by Amanda Quick
“I see.” Amity peered at him. “You don’t appear to have had your heart broken by the incident.”
“To be honest, it was something of a relief when the end came,” Benedict said. “I had become aware of the fact that it was all she could do not to yawn in my presence.” He paused and then asked coolly, “What about you and Nash? Did he break your heart?”
“I certainly thought so at the time. But, then, I was only nineteen. In hindsight, I consider that I had a very narrow escape. Marriage to Humphrey Nash would have been a nightmare. I very much doubt that he is capable of loving anyone except himself. He does hold a great deal of admiration for his own accomplishments.”
“I don’t suppose there is any possibility that he might be the Bridegroom?”
The hopefulness in Benedict’s voice would have been amusing under other circumstances, Amity thought. He obviously yearned for an excuse to do something drastic to Humphrey.
“No,” she said firmly. “He is not the Bridegroom. Furthermore, I regret to report that none of the other men I have met here tonight fit my memories of the killer.”
“Damn. We need to get beyond the names on that guest list.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
Benedict contemplated the crowd in silence for a long moment. Amity knew that he was silently envisioning possibilities and probabilities.
“Well?” she prompted after a time.
“Connections,” he said very quietly.
“What?”
“There must be links and connections to the killer. We need to find the right one.”
“I don’t understand,” Amity said.
“We can’t talk in here. Let’s take a walk in the gardens.”
“Certainly.”
Benedict took her arm and steered her through the crowd and out onto the broad terrace. The extensive gardens behind the mansion were drenched in shadows. Here and there lanterns bobbed like fairy lights in the night. On one side of the grounds a glass-walled conservatory glittered obsidian dark in the moonlight. At the far end Amity could see the looming outline of a large structure that resembled an Italian villa. She had been told that it was the handsome stables that Gilmore had built to house his impressive collection of horses.
For the first time since they had arrived at the Gilmore ball, Amity allowed herself to take a deep breath. She had not realized how tense she had been all evening until now. It was as if she and Benedict had been on stage from the moment they had arrived. All eyes had turned toward them when they had entered the ballroom—and just as quickly turned away again. But then the whispers had begun. They had ebbed and flowed through the crowd. More than once Amity had caught snatches of the conversations.
“I see that she is not wearing the family necklace.”
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in the engagement. Obviously he hasn’t given her the Rose Necklace.”
It was a relief to escape the ballroom, Amity thought.
“I am not cut out for this sort of thing,” she said.
“Neither am I,” Benedict said.
It occurred to her that they did not need to explain the meaning of those statements to each other. They both understood.
The evening air was pleasantly cool and refreshing after the overheated atmosphere of the ballroom. Amity noticed that she and Benedict were not alone on the terrace. A handful of other couples stood in the shadows around them. Low murmurs and soft laughter drifted on the night air.
Benedict paused only briefly. Then, evidently not satisfied with the degree of privacy that the terrace afforded, he drew Amity down the steps into the deeper darkness beyond.
A summer moon shone down, spilling silver and shadow across the elegantly manicured gardens. Amity was reminded of the nights on board the Northern Star. She was overcome with a sense of wistful longing. Fate in the form of a killer had brought Benedict back to her, but she might only have him for a short time. That knowledge filled her with a sense of urgency. She must savor every moment with him, she thought.
They walked along the graveled path until it ended at the entrance to the elegant stables. There they halted. Amity folded her arms around herself to ward off the small chill that drifted through her. She examined the stables.
“The Gilmore horses live in quarters that are much grander than those of most of the people in London,” she observed.
“Everyone knows Gilmore is obsessed with his bloodstock.” Benedict looked at her. “Are you cold?”
“The night has turned rather crisp, don’t you think?”
Without a word he took off his coat and draped it around her bare shoulders. Just as he had done that last night on board ship, she thought; just before he had kissed her.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much better.” The coat felt oddly heavy. She realized there was an object in one of the pockets. The heat of Benedict’s body and his very masculine, acutely invigorating scent clung to the fine wool. Surreptitiously, she breathed in the faint essence of the man. “What did you mean when you said there are always connections?”
Benedict lounged against the wall of the conservatory and looked back toward the brilliantly illuminated mansion. “Earlier we considered the possibility that the killer did not attend the Channing ball himself but that someone he knew well was present that evening.”
“You are thinking that is the connection that we need to discover, the guest with whom the killer is closely acquainted. That task will be far more difficult.”
“If we are no longer looking for the killer but rather someone who knew him fairly well, we must return to the original guest list.”
“Benedict, I must tell you that I am very concerned that the guest list is a dead end. We may be wasting a great deal of time.”
“I know. But as Logan keeps reminding us, it is a starting point. Tonight we managed to eliminate a number of men from our list.”
“If Penny is right, the person who is connected to the killer may also be here at the Gilmore ball this evening. But how can we possibly identify that individual?”
Benedict wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “There is one other fact that we have which we should not forget.”
“What is that?”
“The gap in time between the first murder and the next three. If we could account for that delay we might be able to narrow the list of suspects.”
“But there could be any number of reasons why so much time passed between the first murder and the others,” Amity said. “Maybe the killer was simply not in London. Perhaps he was at his estates in the country. Or traveling somewhere in the Far East or America.”
“Yes.” Benedict tightened his grip on her. “Yes, maybe there is a very good reason why he did not commit any murders for several months. That is a very important piece of the puzzle, one that should not be too difficult to investigate. We are looking for male friends and relatives of the people on the Channing guest list who were out of town for approximately eight months this past year.”
“Do you really think we can discover that information?”
“We will need some additional assistance from my uncle and my brother, but it can be done.” Benedict turned her in his arms. “We will find the killer, Amity. I will not rest until I know you are safe.”
She smiled. “I know.” She put her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to brush her mouth against his. “I know.”
He framed her face with his hands and kissed her with such fierce urgency that she felt as if he had literally stolen her breath away.
Very deliberately he set her aside and tried the door of the stable. Amity was surprised when it opened easily. Warm air flowed out of the opening, carrying the scents of hay and horses. Moonlight poured down through the windows that lined the walls.
“Definitely finer accommodations
than many that I have enjoyed in my travels,” Amity said.
Benedict laughed.
There was some rustling in the stalls. Several horses put their heads over the top of the half doors and nickered softly. Amity smiled. She stripped off her gloves and went forward to stroke the nose of one of the beasts.
“These are very beautiful animals,” she said. “They must have cost Gilmore a fortune.”
“He can afford it.” Benedict inspected the moonlit scene with evident interest. “He prides himself not only on his horses but also on the architecture of his stables. Very modern in design. I understand this place is heated with hot water pipes embedded in the floor.”
She hid a smile. She had been thinking that the elegant stables offered a rather intimate, even romantic setting. Trust an engineer to look at things somewhat differently.
“It is pleasantly warm in here,” she said. “It reminds me a bit of St. Clare. Without the waves crashing on the shore, of course.”
“Or the damn insects.”
She laughed and moved down the row of stalls to pat the next horse in line. “I expect your memories of St. Clare are somewhat affected by the fact that you took a bullet on the island.”
Benedict came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. He pulled her back against his chest and put his mouth very close to her left ear.
“You may be right,” he said, his voice low and excitingly rough around the edges. “All I know is that I don’t care if I never step foot on another tropical island. But the prospect of not being able to kiss you again? Now, that would crush my spirits forever.”
She shivered but not because she was cold. A delicious heat was stirring deep inside her.
“I would not want to be responsible for flattening anything about you, Mr. Stanbridge, least of all your spirits,” she said.
He turned her slowly around to face him. His eyes were darkly brilliant in the moonlit shadows.
“I am very grateful to hear that, Miss Doncaster. More grateful than you can possibly imagine.”
He folded her close and kissed her again. He went about it slowly this time, carefully, as if he was afraid of trampling her delicate sensibilities. But she was no stranger to his kisses now and she had been dreaming about them for too long. Curiosity and a rush of recklessness were driving her tonight. From the first moment she had seen him in the alley on St. Clare she had been very certain that she would never meet another man like Benedict Stanbridge. If she did not drink from the sparkling spring of desire with him, she might never taste those forbidden waters.
She put her arms around his waist and gave herself up to the embrace with the sense of exhilaration and excitement she always experienced when he touched her.
He must have felt the heat of the flames that were sweeping through her because his mouth was suddenly, devastatingly hot on hers.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the far end of the aisle of horse stalls. There he stood her on her feet. He removed the coat from her shoulders. She watched him take a pristine white handkerchief out of one pocket. Then he took out another object and set it aside. She heard the soft clink of metal and caught a glimpse of moonlight glinting on the barrel of a gun. No wonder the coat had felt so heavy. He spread it across a pile of straw.
She was about to ask him if he needed the handkerchief because he feared the hay might cause him to sneeze, but then he wrapped his arms around her again and kissed her, silencing the question.
She was fascinated and enthralled by the electric currents that swirled and roiled just beneath the surface of the man. They aroused her in ways she had never dreamed possible.
His hands moved on her, following the shape of her from breasts to waist. She felt his fingers searching for the hooks that closed the front of the gown. A moment later the stiff bodice fell open revealing the thin lawn camisole beneath. When he touched her breasts through the light fabric, everything inside her tightened.
“Benedict,” she whispered.
He eased the gown downward until it tumbled into a sea of satin and silk around her ankles. He untied the petticoat with its small bustle and let both undergarments fall away. She was left clad in the filmy camisole, stockings and drawers.
“You are so lovely,” Benedict said. He drew his hands up her arms until he reached her throat. He framed her face between his palms and kissed her with reverent hunger.
Shaken, she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself. His black bow tie appeared in stark contrast to his crisp white shirt. She fumbled with the tie until she got it undone. The ends trailed around his neck.
She went to work on the fastenings of his shirt. When she finally got it open, she slid her hands inside. Her fingers brushed lightly across his chest. She thrilled to the feel of his sleek muscles and warm skin. She had not touched him so intimately since the days and nights on the ship when she had nursed him through the fever and changed the bloody bandages. It was so good to find him strong and healthy once again, she thought.
But when her questing fingers discovered the raised, scarred skin that marked the now-healed wound, Benedict sucked in a sharp breath.
She flinched and swiftly moved her hand away from the scar. “I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
“No.” He caught one of her hands and flattened her palm against his chest again. “No, it’s all right. The wound is still a little tender but you did not hurt me. When you touched me there, I was reminded of the night I awoke from the fever to see you curled up in a chair, watching over me. I knew then that you had saved my life.”
She smiled. “The first thing you wanted to know after you concluded that you were not dead was if the letter was safe.”
“And you assured me that it was still hidden in your satchel.”
He drew her down onto the bed of straw. They lay together on his coat. In the moonlight she could see the dark heat of sexual desire in his eyes.
“I am not in the grip of a fever tonight.” He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she tumbled across his chest. “And the only pain I am experiencing at the moment is the sort caused by desire. Tonight I know exactly what I am doing. I want you, Amity, more than I have ever wanted any woman in my life.”
A thrilling awareness flashed through her. She clutched his shoulders and met his eyes, letting him know that she was ready for the adventure that awaited her.
“I want you, as well,” she said. “More than anything or anyone.”
He pulled her head down to his and kissed her again, a heavy, drugging kiss that ignited her senses. She felt his hands glide up her thighs under the hem of the camisole. When he touched her intimately between her legs it was her turn to take a sharp, astonished breath, but she did not relax her grip on his shoulders. Everything inside her seemed to be melting.
He stroked her in places where no man had ever touched her, eliciting sensations that she had sensed existed but had never really known. She was an experienced traveler but this was one journey she had never undertaken, perhaps because she had never encountered the right travel companion, she thought. But tonight everything felt right. This was the man, the place and the time. Those factors might never come together again. She must seize the moment or forever regret her failure of nerve.
An unfamiliar tension was building inside her. She knew Benedict’s hand was wet from the damp heat he had drawn forth with his touch. Part of her was embarrassed, but he certainly did not seem to mind and she was too excited to pull away.
He turned her onto her back and leaned over her, probing her gently. His mouth closed over one breast and she found herself arching against him in a silent plea for more.
He released her to open the front of his trousers. A shock of uncertainty went through her when she saw the hard, rigid length of him revealed in the silver light.
“I’m not sure—” she began.
He loomed over her again, blocking out the moonlight, and silenced her with a kiss.
“Touch me,” he said against her mouth. “You don’t know how I have longed to feel your hand on me.”
Cautiously she encircled him with her fingers. He groaned. She started to move her hand slowly, experimentally. His breathing grew harsh in her ears, as if he was having to exert enormous control. His brow was as damp with sweat as it had been when he was in the grip of the fever.
He raised his head. In the deep shadows his face was stark and intense. His eyes gleamed with a dark desire. Knowing that he wanted her so badly was all it took to overcome the last vestiges of her uncertainty.
He stroked her until she was breathless. Until the tension inside her was wound so tight she thought she could not bear it any longer. She sank her nails into his shoulders.
Her release blindsided her. Without warning the tight, heavy, throbbing sensation inside her burst forth in a series of pulsing waves. A rush of euphoric surprise took her by storm and suddenly she was flying.
Benedict braced himself above her and used one hand to guide himself to her core. He thrust into her in one long, relentless stroke.
The invasion brought her crashing back to earth. She gave a small, choked shriek and instinctively tried to pull away. Her nails became claws on the front of Benedict’s shirt.
Benedict gripped her hips tightly, anchoring her.
“Relax,” he urged. He rested his damp forehead on hers. “Just relax.”
For a moment she dared not move. Neither did he. She could feel the fierce knots of the muscles of his back beneath her hands. He was struggling for control of his passions while he waited for her to get over the initial shock. The knowledge that he was forced to work so hard to restrain himself reassured her.
Slowly her body adjusted to him. Taking a quick breath, she dared to wriggle a little in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Benedict groaned and started to move, cautiously at first and then with increasing confidence. She found the sensation strange and uncomfortable but no longer intolerable.