“Miss Montgomery, we have been over this matter already.” He sighed, still looking down at the surface of his desk, shuffling through a sheaf of missives. “The Home Office will contact your fellow Pinkerton in New York. He has been made aware of everything that has occurred here in London. You may rest assured of that.”
“Though you and Winchelsea have both denied my requests thus far, I have never been given a reason,” she prodded, marching across the empty span of carpet between herself and his imposing desk. Even the chairs opposite it were rigid and unforgiving, and she could not help but to wonder if Arden had chosen them intentionally for just that reason.
He looked up at her at last, his face devoid of all expression. But his green eyes were cold, his jaw rigid. “Is he your lover?”
She stopped pacing, so stunned by his abrupt question, she could do nothing except stand there and gape at him, wondering if she had heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fairchild,” he gritted. “Is he your lover?”
She almost blurted the truth, which was that Eli Fairchild was far more like a brother to her than a lover. But that would have been too easy. She did not like the manner in which Arden had so easily dismissed her after what had happened in his carriage on the way to Praed Street. Nor did she like his aloof mannerisms toward her, or the way he seemed to take every effort to avoid looking at her or speaking to her about anything aside from Special League matters.
“Would it matter to you if he was?” she asked, staring him down.
Let him be the first one to blink, the first to relent, she thought.
Only, this time, he did not. He inclined his head, stoic and regal as ever. “I asked you a question first, Miss Montgomery.”
“An impertinent one,” she countered smoothly. “My private life is none of your concern.”
“It is my concern when I have enjoyed intimacies with you,” he countered, rising from his chair at last.
She would wager it had eaten him alive to forego his gentlemanly training and remain seated while she paced. Indeed, she hoped it had. She was vexed with him. And frustrated. And fairly bursting with feelings and emotions she had not experienced in a very long time.
Hazel considered him solemnly. “Did you enjoy the intimacies you shared with me, Arden? I confess, I could not be certain.”
“You know I did.” He stalked toward her, his countenance darkening.
Damn him, he was handsome when he was angry. And when he was distracted. And tired. And happy. And even when he was solemn. Especially when he was in the midst of contemplating evidence, because he acquired the most endearing furrow between his brows. A furrow she longed to kiss.
Heaven help her. How could he not see he was all she thought about? How could he not know his hands and his mouth and every wickedness he could visit upon her were all she craved?
Already, he had banished her irritation, replacing it with a breathless anticipation. With a tightness in her belly, a quiver between her thighs where her body recalled how he had pleasured her in the carriage. How he had circled her entrance, the aching center where she hungered for him most, and yet he had not breached her.
“What if I say yes?” she dared to ask, testing him. “What if he is my lover?”
Never mind the notion of Eli in such a role was laughable. Arden did not know otherwise, and his response meant everything to her.
A muscle in Arden’s jaw tensed. “Answer me, Hazel.”
Ah, but she was too busy enjoying watching this strong, powerful, arrogant man squirm. He was an English aristocrat. She was an American orphan. He wore neckties and gold signet rings. She wore divided skirts and took on a role many considered a man’s work. There could not exist two more disparate characters in all the civilized world.
He was near enough to touch, but she had been in closer proximity to him on many occasions before. Somehow, the small distance heightened her awareness of him. Her nipples were painfully hard, and the ache in her core deepened. She wanted his touch there, stroking her as he had done before. More shocking, even, she wanted his mouth. His tongue. She had experienced some of the pleasures of the flesh with Adam, and she was not entirely innocent. Though she had fancied herself exempt from such weaknesses, the man before her had proven her wrong.
“Why does my answer matter so much to you?” she countered now, wondering if he would give her the truth she longed to hear.
“You know why,” he said in that low, decadent baritone of his that never failed to send a trill of anticipation straight through her.
She hoped she knew why. But that did not mean she did not wish to hear it from his lips directly. The last few days had been a whirlwind of research, investigation, and recovery from her attack. He had resurrected the walls between them, and she burned to bring them down.
“Tell me,” she whispered. She closed her journal with a snap.
“Because I want you for myself,” he admitted, the concession sounding as if it had been torn from him. “I should not, but I do.”
She met his gaze unflinchingly. She had lived her life without adherence to conventions. From the time she could first recall any memories, she had known she was different. She had not cared for dolls or dresses. She had longed for freedom and adventure. She had wanted to exceed the bounds she had been given as a female.
And so, she had.
Boundaries were meant to be defied. In this life, she was a trespasser. She always had been and always would be. She had worked day and night, honing herself, educating herself, fighting for herself, to be the best Pinkerton she could be. She was an agent, a detective, a respected mind in her field despite every obstacle which had been placed in her path.
For all those reasons, she met the Duke of Arden’s gaze without a hint of hesitation. “Then take me,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
It had been a long time since Lucien had last had an assignation with a woman, and he had never previously had one in his own home. He was uncertain of the protocol. In the wake of Hazel’s bold invitation in his study, he had been hit with the twin weights of duty and desire. He ought to have turned her down, but from the moment the words had left her lips, he had only been capable of forming one response.
Come to me tonight.
A simple statement, a request of his own, and yet it had changed everything. The tension between them, always simmering beneath the surface of their every interaction, had burst into an uncontrollable flame. Need had seized him, and thank God she had taken mercy on him and excused herself from the study, deciding to abandon their work early and retire to her chamber.
Because from the moment she had offered herself to him, the desire to possess her consumed him, along with an absolute disregard for anything other than Hazel Montgomery lying naked beneath him. Not even drawing life-giving breaths seemed as necessary.
After she had gone, he had remained in place, standing precisely where she had left him, staring at the closed door, inhaling the lingering scent of her and willing his erection to abate. He had known, of course, he could not run after Hazel, haul her into his arms, and carry her to his bedchamber like a pillaging Viking of old.
Instead, he had bided his time, walked calmly to his desk, and neatly stacked and arranged his correspondence, locking away sensitive documents as always. He paced, stopping to check his pocket watch every few minutes until finally a half hour had passed between Hazel’s retreat and what would become his own.
And then, at last, he had ascended the stairs and found his way to his chamber, where he dismissed his valet and stripped to a dressing gown. He paced the confines of his chamber now, feeling a bit like a callow youth. Anticipation skittered through him, along with an endless barrage of questions.
What if Hazel changed her mind?
Why was he about to do something as foolish as bedding her?
What would it be like to have her beneath him, all feminine skin and smooth curves?
A subtle knock sounded. He wa
sted no time in hastening to the door and opening it. Hazel stood, wide-eyed and beautiful, on the threshold. She was still wearing her trousers and bodice, but her stockinged feet were without their customary black boots. He knew not if it was a sign she had indeed thought better of her rash decision in his study, but he wanted nothing more than to undress her himself. To peel those trousers down her legs. To undo the fastening on her drawers. To put his tongue on her.
Shaking himself from the licentious reverie, he stepped back, gesturing wordlessly for her to enter. Her gaze intent upon his, she moved swiftly forward, into his domain. He closed the door and turned to drink in the sight of her in his bedchamber. How oddly erotic it was to see her surrounded by his dark, masculine furniture. To see his bed in the background, just over her left shoulder, beckoning.
But he could not just pounce on her, and he knew it. Suddenly, everything he had ever learned about wooing a woman seemed to have disappeared from his mind. He forced his whirling thoughts to slow.
“Have you changed your mind, then?” he asked, his voice sounding rusty and unused.
She began plucking the pins from her hair.
His mouth went dry.
She did not stop until her hair had fallen around her shoulders and down her back in dark waves. She raised her fist, clenched around a handful of hairpins.
“Where would you have me put these, Arden?” she asked in her drawl.
The absurd thought that he wanted to keep them pricked the haze of lust clouding his mind. He extended his hand. “Here.”
Her fingertips brushed his palm as she relinquished them. A frisson of desire skated down his spine. Her pupils were round, the fringe of her lashes thick and decadent framing the bright irises. He closed his hand on the hairpins, the metal already warmed from her skin.
Wordlessly, he walked past her, to a marble-topped chest of drawers. Instead of placing the pins on the surface, he slid them inside the first drawer and then turned back to her.
“I have not changed my mind,” she told him. “Have you?”
He wasn’t even certain he had a mind any longer. “No.”
“One night,” she said, startling him. “This can be nothing more.”
Those were meant to be his words of caution to her. He ought to be relieved she had spoken them first. It was best if they knew where each other stood, after all. But somehow, the haste with which she limited their liaison nettled him.
“Have you done this before?” he asked, curious.
She raised a brow. “Would it matter if I have?”
He considered her question, allowing his gaze to trail over her form as he had not dared indulge before. “No,” he said. “I merely wish to know how to proceed.”
She smiled then, and it reached her eyes. He supposed he had passed her test.
“I am no delicate magnolia, Arden.”
He stepped closer, needing to touch her. He traced the backs of his fingers over her cheek, absorbing the soft luxury of her skin, her warmth. “Lucien.”
If they were to be lovers, even just for one night, he wanted to hear his name in her honeyed inflection. He wanted to hear her moan it when he brought her to her pinnacle. He wanted it on her lips when he buried his face between her legs.
Her smile deepened. “Very well. I am no delicate magnolia, Lucien. Do not treat me as if I am one of your sheltered debutantes. As you have said, I am not refined. I am afraid I am missing most of the graces a lady is ordinarily expected to possess.”
He regretted the bitterness he had directed toward her on the first day he had met her. She had taken him by surprise, both with her appearance and her mannerisms, and he had been unpardonably rude.
“I am sorry I paid you an insult that day,” he said, trailing his touch over her jaw. “I was angry at the prospect of being forced to accept a partner. Angry for the mistakes I made.”
“Mistakes?” she asked.
He knew she was curious about The Incident. But now was not the time. Instead, he took her chin in his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back. And then slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he kissed her. Long and open-mouthed. He savored, ran his tongue against hers.
Here was the answer he would give her: desire. A leisurely introduction to what they would be doing all bloody night long. If he only had her once, he would make it count. Need blossomed inside him anew, and his prick was harder than it had ever been, his ballocks drawn tight, all while she was yet fully clothed except for the omission of her boots.
And even the reminder of her stockinged feet made him ache.
Her arms went around his neck, drawing him closer still. He stepped into her lush curves, every point of contact between them setting him on fire. Her generous breasts were crushed against his chest. Her belly touched his rigid shaft. With his free hand, he grasped the fullness of her hip, anchoring her to him.
He bit her lower lip, then soothed the nip with his tongue. My God, he wanted to consume her. One night could not be enough. He knew it instinctively, with this kiss. He knew it in his marrow. There was something elemental about the way he wanted her, something irrepressible about the magnitude of his need. And if her responsiveness to him every time he touched her was any indication, she felt it too.
They could fool themselves all they liked.
He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Sweet.” He kissed her cheek. “So sweet.” Then her ear, the dip behind it.
She sighed, and he absorbed the tremor that ran through her as he took a handful of her sweet-scented hair and held it back, revealing her throat. He kissed her there as well, dragged his mouth down, stopping when he reached the hollow where her pulse thudded.
The urge to see her wearing nothing but her trousers struck him. He raised his head, moving his hands to the line of buttons on the front of her smart bodice. The bodice was the color of cream today, its sole adornment the double line of shells and a tiny satin bow. Mindlessly, he worked the buttons free.
So many bloody buttons.
He lost patience and began to tear.
“Arden,” she protested on a startled gasp.
He remained unrepentant as he looked down at his progress. The halves of her bodice hung open, revealing a modified chemise beneath. No corset. Her breasts were soft and round, the hard, pink peaks taunting shadows.
“Lucien,” he reminded her, then found he could not tarry another moment.
He lowered his lips to her breast and sucked a hungry nipple into his mouth, ignoring the unwanted fabric barrier.
“Oh,” was all she said, but her fingers were in his hair now, sifting.
He loved her hands on him. They made him feel as if she was as greedy for him as he was for her. Tenderly, he bit her nipple, and he was rewarded by her sharp inhalation, the score of her nails on his scalp. This was not going to be a tender bedding. It was going to be a wild and frantic fucking.
He released her nipple, and took her mouth again. He tore the rest of her bodice from her arms, sending it falling. He would buy her a dozen to replace it. He would buy her an entire modiste shop. Damn it, he would commission the finest dressmakers in London to make her a hundred more bodices, and twice as many trousers, as long as she would allow him to tear them all off her.
He forgot about his fantasy to see her in nothing more than the trousers, because her lips were clinging to his, and she was softening. Melting in his hands, losing all the starch and determination she carried about her like a shield. And she was touching him, her hands gliding over his dressing gown in caresses which were tentative at first, then grew bolder. His shoulders first, then his chest, and down his abdomen, until she glanced over his burgeoning cock.
He groaned into her mouth, resisting the instinct to mindlessly thrust against her. He wanted a far greater prize than her hand. And, more importantly, he wanted to last. He kissed her deeper as he found the fastening at the waistband of her trousers and opened it. The billowing fabric fell away. Her drawers came next.
She tugged at
the knot on his belt, and he felt it loosening. Too soon. If he was naked, he would not be able to resist taking her to the bed and making her his. Rushing was not what he was after. Rather, a slow and thorough seduction was.
He tore his lips from hers, his breathing harsh, and stared down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth stung with his kisses, her lips parted. He had never seen a sight more glorious than Hazel half undone, clad in nothing but a short chemise, stockings, and garters, her hair a wild mass spilling down her back.
He reached for her hands, entwining their fingers. “Come.” He tugged her to the sitting area by his fireplace, and she allowed it.
Her eyes held a new question as he stopped her before one of the damask-and-gilt chairs. “What are you doing, Lucien?”
Damnation, he liked the sound of her husky drawl saying his name. Anticipation pulsed through him. “Take off your chemise for me.”
“Here?”
Of course she would question him, the stubborn woman. “Here,” he confirmed. “Please.”
He had never begged for anything in his life, but he would gladly do so, for the chance to watch Hazel strip away the last layer of fabric shielding her lithe body from him. Still watching him in that intense way she had, she gathered up fistfuls of the chemise and pulled it over her head.
“Christ,” he rasped, his voice strangled.
A violent surge of want resounded through him. In her stockings and garters and nothing else, she was a vision. A dream. More beautiful than he had imagined, and he had imagined her many times. Many nights. But never this.
Pale and curved, hips lush, her breasts tipped with hard, pink nipples he already knew loved to be sucked. He had to touch. His hands were on her, stroking, worshiping, investigating. Her delicately curved shoulders, the protrusion of her clavicle, lower, over the fullness of her breasts, down her waist, cupping her bottom. She was all smooth heat and lush femininity.
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