We are married now. It is worthwhile to try, wouldn’t you say?”
Her belly clenched as she gazed up at her new husband. A good man. An honorable man. And evidently, a man of stronger appetites than she’d suspected. Yes. For his sake, she would try. “So long as you are prepared for disappointment.”
“An experiment free of expectation is likewise free from disappointment,” he countered. “Its purpose is to answer a question. From there, we shall refine our conclusions with further experiments until we devise a sensible path forward.”
She narrowed her eyes upon him. This sounded like rubbish. But perhaps a man like Holstoke needed to verify things for himself.
“By the sound of it, these ‘experiments’ might go on for years,” she observed dryly.
A tiny tug at the corner of his lips caused a pang in her chest. “Let us begin with this one,” he murmured.
“Very well.” She closed her eyes and tilted her face up.
And waited.
Nothing.
Her eyes popped open. Holstoke gazed down at her. His face was unreadable, yet she sensed amusement.
“Holstoke?”
“You’ve already conducted your experiments, Eugenia. This is mine.”
“And I have agreed to participate.”
“So, you will do as I instruct?”
“I will do what is necessary.”
His nose flared as he breathed in. His exhale was scented with lemon and mint. “Here is how we’ll begin. I shall touch a part of you, and you tell me how it makes you feel. Are you ready?”
“Why do you always smell of lemons?”
A furrow formed between black brows.
“Lemons and mint,” she clarified.
“Does it displease you?”
“No. I quite like it.”
“Probably Melissa officinalis. Lemon balm. I take it in my tea.”
“Oh.”
“Stop avoiding the experiment, Eugenia.”
She sniffed. “Go on, then. Touch me.”
He did, but not where she’d expected. He touched her hair. Lightly. Softly. He smoothed his fingertips down from her center part over the curls near her ear. Then, he traced his thumb along the sensitive line where her hair met her nape.
When he stopped, she could scarcely breathe. Her skin was covered in gooseflesh.
“How did that feel? Be specific.”
“Sh-shivery. Little chills everywhere.”
This time, his mouth curled a bit. “Good. Let’s try another spot, hmm?”
His thumb moved down to stroke the side of her neck. Other men had kissed her there with scarcely any effect, so her expectations were dim. But Holstoke’s thumb had some sort of magic in it. The sensations spiraled outward in a burst. His touch was light, like a butterfly landing. Then it pulsed like wings.
Her breath caught. Her eyes slid closed. “What is … what is that thing you’re doing?”
“This?”
“Mmm.”
“Only touching you. How do you li
ke it?”
She swallowed. “Feels like a butterfly.”
A pause. “Is that good?”
She nodded, too breathless to form words.
He ran a knuckle along her collarbone. Magic followed in a glittering trail. With great effort, she opened her eyes. Wondered how it might be if she touched him similarly. At present, his neck was encased in a stock and cravat, but that shouldn’t take long to remedy. Her fingers clutched at his lapels.
“Tell me, Eugenia,” he said. “Are you warm yet?”
She paused. Until he’d asked, she would not have used such a description. There were too many chills to think of heat. But now that he mentioned it, she did feel warm. Hot, in fact. Her skin tingled and throbbed as though reaching for him.
“I—I am.” A groan escaped her throat. “Why is that?”
His hands fell to her waist. He flattened one palm over her belly, his fingers cupping the lower portion, pressuring just a bit. “And here?”
“M-melting. It feels—I ache there, Holstoke.” Eyes flying wide, she panted and searched his face.
He gave her nothing apart from his hands, keeping his gaze lowered upon her mouth.
“I think you should kiss me,” she suggested.
Faintly, he smiled.
“Really,” she insisted. “I don’t mind.”
“Let us try something first.”
Impatience tightened her grip upon his lapels. “I wish to feel your lips, Holstoke. Now.”
Pale green came up glowing yet dark. “You will.”
The melting worsened. Her muscles ached. She could not get enough air.
Then, he lowered his mouth to the place his thumb had stroked earlier. Softly, he hovered and breathed. Blew the gentlest stream of air upon her neck.
Without warning, her legs gave way. He caught her waist in his hands, holding her in place effortlessly. His lips touched her skin. A butterfly’s kiss. Scarcely there, yet so powerful, she could not bear the showering sparks. They traveled along her skin, spiraling out to her bosoms and down to where he’d pressed her belly. Then lower.
She gasped and gripped and groaned. “What in blazes, Holstoke? I … you must … do something.”
He did, but it only made matters worse. Those fine lips nibbled. Then suckled. Then moved to her shoulder, where he employed light strokes of his tongue. Finally, he moved his mouth to her ear, where warm breath whispered, “How do you feel, Eugenia?”
Yanking hard at his coat, she flattened her bosoms against his ribs. It only helped a little. “Afire. That’s how. I need you to do something.”
“What would you have me do?” he murmured, his voice raw in her ear.
In answer, she leaned back, reached down, grasped his hand, and laid it upon her breast. “Oh, heavens.” Her eyes drifted closed. “Yes. That’s better. Now, kiss me.”
His hand slid away, his palm caressing her nipple lightly before returning to her waist.
“No, Holstoke. Put it back. God, please.”
“There you go commandeering the experiment again. I shall give you your kiss, but only if you stay very still.”
It was then she realized she’d been writhing. Undulating against him in a bid to get relief. She looked up into his eyes. Heat deepened and burned.
She examined his lips, firm and defined. The feverish need to feel them against hers demanded she do whatever was necessary. Gripping his lapels, she forced her hips back against the desk, forced her body to remain motionless. She nodded.
He lowered his head. Breathed against her lips, the delicious scent of lemon and mint and … him. Something about him was intoxicating. He made her head spin.
Those wondrous lips brushed hers. Once again, his stroke was light as a butterfly. She chased it, wanting more of the sparks he seemed to possess in every inch of his skin. Good heavens, what a thought. She could touch him anywhere on his body and have this strange pleasure bloom wherever the point of contact happened to occur.
At the moment, it was occurring between their mouths. His opened over hers. She tensed, bracing for an invasion. But it did not come. Instead, he breathed into her. Caressed her lips with his. Squeezed her waist and grinned against her.
She frowned. Why was he not invading?
A flicker brushed her lower lip. Warm. Wet. Sleek and slow and furtive.
She … liked it. Seeking more, she stood on her toes and tilted her head to fit her mouth more fully against his.
He gave her what she asked, but his tongue was soft and elusive. She pursued it with her own, her heart pounding furiously as she tasted the inside of his mouth. Clean. Delicious. A feast she wanted to devour.
She moaned, enjoying the pleasurable hum. Suddenly, his hands moved to the sides of her neck, cupping and holding and gripping. Oh, yes. That was the way. Her hands clutched wool and pulled hard. Her breasts pressured and pleasured themselves against him. Her hips did a dance of their own.
Their mouths fused. She could not get enough. She would never get enough. Of his kiss. Of his touch. Of his tongue.
Holstoke. Oh, God. She needed more of him.
Her heart pounded—drum, drum, drum.
Drum, drum, drum.
He pulled that enchanting mouth away, his breath coming fast and hot against her tingling lips. He cupped her cheeks, stroked her brow with his thumb, then muttered, “Damn and blast.”
“Holstoke!” shouted Dunston through the library door. “For God’s sake, man. That can wait. This cannot.” Bang, bang, bang. “Open up!”
Disoriented, Genie blinked as Holstoke brushed his lips against hers one final time before withdrawing his wondrous touch. He turned stiffly, straightened and buttoned his coat, then stalked to the door, unlocking and yanking it wide.
“What the devil do you want?”
Dunston was not smiling, and he was not alone. Mr. Drayton stood by his side, equally grave. Behind them, Maureen had her arm around Hannah’s shoulders. Holstoke’s sister was even whiter than usual.
Drayton was the first to speak. “There’s been two more murders, m’lord. Lady Randall was found this mornin’. Two of her dogs were also killed. Appears she was feedin’ the animals from her own cup.”
Still reeling from the dizzying heat of Holstoke’s kiss and the shocking desolation of his sudden removal, she could only cover her mouth and brace herself against the desk behind her. She watched her husband’s shoulders stiffen.
“You said two murders,” he said, his voice low and surprisingly calm. “I trust you were not referring to the dogs.”
“No, m’lord. Sorry to say, it’s your housekeeper. Mrs. Varney.”
Faintly, she heard Maureen murmuring to Hannah. The girl’s lips were white. Genie noticed an unfamiliar maid with tears on her cheeks hovering in the background. One of the Holstoke House servants, no doubt, come to deliver the dreadful news.
Dunston peered past Holstoke and met Genie’s eyes. She’d seen her brother-in-law this grim only once before—when a wealthy young blood had decided to “have a go” at the Huxley Harlot. She’d been working late at Mrs. Pritchard’s shop. Dunston and Maureen, who had offered to drive her home on their way back from the theatre, were parked one street over, as Genie usually requested.
When she’d exited the shop, fussing with her reticule, the blackguard had been waiting for her. A short time later, just as the man shoved her against grimy bricks and grasped a handful of her skirts, Dunston and his daggers had arrived to deliver punishment with ruthless precision.
Genie had been grateful for Dunston’s darker nature that day. But, in truth, she’d hoped never to see it again, for it heralded danger to her or someone she loved.
“Henry,” she said now, her insides going cold. “Why is this poisoner circling Holstoke? And how—how has he managed to get so close?”
He pushed into the room, striding to her and warming her hands in his. “We don’t yet know, Brat.” It was his name for her, one adopted from Maureen and filled with brotherly affection. Hearing i
t made her want to hug him. “But we will. Do you hear? We will.”
She nodded and squeezed, her entire body beginning to tremble like jam.
From the doorway, her husband began to order things to his liking with a series of commands. His voice was low, but all the more resonant for it. “Claudette, return to Holstoke House and arrange for my and Miss Gray’s belongings to be loaded onto the travel coach. Inform the staff I shall arrive shortly.”
The maid curtsied and murmured, “Yes, m’lord,” before scurrying away.
“Mr. Drayton,” Holstoke continued crisply. “Summon Mr. Hawthorn. And reiterate my intent to assist in the investigation. Perhaps knowing I was in a church standing before a priest and a dozen witnesses when these crimes occurred will turn his attention in a more productive direction.” Finally, his eyes found Genie.
She lost a breath then regained it and blew it out. “Holstoke.”
His nose flared. His chin elevated as though he resented what he was about to say. “Pack your belongings, as well. We leave for Primvale this evening.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TEN
“I had my suspicions, you know. One does not discover vile things on one’s carpets without realizing something is amiss.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her butler upon learning of her housekeeper’s fondness for gin.
Crouching beside his deceased housekeeper, Phineas did the only thing a rational man could do with unfathomable blackness eating him from inside.
He ignored it.
What had begun as a coal had bloomed into something vast and volatile. Nothing would be solved by giving in. But, if he applied logic to more tangible problems—finding the devil who had murdered his housekeeper and three other women, for instance—perhaps that blackness would diminish of its own accord.
