For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  Even through the fabric of her gown and his breeches she could feel his fierce heat and his bulging, powerful shaft as it pressed insistently against her lower belly. She shivered suddenly when he roughly grasped the skirts of her gown and plunged a questing hand underneath to find her buttocks, to fondle and caress the firm flesh.

  Progress toward the bed halted momentarily as he pulled her closer to him, making her even more aware of his arousal. Sophy was dizzy with desire, her breasts, her lower body, her entire being aching in anticipation of his possession.

  She moaned and wriggled with pleasure when his fingers traveled around to her stomach and then lower, to the juncture of her thighs. He stroked the soft, swollen flesh he found there. Now his tongue mimicked the motions of his fingers, and Sophy shuddered as the now-familiar demand, the sheer erotic hunger, flourished. Oh, mercy! She wanted him.

  Driven by the most elemental of emotions, Ives was oblivious to anything but the sweet, soft, yielding shape in his arms, and the clothes separating them became intolerable. Heedless of the damage he did, he single-mindedly disposed of every scrap of material preventing him from reaching the one thing he wanted, Sophy’s warm, naked body next to his. When the last shred of expensive garments had been mercilessly dispensed with, he gave a groan of pure sensual satisfaction as he crushed his yearning flesh against the welcoming softness of hers.

  Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her slender body pressed eagerly next to his, Sophy reveled in the touch of his hair-roughened chest against her tender nipples and the probing jut of his shaft between her legs. Their lips locked together, his tongue filled her mouth, his blunt motions stoking the fire which already raged between them.

  Half-cradling her, Ives parted her thighs and deliberately sank two fingers deep within her. She twisted wildly in his embrace, his invading fingers bringing her to the brink of ecstasy.

  Sophy’s response shattered the last hold Ives had on his emotions. With something between a growl and a groan, he lifted her and almost threw her on the bed. For a moment he stared with frank appreciation at the unknowingly wanton picture she made against the emerald-silk coverlet, her golden hair spread out in wild disarray, her pink nipples taut and tempting, her alabaster skin gleaming against the brilliant fabric.

  Her eyes slumbering with passion, their golden depths promising the most exquisite ecstasy, Sophy stared back at him, her breath deepening as her gaze drifted over his big body downward to the bold length of his shaft.

  “Come to me,” she said softly. “Come to me.”

  “Oh, I intend to, sweetheart. Believe me, I intend to,” he replied thickly.

  Bending over, he trailed kisses down the center of her body, caressing and nipping gently at the silky flesh until he found the warm, musky core of her. Nuzzling and tasting, he teased her, tormented her until she was gasping and writhing under his caresses.

  It was unbearably sweet, powerfully erotic, and Sophy was completely under his thrall. She never imagined such sensations, such intimacy, such pleasure could be shared between a man and a woman.

  When Ives raised his head, and said huskily, “Touch me, sweetheart. Touch me as I am touching you,” she did not hesitate. She wanted the power, the joy of exchanging this shockingly intimate caress. Rising to her knees, her lips sliding down his broad chest and across his flat belly, unerringly she found the hot, rigid length of him. Wonderingly she explored him, marveling at the velvety feel of him, reveling in the helpless groans she wrested from him as her tongue and lips tasted him.

  “Dear God, Sophy!” Ives suddenly ground out in a nearly unrecognizable voice.

  Tipping her back onto the bed, he fell upon her, his mouth crushed against hers, his fingers sinking urgently into her yielding flesh. But the time for mere play was past, and, shifting his body, he kneed her thighs apart and sank heavily into her.

  Mindless, searing pleasure cascaded over him as he felt her slick heat close around him. Her welcoming flesh clenched him tightly, driving him to the brink of ecstasy as he began to thrust wildly, hurtling them both into the abyss and an explosive climax.

  And when the fierce tempest ebbed, when reality gradually intruded, they were still locked together, their lips tenderly touching, their hands moving in lazy pleasure over each other. They remained that way for a long time, until finally, with a regretful sigh, Ives slowly slid from her body and lay beside her on the bed.

  Dazed, stunned by the power of the pleasure that had stormed through her, Sophy was astonished at what they had just shared. So this, she thought languorously, was what it was like to make love to a lover.

  Her head twisted slightly, so that she could glance across at Ives, who was lying collapsed by her side, apparently as shaken as she was. She smiled tenderly as she considered his bold profile: the arrogant nose, the aggressive chin, and the hard mouth. He was her lover. The one man who could turn her into a shameless, demanding wanton.

  His eyes suddenly met hers and she was convinced that her heart turned right over in her breast. She did not know what she expected him to say, but she was startled when he said tightly, “After this proposed meeting with Grimshaw, do not think that I shall let you risk your neck, or any other part of your delectable little body, in such a fashion again.” He gathered her close, almost crushing her against him. “I do not,” he muttered, “ever want to experience again what I am feeling right now.”

  It was not precisely what she wanted to hear, but it would do, and she smiled against his shoulder, her heart singing. He had not said that he loved her, but she would have to be a fool not to realize that he cared deeply for her, and Sophy was definitely not a fool.

  Sitting up and brushing back her tangled golden hair, she said briskly. “Nothing is going to happen to me. It is a very simple plan. It will proceed just as we discussed. You have nothing to worry about.”

  As he dressed that evening, Ives tried to tell himself that Sophy had the correct reading of the situation, but it was not easy. A nagging sense of apprehension continued to bedevil him, and he was frowning blackly at his reflection in the mirror as he finished tying his cravat.

  Seeing his expression, Ashby asked, “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  Ives shook his head. “No. At least I pray not.”

  There was a knock on the door and Sanderson entered. “A note just arrived for you from Lord Roxbury,” he said, offering a silver salver.

  Picking up the note, Ives scanned the contents, his mouth tightening. Looking at the two men, he said, “Meade’s body has been found—on the waterfront, hidden in a barrel near an alehouse.”

  Sanderson cocked a brow. “It doesn’t come as any surprise, does it, my lord? We were all of a mind that the Fox would get rid of him. He’d served his purpose.”

  Ives nodded slowly, not liking the sensations knifing through him. If he’d had any doubts about the cold-blooded efficiency of his enemy, they had been put to rest; and the knowledge that Sophy was going to twist the tail of such a murderous creature sent a shaft of pure ice through his insides.

  “I have to see Roxbury,” he said abruptly. “He will give me all the particulars.” Glancing at Sanderson, he added, “If Lady Harrington goes out tonight, I want the two of you to follow her. Discreetly. And until I tell you differently, she is not to leave this house without one of you trailing after her. Do you understand me?”

  Both men nodded, their expressions as grim as the one on Ives’s dark face.

  Roxbury had little to add to what he had written in his note.

  “I kept my men looking for him,” Roxbury said, when Ives had entered his study and had been seated. “It seemed likely that the body would have been disposed of nearby, but not where it would be discovered for a while. One of my fellows was poking around a pile of broken, discarded barrels when he found him.”

  From under his heavy white brows, Roxbury regarded Ives. “Meade’s throat had been cut and he had been stripped of his clothes.” His mouth twisted. “This time of year,
in another few days he would have been swollen beyond recognition—the rats had already been at him—and we never would have identified him.”

  “I assume,” Ives said quietly, “that you do not intend to make Meade’s murder public.”

  Roxbury inclined his head. “It is my intention to let the story stand that he is away visiting in Brighton.” He smiled grimly. “There will be time enough to tell the whole tale once we have captured Le Renard.” Roxbury glanced down at his desk, his eyes not meeting Ives’s. “When,” he asked, “do you intend for Sophy to dangle the pin before Grimshaw?”

  Ives smiled grimly. “I am joining Grimshaw and his friends this evening. I hope that I will learn something tonight that we can use to our advantage.”

  Luck was with Ives: He had not been five minutes at the table at the Pigeon Hole where Grimshaw and the others were gathered, when Dewhurst murmured, “We are all going to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night. Will you join us?”

  He cast a teasing glance at Grimshaw and half giggled. “It seems that William has fallen in love with a coy ladybird. She is currently under the protection of a very jealous lord.” He looked sly as he murmured, “But she has given Grimshaw hope that the situation may change, and she has mentioned that she intends to be promenading through the gardens tomorrow night.” He giggled again. “It should be diverting to watch him lusting after her.”

  A few of the other men snickered, and Grimshaw shot Dewhurst an annoyed look. “Do not forget that it was your idea that I pursue her. You said I needed a challenge. And as for Harrington joining us,” he added snidely, “I’ve noticed that he ain’t in the petticoat line. Perhaps it is pretty boys in breeches who catch his eye.”

  Ives did not rise to the bait. “Actually,” he said coolly, “I may see you there. It so happens that my wife has requested my escort to the gardens tomorrow night, and I have decided to indulge her.”

  “Is that so?” Grimshaw asked, his gray eyes fixed on Ives’s face. “For someone who professes to be an out-and-out rogue like the rest of us, it seems to me that you have shown a decided preference for the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Ives smiled gently. “If you were fortunate enough, my friend, to be caught by a, er, mousetrap as fascinating as the one which snared me, I would wager that you would show the same preference.”

  There was a general burst of laughter from the others, but Grimshaw only scowled. “Please yourself, my lord.”

  “Oh, I shall,” Ives murmured, his green eyes glinting.

  With the exception of Ives, everyone was delighted that they were going to be able to set events in motion so swiftly. Roxbury, especially, was keen.

  “We have little time to lose,” he told Ives and Forrest when they met Thursday afternoon to discuss the situation. “Remember the information in the memorandum has already fallen into the Fox’s hands. Whether he has delivered it to the French already is questionable, but the more time that elapses, the more likely it is that the information will be on its way to France.” He fiddled with a quill on his desk. “And Sophy? She is still willing to do her part?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ives said dryly. “In fact, she is quite looking forward to this evening. She was quite, quite thrilled when I told her the news earlier.”

  Detecting a note in Ives’s voice, Forrest asked, “You are not worried, are you?”

  “No, why should I be?” Ives snapped. “My wife is only going to confront a cold-blooded villain and bait him with something he has already murdered two people to get! And do not forget—I assure you that I have not—if he is the Fox, he murdered my family, and not two nights ago, confounded us and callously dispatched Meade.” His face grim, he muttered, “Of course, Sophy is not to know any of that when she gaily shows him the cravat pin.”

  Roxbury sighed, his eyes troubled. “Do you honestly think it would be to her advantage to know the full extent of his brutal actions? Would it be good for her peace of mind?”

  Leaning forward, he added urgently, “She is already forewarned. She knows that he has murdered two people. Wouldn’t the knowledge of just how cold-blooded and merciless he is cause her to falter in her task?”

  “It might,” Ives snarled softly, “make her decide not to risk her neck!”

  Forrest shook his head. “I do not know your lady well, my lord, but from what I have seen, if she knew what we suspect, it would make her all the more determined to face him.”

  Ives ran a weary hand over his face. “Of course, you are right.” He smiled tightly. “It would, indeed, make her all the more keen to play her part.”

  Despite telling herself to act as normally as possible, Sophy was fairly shimmering with excitement when Ives showed her into the supper box reserved for them that night at Vauxhall Gardens. Forrest joined them shortly thereafter, and briefly, in hushed undertones, they went over the plan again. A plan that was less a plan than a hoped-for sequence of events.

  The gardens were crowded this evening, the walks filled with elegantly garbed ladies and gentlemen as well as the less richly attired common folk. Gaily colored lanterns were strung along the pathways, strains of Handel permeated the area, and the air was filled with the happy sound of revelers.

  The cravat pin rested snugly in her satin-and-beaded reticule, and it seemed to Sophy that she could feel it burning her fingers through the material. Excited and a trifle anxious, she barely tasted the almost transparent slices of ham and the minuscule morsels of chicken for which the gardens were famed.

  There was so much that could go wrong, so many things beyond their control, and she alternated between moments of high excitement and dark despair.

  Then Ives suddenly stiffened, and murmured, “There they are. Grimshaw and Coleman just came out of the South Walk, heading in our direction.”

  Sophy cast a discreet glance in that direction, her heart thumping uncomfortably at the sight of Grimshaw’s dissolute features. She took a deep breath. She had nothing to fear. She was surrounded by crowds, and Ives and Forrest were going to be nearby.

  Despite the awareness of all that could go wrong, in the end, events went as if ordained. Grimshaw and Coleman, joined by Dewhurst and Sir Arthur Bellingham, spied the Harrington party and sauntered over to greet them. All were soon crowded into the supper box.

  Sir Arthur, having been out of town the past few days, was one of the last gentlemen to pay his respects to Sophy. He bent over her hand where she remained seated in the far corner of the box, and murmured, “Dreadful about Edward, wasn’t it? Can’t hardly believe that the old fellow is gone.” His brown eyes gleaming with malice, he added, “Of course, my dear, having no love of him, I am sure that you feel quite differently about the matter.”

  Sophy smiled stiffly. She had always been ambivalent about Sir Arthur, neither liking nor precisely disliking him, and his manner tonight did nothing to change her mind. He might have displayed a bit more tact, but then she could not blame him for voicing what was common knowledge.

  “I am sure,” she said coolly, “that you will miss his company. In fact, I am sure that he will be missed by many people.”

  “And I’ll wager my grays,” said Grimshaw, who had followed Sir Arthur over to greet Sophy, “that you nearly choked getting those words out.”

  Sophy glanced in his direction. “I am afraid that you would lose,” she said calmly. “I do not dispute that my uncle could be quite charming and that there were those who held him in great affection. I was simply not one of them.”

  His gray eyes resting avidly on her elegant features, Grimshaw murmured, “I have always thought it a pity that you were not more like your uncle. We could have had such pleasurable times together.”

  Sir Arthur snickered and turned away in answer to a question from Dewhurst, leaving Grimshaw and Sophy nearly isolated at one end of the small supper box. Grimshaw’s tall form almost blocked the others from her sight.

  Ordinarily, Sophy felt nothing but disgust for Grimshaw, but tonight, despite knowing Ives was nearby, a shiver of
unease went through her. This man, Sophy suddenly reminded herself, might very well have murdered two people, and she was about to place herself between him and something he might have killed for ... twice. Stilling the panic that rose in her, her fingers closed round her reticule and the ruby cravat pin inside it.

  Grimshaw’s gaze fell to her bosom. Sophy’s stomach roiled at the lascivious expression that leaped to his eyes as they wandered over the tops of her breasts, revealed by the low-cut bodice of her fashionable gown.

  “If you had been more inclined in Edward’s direction,” he purred, “we could have become, oh, quite good friends.” His eyes lifted to hers. “I would still be very interested in becoming your, ah, friend, my sweet.”

  Forgetting her fear, she tamped down the outrage flooding her at his words. How dare he! The urge to strike his dissipated features was strong, but her fingers touched the ruby cravat pin once more and she was reminded of her role.

  In all of their planning for this moment, none of them had known precisely when or where it would occur. They had all agreed, however, that following his usual wont, it was highly likely that given the opportunity, Grimshaw would attempt to cut Sophy out from the crowd where he could proposition her. All her husband had to do was see that the opportunity arose.

  Savagely aware that Grimshaw had Sophy cornered at the other end of the supper box, Ives, ably assisted by Forrest, proceeded to unobtrusively guide the other gentlemen out of the box, ostensibly to ogle any attractive women in the crowds thronging the gardens. Since he had done his best to convince everybody that he was as disreputable a libertine as the rest of them, no one was overly surprised that he practiced such reprehensible behavior with his wife only a few feet away.

  Leaving Sophy alone with Grimshaw was one of the most difficult things he had ever done, and he felt not one shred of satisfaction at how easily things had fallen into place as he stood with the others a few feet away from the supper box. His wife was alone with a known womanizer, a man she feared and disliked, and a man who was very likely a ruthless murderer. Everything, Ives told himself viciously, was just dandy!