by Clee, Adele
“Lucius,” she cried, as heat from her climax flooded her core.
He held her close as she shuddered in his arms. “God, love, next time I want to be buried inside you.”
Next time? She needed him inside her now.
“Show me how to please you,” she said, still feeling as if she were soaring through the clouds. She captured his hand and pulled him to the chaise. “Show me what to do. Show me how to make love to you.”
“You want to learn how to love me, Sybil?” he whispered almost incredulously. The warmth in his eyes seemed to penetrate her skin, her flesh, reaching down into her soul.
“Let me give myself to you,” she said, fearing he might have a change of heart. “If you’re worried because I’m a virgin … if you don’t want me—”
“You’re the only woman I want.” He glanced at the chaise. “Lie down. Next time will be better than this, I promise you.”
Better?
Good Lord. Any better, and she’d lose her mind.
She did as he asked, and he covered her with his hard body, squashing her in a way that made her feel safe. Secure. Loved.
Lucius closed his eyes and kissed her, his tongue slipping over hers in a tantalising rhythm, twining, mating. She could spend eternity kissing him like this—slow, deep, with such intense feeling it was like a silent language. Their language.
Each tangle of their tongues tightened the inner coil. She obeyed the instinctive need to clamp her thighs around him. To hold him tight in a primal embrace.
“Look into my eyes,” he said. “I’m going to join with you.”
A rush of affection washed over her as he eased inside her.
“You’re so tight.” He sucked in a breath. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
“You’re not.” She gripped his buttocks, loved the way they clenched and released as he pushed a little deeper, withdrew, pushed into her again.
“Oh, God, Sybil.” He closed his eyes as he worked slowly in and out of her body.
She didn’t want to close her eyes.
Watching every sleek movement proved highly arousing.
He gripped the headrest with his left hand, angled his hips so that with every delicious slide he rubbed against her sex.
“Look at me, Sybil,” he breathed, opening his eyes. “Forgive me if this hurts.”
She stared into eyes that to some might look plain grey—a shade reminiscent of steel, cold and hard. But they conveyed so much more. The black rims circling his irises embodied the dark, dangerous nature of his character. The flecks of bright blue were as warm and inviting as summer skies and rippling seas.
They were so mesmerising she forgot he was about to push past her maidenhead. He did so with one hard thrust. The slight stinging passed. It took but a few seconds to grow accustomed to the feel of being full, full with Lucius Daventry.
And then he began the teasing thrusts that had her panting and crying his name. Then he began to show her exactly how to love him.
Chapter Fifteen
Ravenous, Lucius devoured his breakfast with a little less fervency than he had Sybil’s delectable body. They had made love for a second time in his bed. Might have made love a third had he not carried her to the adjoining chamber and insisted she sleep.
He had slept for two hours before rising refreshed and ready to tackle his mountain of problems. Anyone witnessing his permanent grin would believe he didn’t have a care in the world. Indeed, his men had traded more than a few odd glances, traded more than a few curious questions.
What had happened to drag their master from his dreadful mood? Wasn’t it still raining? Wasn’t the carriage still stuck half a mile from Bronygarth? Had he finally turned to the bottle to forget his terrible troubles?
Lucius was still grinning as he sipped his coffee, still grinning when the object of his desire strode into the room, bid him good morning and told him to remain seated.
Erotic visions danced in his mind as he scanned her simple green day dress. She had tied her hair back loosely with blue ribbon, but he remembered unruly copper curls spread over his pillow.
He expected to see embarrassment stain her cheeks, thought she might avoid him while coming to terms with all that had occurred last night. Maybe had regrets.
He was wrong.
“Is that your first helping?” She came around the table, touched his shoulder affectionately and stepped to move past him.
Lucius captured her wrist, drew her close, meant to press a chaste kiss to her lips, but it turned into a lustful melding of mouths, a wild tangling of tongues. He had to break contact before he dragged her onto his lap and let his men see precisely what had caused the shift in his mood.
“The bacon tastes delicious.” She licked her lips and moved to examine the platters.
“Let me serve your breakfast.”
He pushed out of the chair and met her at the sideboard. What should have been a simple gesture ended in another stolen kiss that might have had them rushing upstairs had they not heard Tomas whistling a country tune.
Sybil placed her palm on his chest. “You wash my feet, serve me breakfast, make love to me with such skill, is there anything you don’t do, Mr Daventry?”
“Not where you’re concerned, Miss Atwood,” he replied, stepping back just as Tomas entered carrying fresh poached eggs.
Jonah arrived to serve Sybil breakfast, and with her approval, Lucius invited both men to sit at the table to discuss what had occurred at the Black Swan.
Before getting to the matter of the coaching inn, Jonah said, “There’s something else you should know, sir.” He paused and cast Sybil a surreptitious glance, continued only when Lucius gave a curt nod. “Samuel said he saw someone in the garden last night. A floating figure. A ghost.”
“A ghost?” Tomas snorted. “The guzzle-guts downed brandy like it was catlap. Happen he saw fairies dancin’ on the lake, too.”
Jonah’s expression remained grave. “When I questioned him, he said he’d gone outside to hurl, said he saw the figure near the lake, said he heard the rattling of chains.”
“Good God!” Lucius’ pulse raced. “Have you checked the door leading down to the vault?”
Jonah’s reassuring nod brought some relief. “The gate’s locked. Everything’s in order. Everything’s secure.”
“I think it’s fair to assume we had a trespasser, not a damn ghost.” Lucius scrubbed his hand over his face. The devil was getting too close for comfort. “Forget any household tasks. Make watching the vault a priority. Keep a weapon and patrol regularly.”
Jonah nodded.
“And did you learn anything at the Black Swan?” Sybil said.
Tomas placed a tatty pocketbook on the table and flicked to the relevant page. “I took notes on everyone who came in after you left, ma’am.”
“So you remained in the taproom for two hours?” Lucius attempted to clarify. It was the first chance he’d had to speak about the incident. “Did anyone suspect you were there to spy?”
Lucius and his men rarely visited local establishments. People were nosy by nature, and he did not need anyone prying into his affairs.
Tomas shook his head. “A fancy coach came in, and the bluffer took to—”
“Bluffer?” Sybil asked.
“The innkeeper,” Lucius said and gestured for Tomas to continue.
Tomas nodded. “The innkeeper took to bowing and scraping while the lord barked orders.”
Lucius’ heart thumped against his chest. “Did you make a note of this lord’s name?” If it was Newberry, he would start polishing his pistols.
“Faulkner. Lord Faulkner. A right old nabob who still wears powder and lace. Had a young bit of muslin with him. A tempting armful.”
The lord was a pretentious prat with the brain of a donkey. “I doubt Faulkner is our man. Do you have a list of those who entered after Miss Atwood left?”
Tomas nodded. “A family of three from Grantham who never went upstairs. A handful of people o
ff the stagecoach who had no time to eat and had to fill their pockets with bread.”
Tomas continued with the descriptions of two merchants from Ripon selling spurs, farmhands looking for work and a spinster and her young niece, who had an eye for anyone in breeches.
Sybil looked up from buttering her toast. “Did anyone else approach the innkeeper? Whoever instructed me to come to the Black Swan must have an arrangement with the owner.”
Tomas shook his head.
“Perhaps the innkeeper didn’t have time to alert our quarry of your arrival,” Lucius said. “Unless the devil is staying at the inn.”
Silence ensued.
Then Tomas gasped. “A woman renting a room upstairs came down and passed something to the bluffer. I took her for a lightskirt, thought she was paying by the swell if you take my meaning.”
“Perhaps it was the woman who warned me off the stew. The one staying opposite room number five.” Sybil dropped a sugar lump into her coffee. “She did look world weary, so could be what some call a Bird of Paradise.”
Tomas smiled. “A ladybird.”
“If so, I imagine she would have warned you off the sausages, not the stew.” Lucius laughed, and Jonah sniggered. “Did you notice anyone else visiting the upstairs rooms?”
Again Tomas shook his head. “Other than the woman with the ghostly streak, only one—”
“Ghostly streak?” Lucius froze. “That’s an odd description.”
“Tomas is referring to her hair,” Sybil said, sipping her coffee. “It was as black as yours but with a shocking streak of grey.”
Lucius flopped back in the chair. His blood turned cold. Were they talking about Julia Fontaine? The rational part of his brain scrambled to find another explanation. Having a streak of grey hair was hardly a strange anomaly.
“What is it?” Sybil’s deep frown spoke of his own apprehension. “What’s wrong?”
“The woman, was she thin with wide, sad eyes? Was she a little shorter than you, Miss Atwood? Did she have a scar running across her cheekbone?”
“I’m not sure about the scar,” Sybil said. “I barely took much notice. But she is as you describe. Why? Is it someone you know?”
“It’s someone I hardly know at all.” Darkness threatened to devour his good mood. Soon the storm would break to unleash a torrent of confusion, guilt and despair. He glanced at Jonah and Tomas. “That’s all for now. We’ll remain here and study Atticus’ notes for a few hours.” He daren’t risk going down to the vault, not with spies lurking in their midst. “Patrol the grounds. Be vigilant.”
Both men nodded and took their cue to leave.
When alone again, Sybil said, “Shall we move to the drawing room so you can tell me about this woman?” There wasn’t a shred of jealousy in her tone.
“I’m not sure that’s wise. Talking to you in relaxed surroundings stirs the devil in me.”
“If you’re the devil, then I was born for sin.”
He managed a smile, resisted the urge to round the table, kiss her and slip his hand under her skirts. “While the need to stroke your stockings burns in my veins, I fear this is a time for the pragmatic thinker. You must learn to like the judicious gentleman as much as the reckless lover.”
Her eyes brightened with amusement. “Make no mistake, Mr Daventry, I admire the whole package.”
Merciful Mary. This woman would be the death of him. He could barely raise a coherent thought when in her company. “Must you persist in being such a tempting distraction, Miss Atwood?”
“I would rather be a tempting distraction than an annoying one,” she said, reminding him of his comment at the auction. “Is it always like this?”
“What?”
“Desire. I’m curious. Does it grip you at every inopportune moment? Does it consume every ounce of your being?”
“Are you saying you want me, Sybil?”
“I wanted you the moment I opened my eyes this morning. I can’t seem to calm the energetic thrum.”
This lady had no problem speaking the truth. It was a rare quality. A quality he admired.
“Lust can be all-consuming.” But he was in love with her, and that meant he had to focus on saving her life not devouring her body. “Let us return to the task at hand.” Indeed, he had almost forgotten about Julia Fontaine. “Tonight, I shall worship you in the way that makes your toes curl.”
A delectable hum left her lips, and her eyes turned soft and dreamy.
“Where were we?” he said.
“Attempting to focus. You were going to tell me about the woman you hardly know who’s staying at the Black Swan.”
“You mean Julia Fontaine.”
“Your mother?”
“Indeed.” It had to be her.
Sybil frowned. “I fear it might not be a coincidence.”
“No.”
“Does she know you own this house?”
Julia had made no mention of Bronygarth, only the house in Brook Street. “I cannot see how she could know. The duke makes it his business to know everything, but he hasn’t seen Julia Fontaine for twenty years.”
Silence ensued.
“Well, she’s not the person who sent the threatening letters demanding I bring the journals to room five.”
“No.”
“Then she must know you live close by.” She paused and glanced at the open journal. “In terms of finding the villain, we’re back to where we started.”
“Yes,” he mused, but Atticus had urged him to look for connections where there weren’t any. When one started piecing together parts of a puzzle, an obscure picture soon became clearer. “Or maybe not.”
The lady arched a curious brow. “You have other suspicions?”
“I just find it hard to accept that these random pieces of information aren’t connected.”
She smiled. “You sound just like my father.”
“That’s a handsome compliment.”
“One wholly deserved.”
The need to confess what she meant to him surfaced. The need to tell her that he had loved her for so long. The need to say that loving her was the only thing that made him feel whole.
By way of a distraction, he said, “What’s it like?”
“Desire?” she said, confused.
“No. Loving your parents.”
The words carried the weight of a burden he’d lugged around for years. The guilt he bore for his lack of feeling. The crippling sense of inadequacy, the belief that he was somehow to blame.
She pursed her lips and took a moment to answer. “I suppose I always took our love for granted. But I couldn’t have wished for a better childhood, couldn’t have wished for better parents.”
He could sense emotion welling before water filled her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said softly. “I was there the night your mother died. I was there hiding in the shadows when you came running downstairs, when you collapsed into your father’s arms.”
She blinked back her tears. “You were the person who came to see my father in his study?”
“We often met late at night, for obvious reasons.” He sighed. “Your pain has stayed with me. It made me feel normal. Everyone suffers. Those who are loved and those who aren’t.”
She dabbed at her eyes. “There is no love between you and your parents?”
“None.” Guilt tightened its noose around his neck. “When I saw my mother last night, I didn’t embrace her. I didn’t welcome her, didn’t say how I’d mourned her absence. I’m no longer the lonely child. Can’t be the loving son she lost.”
Sybil pushed out of the chair and came around the table. “Is that what was troubling you?”
He shrugged, but when her soft hand slipped into his, he clasped it tightly. “The irony is we have no control over who we love or who we don’t.”
“No.” She placed her other hand on his shoulder. “When it comes to your mother, perhaps you should give it some time. Let things develop naturally. It must b
e difficult to focus on anything when we have so many other matters demanding our attention.”
“Yes,” he said.
But he was a man of predictions and premonitions and prophecies. He knew beyond doubt that no other woman would speak to his soul like Sybil Atwood. He knew he was but one clue away from solving the riddle of Atticus’ murder. And he knew that Julia Fontaine was not what she seemed.
Chapter Sixteen
Sybil was supposed to be reading through her father’s notes, but she was too busy watching him across the dining table. Lucius Daventry. Watching the way his lips moved as he read silently from a journal, remembering the earthy taste of his mouth, the feel of his tongue, the heat. Watching the way his strong hand gripped the pages, remembering the sensual way it had slipped over her sex, rousing pants and pleas and moans of pleasure.
She silently sighed.
With skill, the man had worked his way in and out of her body. He had used the same expertise to work his way into her heart. She could no longer distinguish between longing, lust and love. She was addicted to his company, to passionate kisses, to the softening of those grey eyes as he cradled her in his arms.
“Have you discovered anything of interest?” he said, looking up to meet her gaze.
Only that I think I’ve fallen in love with you.
“The scribbled notes have faded,” she said, gathering her wits. “The words are difficult to decipher. But Mr Cribb must have been a man of means.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Logic says the first point of call when investigating someone is to visit their home, then their place of work. My father had written the word work, but the space beneath is blank.”
“A man of means doesn’t rent a room above a china dealer in Saffron Hill.”
She considered the point. “I only wish my father would have listed the suspects. There’s a record of those he questioned at the market, but little else. So, your reason for suspecting Sir Melrose and Lord Newberry stems from their desperate need to purchase the journals?”
