To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1)

  “Damnation, Stephen!”

  “What?” he said innocently, as if this drawn out, on the verge of climax teasing wasn’t torturing him as much as her.

  “No more, I can’t bear it. Do you want me to lie down…?”

  “I think not. Straddle me.”

  Her eyes widened with interest. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Damn it, hurry.”

  Allowing her knees to fall either side of his thighs, Caroline shimmied upwards. At his curt nod, she took his erection and fed it slowly into her body, sucking in a sharp breath as her tight sheath stretched to accommodate him.

  “Now what?” she gasped, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her engorged nipples so close to his lips he couldn’t help turning his head for a quick, hard suck of each. But he could barely remember his own name let alone the ability to instruct, and mentally scrabbled around for something to say other than incoherent gibberish.

  “Move. Up and down,” he managed, gripping her hips to guide her. The rhythm was awkward at first as she bore firmly downwards and he thrust fiercely upwards, but soon they were flawlessly, gorgeously in sync, grinding together in a way that made her throw her head back and cry out in prolonged, exquisite ecstasy. Two more circling, poundingly deep thrusts and he came, bucking and jerking as he filled her to overflowing with his seed.

  Caroline collapsed against his chest, fitting herself to him like a second skin, and she felt so soft and warm and good he closed his arms around her without a second thought.

  Not that he even had the ability to think right now. Jesus.

  “And that, Stephen” she said breathlessly, “is why you should always remain in your wife’s bed.”

  He smiled. Probably a good a reason as any.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So, Westleigh. It’s been what, a few weeks now? How is married life treating you?”

  Stephen barely heard the unknown buck’s polite enquiry over the sheer din in the overcrowded ballroom, but before he could answer he was interrupted by a bark of laughter.

  “In that the man barely leaves his house nowadays and even turned down a coveted dinner invitation from yours truly the other night,” said Thomas, lifting his glass in a salute. “I’d say passing well. By the by, Westleigh, did no one tell you it’s not the done thing to send one’s wife lustful, yearning glances across a crowded ballroom?”

  He glared at the Marquess of Ardmore. Pure exaggeration from someone who knew far better. He was merely keeping an eye on Caroline’s progress as she made her way from group to group, accepting well wishes, complimenting their gowns and hair, keeping her promise not to overturn a punchbowl on a certain young baroness. If Lady Beecham was smart she would give Caroline the widest of berths, but the woman wasn’t exactly known for her mental capacity.

  “It is a crush, is it not? Your dear sisters must be absolutely thrilled. Very kind of you to volunteer as host.”

  Thomas scowled, and gestured for him to walk. “Like I had a choice. The girls have perfected trench warfare, it is tears and pleading one day, whisky theft and carriage malfunctions the next. I keep increasing their dowries, but reputation precedes them everywhere. As for Mother…God, you wouldn’t believe what tonight is costing. Peach silk on the walls, five kinds of flowers, ice sculptures, champagne fountains, French desserts, musicians…it’s bloody ridiculous.”

  “Actually I would believe. Every year Mama employs half of London in an attempt to outdo herself with her parties. When the bills come in, I have to lie down for a week.”

  “Women.”

  “Indeed,” Stephen replied as they paused next to a giant Greek urn overflowing with peach and white flowers. “Why don’t you send your mother to the dower house? Confine the girls to their rooms until they learn who is in charge?”

  “Tried that once. Mother returned in an hour stating the place was draughty and a spider haven, but if I was so enamored of it, I could live there. As for my sisters, some unspeakable bastard taught them to pick locks and tie sheets together. I believe it was your brother-in-law, unfortunately I have insufficient proof.”

  “How could you possibly suspect someone so angelic?”

  “Guess I’m just one of those cynical types. Damn. Thank God for my faithful companions wine, whisky and brandy is all I can say. Only they can dull my pain.”

  “Pain is truly undervalued. Been propping up the country since the beginning of time.”

  “Yes it has. But Westleigh, if your marrying someone you like rubbish catches on, there’ll be contented men everywhere. Contented men don’t drink nearly as much as miserable men, the English economy will collapse.”

  “What?” Stephen said, stifling a snort. “Who says I like her? Caroline is stubborn, willful, impatient…not to mention eager to hurl heavy objects at my head. Or cripple me with her damned heels.”

  “Then it’s just as well you married her and not Shilton. Nice enough fellow, but all that delectably wrapped pertness would have eventually wilted away.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shilton is a stuffed shirt. Gets it from his mother.”

  “No. After that.”

  Thomas blinked and took a large gulp of whisky. “Er, apparently there are men who admire ample curves, mile-long legs and a saucy mouth. Not me though. Ugh.”

  “How fortunate. As for the drinking economy, so long as there is war, politics and impoverished aristocrats forced to wed horse-faced heiresses, I’m sure it will survive.”

  “Then here’s to brave men, democracy, and ugly, rich women. God bless them all.”

  They clinked glasses and drank in silence for several minutes, enough for Stephen to again scan the lavishly decorated ballroom. As she was taller than most in the room and wearing a striking silver gown, his wife was easy to spot.

  Stephen smiled to himself. Caroline didn’t know it yet, but she and her mother would no longer be troubled by Sir Malcolm. The man thought he held all the power, but this morning had discovered otherwise. His bankers leaned on. Damning documentation gathered and filed. Stark promises of dire retribution made with the knowledge and backing of the highest level of government, should a hair on Caroline or Emily’s head be hurt again. God, that had felt good, but not nearly as good as Stephen’s right hook, left jab combination sending the bastard bloodied and sprawling into the corner of his library. Sir Malcolm ruled by fear, and targeted those who couldn’t fight back. Today he’d learned the consequences of such actions.

  “Christ, Stephen. That is a frightening expression you’re sporting. Care to share?”

  “Just thinking of some business I took care of earlier. Speaking of business, Tom, how goes the world?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Guilt flared. Just for a moment Thomas’ mask had slipped and he’d seen a man truly weary of the world. Was Stephen such a bad friend that he didn’t even know something troublesome had occurred? “What’s wrong? A lost ship? Some clerk embezzled you out of millions and skipped away to the continent?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Ah. Some cunning highwaymen commandeered a delivery of whisky and now an entire village is hunting you down with flaming torches and pitchforks.”

  Thomas half-smiled. “If only. Compared to the truth, I actually wouldn’t mind one of those scenarios. This morning, crew six was unloading a ship at the docks and next thing they knew a bloated and rather fish-nibbled body bobbed up beside them.”

  “Jesus. A dockworker? Someone they recognized?”

  “Worse. A young woman.”

  Stephen froze, then coughed as bile gathered in the back of his throat. “Do…do they know who it was?”

  “Can’t remember her name, but I’m pretty sure the newspaper mentioned it and included a sketch of her. Apparently went missing about two or three days ago. No accident though, poor thing’s wrists were bound.”
<
br />   “Show me the article.”

  Thomas’ glass halted in midair. “We’re in the middle of a ball.”

  “I need to see it. Right now.”

  “Christ Almighty, Stephen. Oh very well, I think the newspaper is in my library still. Come with me.”

  Discreetly ducking out of the ballroom, they strode to Thomas’ sanctuary. It was about as masculine a room as you could find, all ebony wood, dark greens and maroons, although the graphic war paintings and mounted animal heads were a new and grotesque touch.

  “Been redecorating, I see,” Stephen said, practically rocking on the spot to stop himself shoving his friend out of the way and searching for the newspaper himself.

  Thomas looked up from where he was sifting through a pile of documents. “Not a fan myself, but the ladies hate the new look and won’t set foot in here. I tolerate the monstrosities for glorious peace and quiet. Ah, here we go. Page three.”

  Spreading out the newspaper across Thomas’ desk, Stephen began to read. Then his gaze darted sideways to the sketch.

  The world spun.

  Closing his eyes he bowed his head, gripping the edge of the desk in the event he embarrassed himself totally and passed out like an overexcited deb.

  “Stephen? You’ve gone green. Don’t you dare decorate my Aubusson.”

  “I won’t. At least I think I won’t.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Hauling himself across the room, Stephen slumped into a chair. “A few days ago, Caroline and I went to Wapping docks to visit Kimbolton, Sir John Smythe and Avery Wynn-Thorne at their offices, and discuss some business matters.”

  “I know where they are located,” said Thomas, his face unreadable. “Continue.”

  “We were just about to take a tour of a ship when that girl,” he muttered, gesturing loosely at the newspaper, “dashed down the corridor toward us to ask Kimbolton some questions. It was odd. Damned odd.”

  “What was?”

  “The whole bloody thing. Almost like watching a play, except she, Clara Matthews I mean, forgot her lines and got the ship captain’s name wrong.”

  ‘So?”

  “So, the next words to come out of her mouth were ‘I didn’t mean it, please don’t kill me.”

  Thomas’ eyes bulged. “Christ.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You have to inform the East India Company marine police force.”

  “I will. But it might be nothing. As soon as she said the words Kimbolton and the others laughed like she’d made some splendid joke. She eventually laughed too and left the place completely unscathed and very much alive. And now…damn. She was so young. And her family…how bloody awful for them.”

  “Indeed,” Thomas said, rubbing the darkened stubble on his chin. “Let me speak to that crew again, and those who have been working the night shifts. If there is something else to know, my men will tell me. Then you can decide what to do.”

  Stephen nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Consider it done. But before we go back to the ballroom, I’d love to know what the hell you are doing getting mixed up with the likes of Sir John Smythe, though. The man is an utter pig.”

  “Yes, but Kimbolton, Wynn-Thorne and the other group member Major Rochland seem all right. They want me to join them in a few ventures. Take over some of the charitable projects Gregory started.”

  “Charitable projects?” Thomas snickered, the Scottish accent he always tried to disguise suddenly distinct. “Gregory? I doubt that. He first started pinching pennies ‘til they screamed at Cambridge, and it only got worse after you left on your Grand Tour. He wouldn’t agree to anything unless there was a hefty profit involved.”

  Stephen stiffened. “No, you’re wrong. According to the others this was something close to his heart. He didn’t care if it resulted in a loss.”

  “I see. Did the others actually show you the books?”

  “No, but—”

  “Hell, Stephen. You really need to remove the eye patch when it comes to your brother. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Gregory was nowhere near a saint.”

  Stephen leapt to his feet. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “Touché. All I’m saying is don’t let fraternal devotion cloud your otherwise impeccable judgment. I’ve heard the odd whisper…”

  “Oh, not you too,” he snarled. “Whispers. Everybody tells me about goddamned whispers. Yet no one has presented a shred of proof the group is anything but above board.”

  “Apart from one very dead Clara Matthews.”

  Flinching, he sank back down on the chair. This was a mess. A giant bloody horrendous mess that had left his mind whirling like a spinning top. Ardmore was no fool, he’d walked the line between dark and light for years. Yet how could everything he believed about his brother be wrong?

  “All right,” Stephen said heavily. “Tell me what you know. And don’t sugar coat it.”

  “Very well. I know that I’ve done business with some characters over the years. Stupid ones. Mean ones. Men who were thieving criminals in everything but name. But I wouldn’t do business with Kimbolton and co back when they started, and I wouldn’t do business with them now.”

  “Why not?”

  Thomas leaned on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “Gregory changed when he met them. Slowly, but definitely. He’d always been reserved as you know, but he became very, very cold. Nasty and calculating. In the end I had very little to do with him, because I could scarcely believe he was the same man Standish, Southby and I had been such good friends with. Actually, for the longest time…”

  “What?”

  Thomas pinned him with a look. “For the longest time I wondered if Gregory’s death truly was an accident. Being shot by poachers is conveniently easy to achieve and hard to disprove, especially when the culprits are never found.”

  Agony tore through him. “After two fucking years, you’re telling me this?”

  “You weren’t hurling yourself towards trouble previously. Also, you have a wife now. Maybe soon you’ll have a bair…baby on the way. Don’t put them at risk.”

  Oh, this was beyond anything. Maybe Gregory made the odd mistake, maybe he had been a bit detached at the end there, but to say he’d been executed instead of accidentally shot? Gross speculation. Obviously the authorities agreed, they investigated thoroughly and closed both his brother’s and father’s cases swiftly. As for the insult of a warning not to put Caroline or a potential unborn child in danger, it was only their long history that stopped him arranging a dawn appointment.

  “I am well aware of my marital status, Ardmore,” Stephen bit out. “And my responsibilities. You’re only four years older than me, hardly an elder statesman, so you can take your sanctimonious horseshit and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Excuse me.”

  Storming from a room never felt so good.

  ***

  Cretins!

  Fiercely tamping down her annoyance at being abandoned to a group of the crustiest dowagers in the history of the world, Caroline let her gaze roam the ballroom for a rescuer.

  There were none. Stephen and Ardmore had stridden away somewhere looking rather serious, and George was holding court in front of a parade of adoring females on the other side of the room. Standish and Southby were in the far right corner drinking brandy and talking politics with Prime Minister Liverpool and Foreign Secretary Castlereagh, while studiously ignoring the over-loud Prince Regent’s set who were laughing at some no doubt terrible joke. Prinny wasn’t exactly known for his wit, but was known for careless generosity toward groveling favorites. For heaven’s sake, even bloody Taff had disappeared after spending a good half-hour with a gaggle of fresh-faced debutantes.

  Ten minutes later, after the sixty-fifth woman pressed her to ‘do share the ball story, dear, and of course how y
ou find marriage to the divine Lord Westleigh!’ Caroline had had enough.

  Clearing her throat, she attempted one of George’s angelic, you will do my bidding without delay smiles. “Terribly sorry, ladies, but my husband desires my presence. Excuse me.”

  Before anyone could reply, she marched forward, giving them the options of a graceful sidestep or inelegant flying sprawl. Luckily all chose to sidestep, and she hurried to the other side of the ballroom. As long as she avoided eye contact with anyone, the pretense she had a specific mission could be maintained.

  At one stage she thought she saw Taff taking a note from a footman, but when she looked again, he had gone. Damnation. Even his unblinking stares and inappropriate comments were better than a grande dame group interrogation.

  “Caroline.”

  Relieved beyond measure, she swung around. “Stephen. Finally. Where on earth have you be…why are you looking like that?”

  “Like what?” he snapped, his shoulders rigid as a statue. Oh dear. She could practically feel anger flowing from him, but there were too many people around with elephant ears and gossipy tongues to undertake a truly pointed cross-examination.

  Helplessly she gazed at him, desperate to offer comfort. All the while knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any kind of overt physical touch in public, let alone a warm hug. The fact that he had left the ballroom with Ardmore, but returned alone suggested they might have quarreled about something. But what? The pair weren’t as close as Stephen and George, however always seemed to get on well due to a shared love of business and unconventional yet ridiculously successful methods of approaching their ventures. As far as she knew they weren’t currently partners in any projects, so it couldn’t be that. A personal matter? Something to do with their marriage?

  Alarmed, she pasted a smile on her face. “Like you wish you were in a boxing ring rather than a ballroom, so you could pummel someone into the floorboards.”

  Stephen lifted a hand and rubbed his chin. “Don’t ask.”