by Amanda Quick
He should not have snapped at her, he thought. She was an intelligent, strong-willed woman, but she had gone through a great deal because of Zachary Elland three years ago. Now it seemed she would have to go through it all again. So would he.
“Someone has made certain that we are aware there is now a new Memento-Mori Man,” he said quietly. “Very well, the message has been received. I will hunt him down, just as I did Elland.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you, Tobias. I know I can depend upon you. I only wish I had realized that three years ago instead of allowing myself to be blinded by Zachary’s charm.”
He did not want to hear any more of this conversation, he thought. He stepped back from the door. “Get some rest, Aspasia. I must leave early in the morning, but I will meet you again in London.”
She frowned. “Why are you departing so soon?”
There was no need to explain that Lavinia had managed to get them both ejected from the castle, he decided. He had to consider the professional image of Lake & March.
“I have done all I can here,” he said coolly. “I must return to Town to continue my investigation. Time is of the essence.”
“Yes, of course.” She hesitated, making no move to close the door. “Tobias, I meant what I said a moment ago. I truly wish that I had understood the great difference between you and Zachary three years ago. I assure you, I am a far wiser woman now. I have learned much in the time we have been apart. I know that you, too, must have some regrets about what happened in the past. Do you want to come in and talk for a while?”
The invitation could not have been more plain if she had had it engraved on fine paper, he thought. She was asking him to join her in her bed.
“I do not think that would be a good idea,” he said. “The hour grows late and I must rise very early. Good night, Aspasia.”
She smiled somewhat wistfully. “Yes, of course. I understand. I am happy that you have found someone you care about, Tobias.”
He walked away from her door. It closed softly in the shadows behind him.
At the foot of the staircase he paused. The sensible thing to do was to continue along the corridor to his own room. If he was unable to sleep, he could spend the time packing.
He stood there for a while longer. There was no one else about. He heard no footsteps on the stairs. Evidently the violent death earlier had squelched some of the guests’ enthusiasm for night games.
After another few seconds of close contemplation, he changed his mind about the wisdom of returning to his bedchamber. He went up the stairs to Lavinia’s floor and walked along the hall to her door. He would knock very, very softly, he decided. If she did not answer, he would assume that she had gone to sleep. He would do the gentlemanly thing and go back to his own room.
He rapped once, lightly.
The door opened a few inches. Lavinia smiled at him through the narrow opening. She had changed into a long, white cotton nightgown. A dainty froth of white lace framed her throat.
He felt his blood heat at the sight of her.
“It occurred to me,” he said, moving through the doorway, “that the night need not be completely wasted.”
“An excellent thought.” She closed the door and turned to face him.
She had taken down her hair. In the glow of the candle, the loosened tresses were a fiery nimbus around her intelligent, intriguing face. Her eyes were pools of sensual mystery.
She smiled the slow, secret smile that never failed to make everything inside him clench as tight as a fist.
He pulled her into his arms. When her mouth met his, the fires leaped between them. He experienced the same sensation that always came over him when he held her like this. She had been meant for him. He did not have to restrain himself with her. He did not have to tread warily for fear of frightening her. Lavinia’s passions were as strong and fierce as his own.
She was different from any other woman he had ever known. With her he could take the risk of allowing her to get close to that part of him that he had spent a lifetime concealing and controlling.
He picked her up and carried her to the small bed. He set her down on the quilts and paused only long enough to strip off his clothing.
When he was ready she smiled at him and raised her arms to welcome him.
His own personal mesmerist, he thought. The only one who could put him in a trance.
“Lavinia.”
He settled himself between her soft, warm thighs, caught her wrists in both of his hands and anchored them gently on either side of her head. The aching urgency pounded through him.
He bent his head and kissed her throat.
“Sometimes I want you so much it is a wonder I do not go up in flames,” he whispered.
“Oh, Tobias, do you not understand? When you burn, I burn too.”
The need flared within him.
He released one of her wrists and reached down to ease the nightgown out of his way. He drew his palm up the silken skin of her inner thigh. When he reached his goal, he found her warm and already damp. The scent of her body acted like a drug on his senses.
He touched her. She sucked in her breath and stirred sinuously beneath him. Her free hand clutched his bare shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. Impatiently she tried to get her other wrist loose, but he kept it pinned gently to the bed.
“Not yet,” he murmured against her breast. “First tell me how you want me to touch you.”
“You are touching me precisely how I want you to touch me.” She caught her breath. “Indeed, you always seem to know just how to do it.”
He drew his fingertips a little higher, pressing the little nubbin back into its tiny sheath. “Perhaps it would be better if I did this.”
She moaned and raised her hips a little off the bed. “Oh, yes. That is perfect.”
“What about this?” He slid a finger inside her and pushed upward.
“Tobias.”
“I collect that is better yet?”
“Yes.” She gasped and moved urgently against his hand. “Better than perfect.”
He started to remove his finger. Tiny muscles clenched.
“No.” She sounded breathless now. “No, I want you to touch me like that again.”
“Tell me exactly how you want it.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair and forced his head down to her breast. “You know how I want it. You are the only one who knows. Touch me, Tobias.”
The command set fire to his blood.
“Anything to oblige a lady.” He took one nipple into his mouth and simultaneously eased his finger back inside. He pushed once more against the upper wall of her snug passage.
She mumbled thickly, twisting beneath him, and struggled once again to free her right wrist. She was strong, he thought. So much stronger than she appeared.
“Not yet,” he muttered. “I want to feel you come apart in my hands.”
“Tobias.”
He probed deeper, harder. She cried out softly. Her eyes squeezed shut.
He stroked her until she was tight and desperate, and only then did he release her other wrist. She grabbed him to her, wrapping her legs around his waist.
He thrust himself into her hot passage.
She convulsed around him with another soft cry. The small pulses triggered his own climax. It swept through him like some invisible storm.
Together they fell into the whirlpool.
A long time later, he roused himself from the sweet, heavy lethargy that had stolen over him in the wake of passion. The cot was, indeed, too small for the two of them, but he was not inclined to complain.
The scent of their lovemaking hung in the air, ripe and potent. He knew that he would forever associate it with her.
She lay languidly on top of him, her head pillowed against his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest. Her nightgown was bunched up around her waist. The candle had burned low, but there was enough light left to reveal the rounded contours of her ba
re hips and thighs.
He stroked the length of her spine with the flat of his palm all the way down to the soft curve of her buttocks.
“Asleep?” he asked softly.
“No,” she mumbled.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Whatever else happens, do not ever forget that.”
She stirred, raised her head, and kissed him softly on his mouth. “I love you also, Tobias. Whatever else happens, do not forget that.”
He threaded his fingers through her tumbled hair. “I will not, my sweet.”
It was as though they had taken their own private vows, he thought.
He shifted, reluctant to leave the warm bed. “I should return to my room.”
She smiled at him. The mysteries in her eyes deepened. She moved her hand deliberately down his stomach. Her fingers closed around him.
“Do you really want to spend what little is left of this night sleeping?” she asked.
He felt himself stir and harden.
“It occurs to me that it is a long drive back to Town,” he said against her throat. “We will have plenty of time for a refreshing nap.”
Chapter 8
The miniature volcano erupted with a high-pitched hiss of escaping vapor. There was a crackle from the interior of the little mountain, and sparks shot from the top.
The audience gasped in appreciation. The lecturer, a spindly gnome of a man named Horace Kirk, took a step forward and made a small bow. When he straightened, he beamed at the crowd that filled the hall.
“And thus ends my lecture on the nature of hot vapors,” he said. “My talk next week will concern the principles of electricity.”
A burst of applause filled the room.
Emeline, seated in the second row between Anthony and Priscilla, clapped along with everyone else.
Priscilla could scarcely contain her enthusiasm. She regarded the gnome as though he were one of the dashing romantic poets.
“Was that not the most astonishing experiment you have ever witnessed?” she whispered to Emeline beneath the cover of applause. “I vow, Mr. Kirk’s lectures have opened up a new world to me.”
“Very interesting,” Emeline agreed. Privately she conceded that she was far more intrigued by the subject of antiquities than she was by the wonders of electricity and chemistry, but she had to admit the demonstration that had just concluded was quite exciting. “I must tell you that when you suggested we subscribe to Mr. Kirk’s series of science lectures, I feared they would prove somewhat dull. But that is certainly not the case. Don’t you agree, Anthony?”
“I certainly do,” Anthony said with genuine appreciation. “It was an excellent notion, Priscilla.” He glanced at the small journal on her lap. “I see you managed to fill several more pages with notes again today.”
Priscilla clutched the journal to her bosom and gave Professor Kirk another enraptured glance. “I have learned so much from these lectures. I only wish that I could convince Mama to allow me to purchase some instruments and equipment. I would give anything to be able to set up a proper laboratory where I could conduct experiments. But she refuses to even consider the notion.”
Emeline was not surprised by that news. She had no difficulty whatsoever imagining Lady Wortham’s horrified reaction to the idea of Priscilla setting up a laboratory.
Lady Wortham took her responsibilities as a mother quite seriously. Her chief ambition in life was to see her daughter married to a respectable gentleman from a good family, preferably one who was in line to inherit a comfortable fortune. To that end she had a great deal to work with, Emeline thought, because Priscilla was a very attractive young woman.
True, her friend’s hair was a shade of molten gold that was not considered to be in the first stare of fashion, but Emeline thought the color complemented her blue eyes quite effectively. She also knew that she was not alone in that opinion. Priscilla certainly never lacked for dancing partners at the balls and soirees they attended together. Regardless of the prevailing views of those who set the fashion, it was clear that any number of gentlemen were attracted to ladies with blond hair.
Not that her friend did not possess a number of other fine attributes. In addition to a kind, charming manner, Priscilla was endowed with pretty, delicate features and a gracefully full, rounded figure.
It was unfortunate, in Emeline’s private opinion, that Lady Wortham insisted that her daughter dress only in pink. The color did not particularly suit her.
But as far as Emeline was concerned, her companion’s best features were her intelligence, good humor, and common sense. Those were the factors that had allowed a genuine friendship to blossom between the two of them.
By rights they should have viewed each other as rivals, Emeline thought. Their acquaintance had been fostered and encouraged originally by Lady Wortham for less than altruistic reasons. Priscilla’s matchmaking mama liked the notion of her daughter going about with Emeline because she believed that her offspring’s looks were set off to advantage by the contrast between the two young women.
Emeline was well-aware that her chief claim to fashion was her thick, dark hair. In other respects, she knew very well that she did not meet the demands of true connoisseurs of style. She was too tall and too slender and her personality was much too forthright. The last was no accident. She had deliberately patterned herself after her aunt. Lavinia rarely bothered to veil her intelligence, nor did she hesitate to state her opinions.
“After all those explosive demonstrations, I believe I feel the need of some cooling ice cream,” Anthony announced, getting to his feet. “Can I persuade the two of you to join me?”
“You will not have to ask me a second time,” Emeline assured him. “It is very warm in this hall, is it not?”
“Ice cream sounds wonderful,” Priscilla said. “It is rather hot in here. I had not noticed until this moment.”
Emeline laughed. “That is because you were too occupied with the wonders of Professor Kirk’s demonstrations.”
Anthony stood back to allow Emeline and Priscilla to go ahead of him down the aisle toward the front of the hall. The crowd thickened briefly as several people left their seats at the same time and made for the doors.
When the path cleared a moment later, Emeline caught sight of the man who lounged with negligent ease, one shoulder propped against the wall. A disturbing sensation went around her. This was not the first time Dominic Hood had materialized in the vicinity of herself and her companions in the past few days.
“Bloody hell,” Anthony muttered behind her. “Hood is here.”
Priscilla was the only one who was unabashedly delighted to see him. “I did not know that Mr. Hood was interested in science.”
“What an astounding surprise,” Anthony growled.
“Calm yourself,” Emeline said in low tones. “I do not know why it is that you and Mr. Hood have taken such a dislike to each other, but I do not want any awkward scenes today. Is that understood?”
“What occurred yesterday at the museum was not my fault.”
“Mr. Hood may have started things off on the wrong foot when he gave us his opinion of that statue of Hercules and the Hydra, but you, sir, made matters a good deal worse when you informed him that he knew nothing about art.”
“I merely spoke the truth,” Anthony said, icily virtuous. “Hood has no eye for art or antiquities.”
“That may be true, but it was very poor manners to tell him so to his face.”
“He should have kept his remarks about the statue to himself. I wonder if he will prove to be as ignorant about science?”
“I am serious, Anthony. There will be no scenes. Do you understand?”
He smiled coldly in a way that was uncomfortably reminiscent of Mr. March.
“I give you my word that I will not start a public quarrel,” he said.
There was no time to pin him down on the details of that too-precisely phrased promise, because they had almost reached the door. Emeline busied herself tying her
bonnet strings. She used the moment to study Dominic Hood more closely, wondering again what it was that had created such immediate hostility between him and Anthony.
In her opinion, they should have been instant friends, she thought. On the surface, they appeared to have a great deal in common. Dominic was the same age as Anthony, who had turned twenty-two last month. They were also of a similar height and both were endowed with lean, athletic frames.
They shared a sense of style too, she thought. The coat Dominic wore was remarkably similar to Anthony's, dark blue and cut to emphasize his shoulders. Their pleated trousers and patterned waistcoats were almost identical. They both had handsome fobs attached to their pocket watches and intricate knots tied in their snowy white cravats.
It was true that Dominic appeared to possess the sort of resources that enabled him to patronize a more expensive tailor, but the overall effect was nearly identical to the effect that Anthony’s tailor achieved. Perhaps that was because neither man depended on his clothes for the impression he made, Emeline thought. Each of them radiated a certain forcefulness of personality that would have been obvious even if both dressed in rags.
At that moment Dominic straightened away from the wall and inclined his head to Priscilla and Emeline.
“Ladies,” he said, “what a pleasure to see you here today. You are both in excellent looks.”
“Mr. Hood.” Priscilla glowed. “You did not mention that you would be attending Professor Kirk’s lecture today.”
“Science is a hobby of mine,” he said laconically. His eyes met Anthony's. There was no mistaking the challenge in them. “Do you claim the same expertise in chemistry and related matters as you do in art and antiquities, Sinclair?”
“No,” Anthony said brusquely. “I have not made a close study of science.”
“I see,” Dominic drawled. “Perhaps that is for the best. Comprehension of the principles of electricity, astronomy, and the like requires a mind that is trained in logic and reason. Science is quite different from art and antiquities in that it is not subject to the whims of fashion, taste, and emotion. It follows the laws of nature instead.”