From London, With Love (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 6)

by Bec McMaster

  “You’ll hear more before we’re through,” he promised, shifting uncomfortably beneath her. “Like this,” he growled roughly, curling her fingers around the length of him.

  Alexandra looked down in shock.

  She’d never realized how soft it would feel, the skin sliding loosely over its turgid length. Gideon moved her hand up and down, slowly pumping the slick steel of his engorgement.

  Swirling her thumb over the satin-slick head of him, she indulged herself. Every twitch of her thumb drew a response from him. Soft sounds escaped him, and his teeth sank into his lower lip.

  “Fuck.” The word was torn from him.

  More. She grew heady with her own power. “Is this the world-famous orator who brought the House of Lords to its knees?” she whispered in his ear. “Is that all you can say to me, Gideon?”

  He captured the back of her head, his fingers sliding over a lock of her hair. “What do you want me to say?” he gasped. “That I’ve wanted you for years. That I’ve dreamed of you like this, in my arms. That I’m so fucking close to coming, I don’t think… I can hold myself back.” He threw his head back. “You undo me. You’ve always undone me.”

  Oh, she liked this.

  Alexandra bit the soft, fleshy pad of his ear, and he bucked, a hot gush of liquid splashing over her hand. Gideon captured her hips, burying his face in her throat.

  She held him for long moments, feeling flushed with success.

  Dragging a shaking hand over his face, he shot her a glazed look, his breath still coming in soft pants. “That was not how this was meant to go. You’ve ruined all my best-laid plans.”

  Alexandra giggled, then glanced down at her hand.

  “Here,” he said, tearing his waistcoat off and using it to clean the pair of them up. He tossed it aside, then dragged his hand over his face again.

  She barely had two seconds of warning.

  One hot-eyed look, and then he hauled her into his arms, his mouth crashing down over hers.

  A moment of shock assailed her, but she wasn’t lost this time. She could still smell his cologne—the rich bay rum and spiced clove scent she always associated with Gideon.

  He reached out, unbuttoning her gown. Callused fingers rasped against her skin, and she pushed into the touch. Good grief. She’d never known it could feel like this. Those hands on her skin were wreaking havoc, melting her from the inside out.

  He barely had the top row of buttons undone, and then he was tugging impatiently at the cup of her corset. Alexandra gasped and arched her back, barely caring that her breast came free. A hint of heat filled her cheeks when she saw the look he gave her, and then his hot mouth locked over her breast, and Alexandra cried out. The sweet pull of his mouth felt as though it tugged directly between her thighs, and his tongue swirled slow circles around her nipple.

  Too much.

  Far too much.

  She felt overwhelmed and undone in a way she’d never felt before. The room spun, leaving her rocking against his thigh. Then his lips were rasping over her, teeth hard and firm, but also—

  Teeth.

  The exhilaration slid from her skin, as if she’d been dropped into the frigid Thames.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  The word echoed through the room as Gideon froze, lifting his mouth from her flesh. “Alexa?”

  She tugged her corset back up, slipping her sleeve onto her shoulder again as she panted. What a mess she’d made of herself. Her skirts were all awry. She was still astride him, and the ache between her legs left her fidgety and frustrated with herself.

  “Are you all right?” He reached for her hips, and she sent him a restraining look.

  Gideon froze.

  Alexandra pressed her face into her hands. Why could this not be easy? She’d been enjoying herself immensely. It had been perfect. So perfect. And then she’d ruined it the second his teeth grazed her nipple.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She wanted to scream in frustration.

  Soft fingers stroked her hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Alexa. I was the one who lost control. I should never have pushed you so far.” His thumbs caressed her cheeks, and he slowly lowered her hands from her face. “You undo me in ways I am ashamed to admit.”

  Alexandra bit her lower lip. “We tried.”

  Gideon shook his head. “We’re not done yet, my love. This was never going to be easy.”

  “But—”

  “Here,” he said, sliding his hand up her spine, and opening himself up to her. “Let me hold you. Listen to my heartbeat. It’s still racing, and it’s all for you.”

  Alexandra wilted over him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. His hand splayed up her spine, drifting in a soft, soothing motion. Up and down. Up and down. Inch by inch she relaxed.

  Minutes dragged by. She lost track of time as she closed her eyes and threw herself into the pulsing rhythm of his heartbeat.

  This was what she wanted. To be held, more than anything.

  And until this moment she had not realized it.

  “Don’t let me go,” she whispered.

  “Never,” he whispered back.

  That night Alexandra lay alone in her bed, listening to the embers crack in the fireplace.

  And she couldn’t forget the warmth of his body and the firm press of his erection.

  It was only in her imagination that she could be free, and she let her thoughts roam to areas she’d never dared consider before.

  “What would you have me do?” whispered Gideon, and in her imaginings, he was on his knees before her.

  “Strip,” she replied.

  Giving her an insolent look, he slipped his coat from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Never looking away from her hot-eyed gaze, he slowly began to work on his waistcoat and shirt, until he tugged the hem of the white linen from his trousers and revealed the heavy slab of his abdomen and chest.

  A sprinkling of dark hair smattered his pectorals, but he wasn’t finished. Sliding a hand down the trail of dark hair that dipped into his trousers, he popped several buttons and then paused.

  Alexandra swallowed. “All of it.”

  His boots went flying. And then his trousers.

  Finally he stood nude before her, every firm inch of him gleaming beneath the candlelight. He crossed to the bed toward her, his buttocks and his powerful thighs flexing.

  “Take yourself in hand,” she ordered.

  Watching her the entire time, he skated his palm down his lean belly and firmly grasped his member. Despite the size of his hands, he couldn’t entirely close his fingers around it.

  The ache between her thighs increased.

  Which was so confusing.

  She’d never once thought a man’s phallus to be worth anything more than pain. Though she’d learned to tolerate the bedding—with both the generous application of liniment and a glassful of poppy wine—it had never been anything less than a torment to be endured.

  But this set off an entirely new sensation within her.

  Alexandra brushed her fingers between her thighs, shivering a little. She felt exactly as she had when she’d been in his arms, his mouth on her skin. On the verge of something both overwhelming and terrifying.

  She pictured Gideon kneeling on the bed and crawling up over her, those dark eyes focused intently. “What would my queen have me do?”

  And as the queen stroked between her thighs, she thought of what she truly wanted from him.

  “Love me,” she whispered.

  A smile touched his face. “I always have. And I always will.”

  Chapter 8

  Fireworks lit the River Thames below them as the queen hosted a private party aboard a dirigible. The Cardiff was a pleasure-cruiser, confiscated from the Duke of Pendlebury during the Rising Sons revolt. Fitted out with gilded woodwork at every nook and cranny, its chandeliers glittered above the ballroom, shining light upon the polished wood of the floor.

  Dancers swept in tidy circles as Alexand
ra smiled and flirted idly, swamped by potential suitors. It was just as she’d expected.

  Flattery drifted unheeded past her ears. After dozens of years of meaningless compliments, she’d grown resistant to its effects.

  Besides, it wasn’t truly her that these foreign princes were trying to seduce. It was the queen. A figurehead only, a woman of power. The throne that they saw when they hinted at a potential alliance. Not Alexandra.

  Never Alexandra.

  She danced with a Hapsburg prince before finding herself in the arms of Prince Ivan once again.

  This time she studied him.

  It wasn’t fair to compare him to her dead husband. He was neither similar in features nor in manners. And yet, she couldn’t help feeling that suffocating sensation working its way up her throat the second he swept her onto the dance floor.

  Too tall. Too broad of shoulder. Too powerful.

  And overwhelming in his mannerisms.

  Nothing was phrased as a question—though that could have been his grasp of the English language. And he drove her through the waltz like a master wielding a fractious horse.

  Every now and then she caught a glimpse of one of the Grand Duchesses watching her from the sideline, staring sullenly over her wine. Light gleamed off the woman’s gilt-colored hair, and her dress was cut low enough to display an impressive bosom.

  She was everything Alexandra was not—except for being a queen.

  “I do not think your countrywoman approves,” Alexandra murmured, as the prince swept her beneath his arm.

  Ivan glanced in the duchess’s direction, then shrugged his shoulder. “Ignore her. Xenia thinks herself beyond her station. She is competitive in all matters.”

  “Is she competition?” Alexandra jested.

  His jaw tightened in a way she didn’t quite like. “No. Though she would wish to be.”

  Alexandra couldn’t help shooting the other woman another glance. The hot-eyed look made sense now, and it made her a little uncomfortable.

  “I think I would like some fresh air,” she murmured, trying to disentangle herself the seconds the dying strains of the dance sounded.

  “Of course.” Ivan gallantly offered her his arm.

  Alone, she’d meant.

  But she pasted a smile on her face and allowed him to escort her onto the foredeck. The second they arrived, she let his arm go.

  “Wine?” he asked, thrusting the glass toward her.

  It was not a suggestion, and to deny him would be to cause a scene. Alexandra accepted the glass, lifting it to her lips with a placating smile, but not drinking. “Thank you.”

  She often found she needed to say very little when he was around, as he filled the silence himself.

  “These are interesting ships,” he said, patting the edge of the rail. “In Russia, it is too cold to ‘take the air’ as you English do. And the helium in the dirigible envelopes freezes, which makes them dangerous during the winter months.” He looked down at the lights glittering across London. “But this is an excellent pastime. My people would enjoy this.”

  He continued praising the airship’s abilities and decorations.

  And then he praised her city, though he wished he’d been able to see the Ivory Tower before it fell—a marvel of the modern age.

  And then he began to praise her beauty. And her kindness. And her benevolence.

  Alexandra’s eyes began to glaze over.

  Help arrived in the form of Sir Gideon.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, offering her a glass of watered cordial and making it seem as though she’d requested the drink long ago. “I meant to bring it to you earlier, before being waylaid by Malloryn.”

  “You care not for wine?” Prince Ivan murmured, his hawkish eyes watching every move she made.

  Alexandra sipped her cordial. “It disagrees with me.”

  She’d spent enough years drifting in a fogged stupor—the only means she had of dealing with her husband’s cruelty. Too much wine. Too much milk of poppy. It had been an escape for her, but the effects were frightening. Once she’d killed him, she’d spent six months trying to ease its hold on her.

  She never wanted to return to those days.

  The sweats, the hallucinations, and worse, the sheer driving need to let it wash over her again. The desire for obliteration.

  She did not even dare take a sip of milk of poppy these days, for fear she would crave it again.

  “You did not say,” he said.

  Gideon coughed into his hand. “The queen is the epitome of politeness. I daresay she did not wish to be rude.”

  Prince Ivan looked between them. “But what do you drink if you do not drink wine?”

  “Many things, Your Highness. Have you heard of the restorative effects of cordials?” Gideon began, and he somehow genuinely managed to sound as though this was the most scintillating conversation he’d ever had.

  A woman exited the ballroom, glittering like a star beneath the gaslight in her drapings of gold. Jewelry glittered at every finger, and earrings dripped from her ears. There was even a slim coronet on her head.

  “Cousin Imogen,” Alexandra called, catching a glimpse of her old rival.

  Princess Imogen stiffened before gracing her with a smile. “Your Majesty.”

  “Have you met Prince Ivan? Your Highness, this is my cousin, Her Royal Highness, Princess Imogen of York.”

  It was unkind of her, truly it was, but she knew her cursed cousin wouldn’t be able to resist a chance to ingratiate herself.

  The woman was a good ten years older than she and resented the fact her mother, Princess Amelia, had not been born a man, as she was the eldest of her siblings and hence could have been granted the crown instead. It had taken Alexandra many years to realize why her cousin resented her, though the woman was harmless enough.

  “Your Highness,” Princess Imogen breathed, glancing up from beneath her lashes coquettishly as the prince lifted her hand to his lips.

  His gaze strayed directly to her chest. Clearly he was a man of simple tastes.

  Alexandra glanced at Gideon, and he smiled faintly in return, as if they were both thinking the same thing.

  “I came to fetch you,” he said. “Malloryn wishes to speak to you before the speeches.”

  “He does?”

  “He does,” Gideon said, staring her baldly in the eye.

  Oh. “If you will excuse me, Your Highness,” Alexandra said to the prince. “Duty calls. I’m sure my cousin will be a fine replacement.”

  Prince Ivan seemed to realize his prey was vanishing. “And yet, my heart grows empty. No woman could replace you within it. Will you save me a dance?”

  “Of course.” Inwardly, she sighed.

  But at least she would have a moment away from him. They made their goodbyes and she practically fled.

  “They make a handsome couple,” Gideon murmured as the pair of them ducked away.

  “Yes. They suit each other.” She gathered her skirts. “The prince adores speaking of himself, and my cousin enjoys her own self-importance. Now, does Malloryn truly wish to see me?”

  “No. I lied.”

  “How shocking, Gideon. I thought you were a paragon of honesty.”

  “I was afraid my queen was going to launch herself over the rail in the pursuit of escape. I risked my honor to save her life.”

  “You’re dreadful.” But she laughed. “Thank you. Now, perhaps I can reward you with a dance?”

  “Perhaps I should take all of them, so you won’t be encumbered by that enormous lout.”

  Alexandra offered him a secret smile from across the deck. “Now, now, Gideon. If I granted you all of my dances, people would whisper that I was intending to court you.”

  His dark eyes met hers, and he almost seemed to want to say something.

  But then the door opened, light and laughter spilling out, and she could not ask.

  Three mornings later, Alexandra found herself once more at bay.

  She’d
just mounted the handsome gray mare she preferred when Prince Ivan appeared out of nowhere.

  “Your Majesty. What luck. I was going for a ride this morning, too.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the grooms led a fractious black stallion out, fully tacked.

  “What luck indeed,” she replied dryly.

  Was Malloryn behind this?

  She couldn’t imagine the duke would care to deal with this infuriating blue blood—and Ivan wasn’t the sort to respond to Malloryn’s bit well—but who knew? Someone was clearly feeding him information as to her common habits.

  Not deigning to wait for him, she clicked her mare into a trot and rode out into the streets that would lead to Hyde Park. In the foggy morning, she could almost feel alone, ignoring the pair of guards who trailed her and the prince who spurred his horse after her.

  She rode for almost an hour before she let her horse drop into a stroll, dropping its head to nuzzle at a grassy verge.

  “You ride well, my queen,” Prince Ivan called, easing to her side.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have been meaning to speak to you alone.” Prince Ivan presented her with a small box. “I have a gift. A token,” he said, “of my affection.”

  Affection. Good grief. She barely knew him, though she had to admit he was playing his role well. “Thank you, Your Highness. You are most kind.”

  She opened the velvet box.

  A golden scarab brooch lay cushioned within it, to be tethered at her breast with a pin. She held it up, winding the small clockwork cog at the side of its body. Instantly, its wings began to flutter and it crawled over her fingers. “How lovely. My dearest friend, the Duchess of Casavian, has one just like this, though hers is a spider.”

  “They tell me they’re all the rage in London,” he replied.

  She’d never seen them, but then, she was sometimes kept at a distance from the rest of the world. It was possible.

  Alexandra pinned the little brooch to her lapel, admiring how well the gold flickered in the early dawn light. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

  “A beautiful gift, for a beautiful queen.”