Her feet halted, and she stilled. Just for an instant, then she was strolling again, as if nothing whatever had occurred.
Drake lowered his head and demanded, “What?”
She glanced up and met his eyes. “Don’t look now,” she murmured, “but Lawton’s oldest two brothers and one of his cousins just slipped out through a side door.”
“A side door to where?” Drake obeyed the pressure of her hand on his arm and changed tack for the side wall a little way ahead.
He hadn’t actually expected a reply, but she confidently stated, “It leads to an antechamber adjacent to the library.”
They drew close to the wall. She looked up at him and smiled gloriously. “Look besotted.”
That wouldn’t be hard, but he did have some pride. He kept his expression mild, but allowed his gaze to grow intent. “Why?”
“Because we’re going to slip through the same door.” Then she tipped back her head and gave a husky laugh—that particular laugh that feathered over his senses in the worst possible way—then she opened a door concealed in the paneling and slipped through. Her hand slid down his sleeve, her fingers tangled with his, and she drew him after her.
He didn’t resist.
One swift glance confirmed that there was no one in the small antechamber.
He glanced fleetingly back into the ballroom. The view was partially screened by a group of potted palms and a column wreathed in greenery. With most attention focused on the dance floor, it was possible no one had seen them leave.
Silently, he eased the panel closed.
He turned to find Louisa on the other side of the room with her ear pressed to the panel of what he deduced must be a door to the library.
Three strides, and he joined her.
The men couldn’t have been that far from the door; he could hear them clearly.
“If he was killed by one of his creditors—well, that could be any one of a dozen or more.”
That, Drake thought, came from Lawton’s second-oldest brother, Gerrard.
“Never heard of a creditor killing a debtor.”
Presumably, that was Lawton’s cousin, as Drake hadn’t heard the voice before.
The cousin went on, “Why, if creditors made a habit of shooting people who owed them, half the ton would be dead. And it rather defeats the purpose—dunning by way of a gun.”
“Creditors”—the pompous tones of Lawton’s eldest brother, Robert, Hawesley’s heir, were instantly recognizable—“would at least be understandable. Even acceptable. But God alone knows who the damned fool might have become involved with.”
A lengthy exchange followed, in which the three men gave voice to their fears that Lawton might have, at last, overstepped himself and cheated someone powerful enough to kill him in retribution. It quickly became clear that all three were concerned that said retribution might not stop with Lawton but extend to his family, root and branch.
Although colorful, the three men’s assertions were entirely speculative and transparently lacked any basis in fact.
Or at least facts they knew of.
Finally, the three came to what, apparently, was the crux of their current debate, namely that the investigation into Lawton’s murder might turn up something—some collection of facts about Lawton—that the family would prefer remained unknown.
Drake considered that highly likely.
“Having the family name dragged through the courts.” Robert sounded dismayed and just a tad frightened. “It would do for m’father—he would have an apoplexy, and that would only make things worse.”
“Damned gossips would have a field day,” Gerrard opined. “M’sisters and m’mother wouldn’t be able to show their faces. Possibly not for years.”
“I say,” the cousin said, “you don’t think that having a word with one of the chappies at Scotland Yard might be in order? Just to hint them away, don’t you know? Make it clear that the family isn’t pressing for the murderer to be found, although of course you’d phrase it as the family fully understanding the difficulties in tracing such a murderer and so on.”
“Hmm.” After a moment, Robert agreed, “That might bear thinking about.”
“At least,” Gerrard said, “that’s something we can do.”
Silence descended on the other side of the panel.
Drake was about to straighten when the cousin said, “Come on—we’d better get back before the wives start to pout.”
The words reached Drake and Louisa clearly—because Lawton’s cousin was now very close to the other side of the door.
For a split second, Louisa and Drake stared at each other.
There was nowhere to hide in the small antechamber—all it contained were two wing chairs angled before a small fireplace.
Louisa glanced at the door to the ballroom. Too far away, but if they could reach it…
She took one step—
Drake seized her, whirled, and dropped into the nearest chair, dragging her down onto his lap. Then he framed her face.
As the door to the library opened, he breathed, “Make this look good.”
Then he kissed her.
Desperately, rapaciously—to within an inch of her sanity.
Hunger exploded across her senses.
Her hands had fallen to his shoulders; she gripped briefly, then impelled by need, slid her hands upward to thrust her fingers into his hair and clutch. And hold on—cling as a maelstrom of feelings rose and swept her from the world.
Her lips had been parted on a gasp; the hard thrust of his tongue against hers, and the heavy provocative stroking that followed, sent thrills cascading down her spine.
Heat rose in response, geysering from somewhere deep inside her.
And she kissed him back, molding her lips to his, tilting her head to improve the angle so they could feed on each other’s lips and race on into a landscape of intense, glorious sensation.
Of passion and desire unleashed. Of need so raw, so powerfully primitive it scored their minds.
From a very great distance came a shocked “Oh my!”
Followed by a rumbling chuckle and a murmur, then the door to the library closed again.
Neither of them looked, much less cared.
Drake couldn’t catch his breath. And couldn’t assemble enough wit to worry. In that moment, the only goal he possessed was blazoned across his brain. To seize her. Have her. And chain her irrevocably to him.
Through the insistent thud of his heart in his veins, through the tumult of need that drove him, he realized he’d let some part of him loose, a part he never should have acknowledged, let alone freed.
To feel. To yearn. To hunger with a wanting so desperately needful it overthrew his rational mind and controlled him.
Dangerous. So dangerous.
Even more dangerous than her.
Not that she was helping. If anything, the flagrant encouragement of her lips beneath his, the ardor with which she matched his soaring desire, fed that darker, more primitive side of him, gave it strength, and crystalized its purpose.
Focused it, and him, even more unrelentingly on her.
She wriggled in his arms, shifting on his lap to more fully face him. To meet his escalating demands with her own—with her own passion, her own needs.
Both were as clear to him, as intense and definite, as his own; they acted like a clarion call to his deepest instincts.
He ravaged her mouth, unable to rein in such a powerful passion too long restrained.
In answer, she leaned her forearms on his chest, rose up to meet him, and tried to wrest control of the exchange from him. Not to end it—that was blatantly obvious—but to drive it into deeper waters…
His last frayed rein snapped.
And he surrendered.
Completely, unequivocally, he jettisoned all pretense, all resistance, all thought of denying what he felt for her.
What he wanted of her.
What he needed and intended to have.
H
e’d clung to resistance for so long, it had, he’d thought, become second nature, but there was no way and no hope of denying this.
Louisa’s mind had blanked; she’d forgotten where they were. Her world had shrunk to the confines of the chair, to the circle of Drake’s arms.
He’d released her face long ago. Now, like bands of tempered steel, his arms held her, his strong palms pressed to her back, hard fingers splayed, holding her captive.
She had no intention of escaping.
Her entire being was focused on reveling. On drinking in every last gasp of delight, every shiver of sensation.
She had no idea where the kiss had taken them—onto some other plane, certainly, but not one she knew. Not one she’d previously visited. This heat, this wanting, were new—so novel the awareness alone left her giddy.
Was it her or him—or both of them together? She had no idea, but felt sure she would find out. Eventually. For now, she was content to wallow and learn. And experience each new thrill.
One of her hands had slipped from his hair to rest on his chest. Somehow, that hand had slid beneath his coat, and her palm rested on fine linen. Beneath the soft fabric, she could feel the thud of his heart.
Hard. Driving.
A rhythm her own heart seemed to recognize, to know at some level too deep to comprehend.
The click of a doorlatch—the sudden sound of voices near—jerked them both back to full awareness.
As if doused in cold water, they broke from the kiss on a smothered gasp. Even as they looked toward the door to the ballroom, the realization of the picture they would present to anyone entering—
She wasn’t given to panicking, and thank God, he wasn’t, either. The very last thing either of them needed was a full-blown scandal resulting in a declaration of marriage.
A declaration of marriage, yes, but in the right time and in the right way.
Not like this.
The door from the ballroom was open, but only just a crack; whoever had opened it had paused on the other side to talk to someone.
They had a fraction of a second to save themselves.
She was scrambling from his lap even as he pushed up from the chair.
Face set, he seized her hand and whisked her to the other door. They had to take the risk that there was no one in the library.
He opened the door and whirled her through, then followed.
Drake glanced back as, silently, he drew the door between the antechamber and the library after him. The last thing he saw before he shut the panel was the other door swinging open.
He turned to look at Louisa. His partner in adventures of multiple kinds.
Her lips were rosy red, swollen and slick. Her hair was still passably anchored; he was too experienced to wantonly disarrange it…regardless, she looked wanton. Her eyes were stars, sparkling pools of peridot green in which desire sparked and passion swirled.
He suspected he wasn’t much better. That need she and only she evoked was still riding him with the force of a storm.
In that instant, as they stood in the thankfully deserted library and in the light from dimmed sconces, stared at each other, he felt something in him change.
Some hint must have shown in his face, in his eyes. She studied them for a second, then more tentative than she usually was, she gestured to the door to the corridor. “I suppose we should go.”
There was just enough uncertainty in her tone to permit that newly risen reality to take hold.
He caught her wrist, shackled his fingers around the fine bones. “Not so fast.” His voice was a gravelly rumble. “There’s something I believe we should discuss.”
Before she could ask what, he towed her across the library and opened a door he’d spied directly opposite the one from the antechamber. Beyond lay a deserted, unlit parlor.
He didn’t waste time smiling; he swung her through the door, followed and shut it, then whirled her, backed her against the panel, and covered her lips with his.
The hunger hadn’t died, hadn’t faded. Now, released, it roared.
Through him—to find its echo, its mate, in her.
Just as she always did, she rose to meet him, responding to the demanding challenge of the kiss.
And as always, she matched him step for step, heartbeat for thudding heartbeat as he deliberately tested the waters, deliberately let passion have its way.
With them both.
He was every bit as mindless as she self-evidently was.
Every bit as wild, as quintessentially untamed as she.
He’d always assumed that with her, any engagement would be clash after clash—that they were too alike to draw close in this sphere.
It had never occurred to him that, as with their wills in the investigation, their passions, too, if focused on one goal, might collide and merge—and become a greater force.
Each augmented by the other. The passion of one expanded and ignited by the passion of the other.
What was between them—what he’d always known was there—erupted in a fiery conflagration of pure, unadulterated need.
One several orders of magnitude more than he’d bargained for.
Louisa clutched, seized—wanted with an urgency she’d never felt before. Now—she needed something now, with a desperation that hovered on the edge of pain.
Her breasts felt heavy, swollen and aching behind the constriction of her tightly fitting bodice and corset. Her nipples, puckered tight, burned with a sharp ache.
Somehow, he guessed. She felt his fingers deftly slipping free the buttons down her spine, then the sleeveless bodice loosened. She tried to pull back from the kiss, but he moved into her; with the hard length of his body, he held her against the door while, between them, his experienced fingers pushed her bodice down and undid the front lacings of her corset.
She couldn’t catch her breath; her senses and her wits were reeling—with anticipation, with the startling realization that this was truly happening.
Then her corset loosened, and her breasts sprang free, and he palmed one aching mound and, with his thumb, gently stroked her skin.
She shuddered, wracked to her very bones by the leap of her senses and the torrent of need that flowed in response.
No quarter. She asked for none, and he granted none as his fingers artfully stroked, as his hands weighed, then he bent his head, and his lips came into play.
For uncounted moments, she was awash on a sea of exquisite sensation, but that only seemed to heighten her need rather than slake it. For some reason, he avoided touching the peaks of her breasts, those tight buds that begged for a touch, a caress, for ease.
She needed to touch him, to feel his skin as he was feeling hers—perhaps that would spur him to give her what she ached for.
His coat was unbuttoned; she raised her hands, slid them beneath the sides, and spread her suddenly greedy palms and fingers over the heated expanse of his chest—
He raised his head, caught her hands, trapped both her wrists in one hand, raised them above her head, and pressed them to the cool wood.
She gave vent to an incoherent protest. She tugged, the movement arching her against him, pressing her breasts to his hard chest, rubbing the sensitized skin against the fabric of shirt and coat.
“Later,” was all he deigned to growl. Then he bent his head and captured her mouth again, and scrambled her wits with a searing kiss as he closed his free hand about her breast.
She hadn’t thought it possible, but the kiss was somehow hotter. More fiery, laced with some promise she didn’t fully comprehend. She wanted to know more, wanted to follow the trail and see where it led, yet still he gave her no surcease from the sharp, excruciatingly scintillating pleasure-pain of her tightly furled nipples.
His fingers stroked, caressed—languidly, almost idly. She felt perfectly certain he knew what he was doing, knew what she was feeling; she tried to break from the kiss to berate him, but that was something else he wouldn’t allow.
Frustration a
nd need was a potent combination. The building wave was so compelling, she felt as if she might soon explode.
Then his fingers shifted, drifted from her skin.
Through the gasping, needy tumult that was swamping her mind, she managed to focus enough to follow as he found her pearls, draped them over his fingers, then he stroked the smooth curves over and about her areolas, circling her burning nipples, inciting a fresh wave of sensation, sending heat and longing surging through her.
The pearls were too smooth to relieve the ache that gripped her.
Drake knew it. He let the long strand slide through his fingers. Keeping his lips on hers, taking pleasure in the honeyed haven of her mouth, keeping her anchored in and momentarily distracted by the exchange, he blindly searched and found the peridot-and-diamond clasp, and with a few expert flicks of his fingers, shifted the rope of pearls until the clasp dangled, hanging low.
He caught the clasp, turned it between his fingertips, then artfully, with a skill he’d learned long ago, used the rough surface of the cut stones and their gold settings to abrade her nipples.
Her shocked gasp, followed by something very close to a keening whimper of pure pleasure, although trapped and smothered by the kiss, nevertheless purled across his senses.
He pandered to her need, to her immediate desire—stoked and fed the fire that burned so achingly bright, so fierce and unrestrained, within her. For long minutes, he held her on that specific plane of physical sensation, sating her senses just enough to keep her ensnared, floating.
His to steer, to guide.
Ultimately to take, to plunder.
But not tonight.
His iron-hard erection was a pulsing pain, but strategy and tactics were his middle name, a part of his psyche that had long stood him in excellent stead in this sphere.
Campaigns such as this, the one he’d embarked on in a split-second decision he did not yet regret, were best conducted step by step.
If he wished to adhere to that maxim, he needed to draw a line now and bring tonight’s engagement to an end.
He’d anticipated some degree of reluctance on his part, the part that would much prefer to seize her now. He hadn’t counted on her—on the combination of her inexperience and her usual willful propensity to plunge headlong into the unknown.
The Greatest Challenge of Them All Page 19