by Darcy Burke
She averted her gaze and swallowed. When she looked back at him, determination glowed on her features. “If you are having trouble, perhaps I might be of help? I’m quite good at solving puzzles.”
“You wish to help me?” he said slowly.
“Why not? You are helping me with Hanover.”
Harry’s jaw clenched at the mention of that bastard. He was going to pay Hanover’s residence a visit and take back what rightfully belonged to Ophelia. Without an earring, Hanover would only have his desperate word against Ophelia’s prominent family.
“Think nothing of it,” Harry said, forcing his muscles to unknot. “Hanover is a bastard.”
She arched a brow. “Nevertheless, I wish to help. Have you searched for clues? Perhaps a map?”
Harry cut her an aggrieved look. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
She leaned into him, a conspiratorial smile on her lips, and Harry stilled. It might be innocent teasing on her part, but chamomile and lemon hit his nostrils, and he was lost. His body sparked into a symphony of lightning currents.
“You must admit—lost art? Mysterious bets? The possibility of a map? It has all the hallmarks of buried treasure.”
Harry took a moment to repress the urge to kiss her again. “I would imagine my father, an earl, would not have the time to draw up a treasure map.”
“I suppose you are right,” Lady Ophelia said disappointingly. “But it does seem the wager is code for something, so perhaps it’s not that far-fetched.”
“The same wager over and over. It confounds me. My father’s death left more questions than answers.”
“These art pieces . . .” Ophelia began. “What happens if you don’t retrieve them?”
Harry let out a slow breath. “I do not get to close this chapter as I wish,” he admitted. “And the mystery remains untouched.”
“That’s the worst that could happen?”
Ah, Ophelia, the worst has already come to pass, and yet it feels as though it is still to come.
“If you could read this chapter,” Harry remarked, “you’d understand how crucial these pieces of art are. Ending this chapter without their recovery would be—well, I refuse to accept that option. Also,” Harry paused, dragging a hand over his face, “they are the last link to my father that I have.”
“I understand. You are mourning your father,” she said softly. “I’d also happily read the chapter when you are ready to let me.”
Harry opened his mouth, wanting to tell her everything, but instead he swiftly shut it again.
“You do not have to tell me now,” she said with a small smile, then sighed. “My worst chapter is Hanover, as you may have deduced.”
“No.” Harry shook his head. “It is not.”
“You seem certain.” Her tone held a note of trepidation. “This is my life, Avondale. My future. My worst fear.”
Harry advanced another step. “I know about worst fear, Ophelia. It’s your freedom being snatched from your grasp.” He had felt powerless after his mother had informed him of their financial state. “I will not allow that to happen to me, nor to you.”
“You? You are an earl. What care do you have beyond your father’s mystery? Besides the usual responsibility.”
“You will understand once you read my chapter.”
“Perhaps, but I stand to lose my freedom, Avondale. No matter what you lose, you will always have your will of choice.”
Harry’s eyes turned to her. “I lose what I’ve grown most fond of.” Which was not wealth. Not saving his family from financial ruin. Not solving his father’s mystery.
It was her.
He lost her.
Her laughter strung the chords of his spine. “Art, Avondale? Art you have never even glimpsed? That is what you are most fond of? I did not take you for such an art connoisseur.”
Despite her teasing, Harry committed this moment, her laughter and her smiling face, to the pockets of his mind and his heart.
He lifted the corners of his mouth. “Exactly that.”
She gave him a curt nod, though her lips were still turned up in a teasing smile. “Very well. Then let us find your art.”
“You truly wish to help?”
“I do. Let’s meet in the morning at your residence and go over all the clues you have gathered.”
“Throwing caution to the wind, are we?” Harry asked dryly. “Ladies do not call on gentlemen.”
“I’m on the cusp of scandal, Avondale. Even if I’m not forced to marry Hanover, one word from his wretched mouth and rumors will run rampant regardless. There will always be doubt. That being the case, I will live on my terms until the very end. And like it or not, your place will be more private. So let me help you solve this mystery in return.”
“Very well. If there is even a mystery to solve,” Harry groused. “I have been reminded recently that my father might have been swindled.”
Ophelia shook her head. “His wagers did not once waver in letter or tone. Your father does not strike me as a man to be swindled.”
“You gather all that from a wager?”
“A wager can tell a lot about a man.” She eyed him up and down. “Be thankful I did not find much about you in that volume.”
Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. “Remind me never to draw swords with you, my lady.”
She grinned. “Never forget that, Avondale.”
Chapter 16
Ophelia reached the towering residence of Avondale a touch out of breath. It felt strange, and a bit wicked, if she was honest, to be sneaking through the shadows of the streets at midnight dressed in the clothing she’d worn to White’s to meet with Avondale—a clandestine meeting. Which by definition, it was, but by another, more scandalous interpretation it was not.
She had solved the mystery of the duchess.
At least, she thought she did.
That had been three hours ago. Pacing the entire night, waiting until dawn broke was simply not an option. Excitement thrummed through her bones. It was imperative that she meet with Avondale tonight. She simply could not wait any longer to impart her flash of insight.
It hadn’t been that long ago that she had ascended the steps she sprinted up now. After she banged on the door for five minutes, it swung open to the familiar view of Avondale’s disapproving butler. Recognition lit his gaze, and his face swiftly slipped into a mask of supreme indifference.
“Mr. Roseton,” he stepped aside for her to enter. “Please wait in the drawing room. I will inform his lordship of your presence.”
Ophelia hid a smile. She did not wait long; moments later, she was escorted to Avondale’s study, where he was waiting for her. The moment their eyes locked, the glint in his bronze depths sucked all the air from her lungs. There was something profoundly captivating about the Earl of Avondale.
His dark hair fell in a mop around the sculpted planes of his face, disheveled, as though he had run his hands through the strands a thousand times. Something about him sharpened her senses to such a height that it was impossible to focus on anything but him. Even when she was not in his presence, her mind recalled moments that held him.
She could not tear her gaze away from him.
He suddenly leaned back against his desk, and Ophelia could not help the blush that flushed across her cheeks. So much had happened on that desk. Her gaze found his mouth. Was it madness to want to press her lips against his? Kiss him until all that was wrong with her world solved itself?
He grinned as if he’d read her mind.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
“You are not alive with indignation. A striking difference from our last encounter in my study.”
“No, I’m not. And yes, it is.” She cleared her throat, her eyes leaving him to travel over the walls of the room. “Have you discovered anything new from the wager?”
“You rushed over here to ask me that?” He sounded amused.
“Of course not. I’ve had a flash of insight.”
“And it could not wait until morning?”
“I waited three hours.”
“Patience is clearly not a virtue of yours.”
“Do not start on the subject of virtues and lack thereof.”
“My apologies.”
“Ld. A. wagers Ld. G. that the duchess will be in London for three days. Five shillings,” Ophelia repeated the wager, drawing the betting book from her waistband.
Avondale pushed the hair back from his face. “Who the hell is Lord G.? I cannot figure that out.”
“Have you consulted Debrett’s?”
“I did,” Avondale growled, pushing away from the desk. He motioned her to the two chairs facing the toasty fire. “Our family is not connected to any lord with a title that starts with G.”
“Perhaps he is not a lord,” Ophelia suggested, shrugging out of her cloak and sinking into the chair. “G. might be a second or last name. The possibilities are endless.”
“Are you saying it is hopeless?”
Ophelia grinned. “Nothing is ever hopeless. I am here, aren’t I, and I am armed with stunning insight.”
“Do tell.”
“The duchess—she is the key.”
Avondale gave a slow nod. “My father, for all his faults, was devoted to my mother—even in the final months. She could be an acquaintance, I suppose, or we must assume the duchess he refers to must be directly connected to Lord G.”
“What if we are looking at it wrong? The duchess might not be a woman but something else, like, say, a ship or a painting,” Ophelia suggested.
Avondale’s features turned thoughtful. “A ship that docks in port right after my father places the wager.”
“Or a painting hung on a wall of a tavern.” Ophelia leaned forward. “Avondale, what if the treasure map has been right beneath your nose the entire time?”
“That would be disheartening.”
Ophelia shook her head and lifted the betting book. “What if this book is the treasure map?”
Avondale’s eyes dropped to the book. “The betting book?” he asked skeptically.
“Think about it. What better way to hide a map, or perhaps a road map, for treasures where no one will find it but the person whom the treasure belongs to? That is the purpose of a treasure map, is it not?” She opened the book and jabbed her finger over one of his father’s wagers. “What if the duchess marks the spot?”
His eyes lifted to hers, and Ophelia was gifted with a smile that made her head spin. “X marks the spot.”
“You might also look into street names—Lord G. could be that.”
“You truly are gifted at puzzles, Ophelia.”
Ophelia laughed. “Finally, someone acknowledges my genius. And now that I’ve gotten all this excitement off my chest, I can breathe once more.” She slanted him a sidelong glance. “I never thanked you for Rochester and Nash. Steering my mother away. Keeping their secret.”
“Who am I to judge what the heart wants?”
His eyes seemed to glow as they fell on her. Ophelia’s lips parted.
“Will you not demand a secret from me now that I know so many of yours?”
Released from his spell by that question, Ophelia swallowed and cleared her throat. “Quite right. It is only fair you share with me something you have never shared with anyone else.”
A spark of bedevilment lit his gaze. “It’s quite a shocking secret.”
“A secret you have not shared with anyone,” Ophelia reminded.
He nodded. “It’s too shocking to share, actually.”
“Share anyway.”
“Are you sure?” he said softly. “Are you prepared to carry the weight of it?”
“Avondale.”
He shifted in his chair and leaned toward her, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes raking over her face. “There was the briefest moment when I believed you and Rochester to be lovers.”
Ophelia’s mouth dropped open. She shut it quickly. And then she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. It was the funniest thing in the world. Her and Rochester? Lovers? Unthinkable!
“I cannot believe you imagined that,” Ophelia said when her laughter had subsided to a low chuckle. “It’s most absurd.”
“I know that. Now.” He leaned further into the distance between them. “But I didn’t then. And it annoyed me because of another secret I carry.”
“Another secret?” Ophelia asked, intrigued.
Avondale looked at her for a long moment, and the air seemed to spark with crackling energy. Ophelia resisted the urge to fan her face with the betting book.
A ghost of a smile curved his lips. Then he spoke in a low whisper. “When your eyes lock with mine, and you look at me with those startling eyes, eyes like glistening emeralds, my universe stops.”
Ophelia’s lips parted in surprise.
Dear Lord.
Men had been citing honeyed words to her all her life, but never with such raw honesty. For perhaps the first time in her life, sincerity weaved through the words she had longed to hear in the years since her debut. Those words, spoken in a hoarse timbre, filled the quiet space, feathering across her skin and along her nerve endings. They seduced. They tempted. They made her long for more.
“Which leads me to another secret.”
Be careful what you wish for.
Ophelia thought she might expire on the spot.
“Your laughter,” he began, his voice dropping, “is my favorite sound in the world. I heard it before I ever set eyes on you. I heard it long after I left.”
“That’s three secrets,” Ophelia managed after a breathless moment. The weight of them made her breasts ache. “Now I owe you one.”
“You have a secret I don’t know?”
Ophelia smiled a little. She mirrored him and leaned forward until they were almost touching, their breaths blending, and whispered, “It’s the strangest thing, really, but every time you brush your fingers over my flesh, even the smallest of touches, deliberate or unintentional, my universe stops too.”
“Ophelia.”
She grinned. “Harry.”
And because Ophelia could take the suspense no longer, and well, because she was nothing if not a woman of action, she closed the distance between their lips and kissed him.
The moment her lips connected with his, the moment her tongue invaded his mouth, Harry knew he was never going to want another woman in his life. He knew, with sudden certainty, he would not stop until he had her in his life, in his bed, permanently. That all the events of his life had led to this soul-provoking moment. His life would never be the same again.
He was momentarily transported back to the first time he had heard Ophelia’s laughter—the moment his life had forever changed. Her laugh had dazzled and bewitched him.
Just like her kiss did now.
He forgot about his father’s wagers and purchases. He forgot about his lack of his wealth and the consequences if he did not recover the art. He even forgot about the unfortunate list. He forgot about everything except Ophelia.
He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the desk, where again papers scattered and ledgers toppled to the ground as he cleared the space with one swoop of his arm. He would never hold this desk in the same light again.
“This desk,” she echoed his sentiment against his mouth.
“I know.” He kissed her again. Then he paused, his heart pounding. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” she said and pulled his lips back to hers. Harry obliged.
Christ, she tasted like heaven. And heaven tasted like chamomile and lemon, but more chamomile this time, as though she not only bathed in the scent but consumed it at pleasure. Her lips were soft, warmed by the heat of the fire in the hearth. It was one of those moments that stopped time. Harry wanted it to last forever.
As their kissing grew increasingly hungry, Harry knew they were heading in a direction that neither wished to bring voice to, afraid to break the spell. This was not the time for wor
ds—just actions.
He removed her jacket and fiddled with the buttons of her shirt. Her breasts sprang free, bountiful and pert, their creamy texture filling his hands and hardening his cock. Saints, she wore nothing beneath the shirt, not even a bodice. A vision. Her body was so much better in the flesh than in his fantasies. He bent to tease the stiff peaks of her breasts with his tongue, shivering when a low, sensual moan drifted to his ears.
Too. Much. Clothing.
He began undoing her breeches.
“Dammit, Ophelia, it’s like I’m undressing a lad.”
She laughed and wiggled when he tugged her breeches down, peeling away the layers that hid her delicious curves from his view until nothing was left but her smooth silk stockings. Ophelia, having never lacked courage, bless her soul, reached out to fumble with the buttons of his clothes.
She chuckled when he stepped back and impatiently shrugged out of his breeches and boots—those damn bloody boots took too long—erupting into giggles when he hopped on one foot and then the other to tug off the blasted hindrance.
With an impatient growl, he silenced her with a kiss as her hands moved to dispense with his shirt.
Finally, bare skin touched bare skin.
And it was bloody glorious.
She, Ophelia, was here in his arms, just as he had dreamed of from the moment he had heard her laughter. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Harry’s control snapped like shards of ice exploding into a thousand pieces.
Soul-provoking, indeed.
They were on the desk. Again. And his hands and mouth were everywhere. Her skin burned in the wake of his every touch. Of course, she was not in any way idle. Her hands explored every inch of his taut, muscled skin, every inch of this man—the man she had fallen hopelessly for.
Lord above!
Ophelia had utterly fallen in love with the Earl of Avondale!
With Harry.
But her revelation was impossible to dwell on, because in that exact moment, her awareness turned to the finger pushing inside her, causing her to whimper a moan of pleasure.
