The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  He moved silently to the top of the stairs and peered out. No one moved in the corridor, thank heavens. He’d had to nurse a pint in the taproom for too long. Listening to the ebb and flow of the patrons, he’d gleaned nothing. But his luck had changed when the man behind the bar suddenly berated his son for being slow to arrive and dragged him off below stairs for urgent ‘rearrangement.’

  He slipped out and kept his head down as he maneuvered out of the inn and into the streets. Moving quickly, he made his way back to the Queen’s Crown. He was eager to share his findings and see if the list the baroness had collected contained any intersections with his own files.

  He was eager for other reasons, too. He’d pushed Hestia too hard, earlier. He’d seen it in her eyes. She felt the connection between them, he knew. She just wasn’t ready to acknowledge where it was going to lead them.

  He passed a florist’s shop and something caught his eye. A gorgeous vase full of pink and white flowers, framed by stems full of cherry blossoms. He stopped and bought them at once. Tonight, he would reassure her. Distract her. Let that connection lead them to a place where only the bliss they gave each other mattered.

  His blood was already up when he entered the inn. Nodding to the man behind the desk, he took kept careful hold of his bouquet and took the stairs two at a time. Pushed open the door—

  And frowned.

  Had she not returned from Lady Cartweld’s? No. Her fine clothes were draped across a chair. Was there a shared bathing room? Setting the vase down, he went out, called out to a maid passing on the stairs and asked.

  “No, sir,” she assured him. “Should you care for a bath, we’ll set it up in your room.”

  “Perhaps later.” He went back—and caught sight of a piece of paper on the bed.

  Clevedon? What did it mean?

  He took it downstairs. “Do you know who delivered this message to my wife?” he asked the clerk.

  The man looked nervous. “I gave it to her, sir. I didn’t know it would upset her. But it was delivered earlier today—and meant for you.”

  “Upset her? Explain.”

  The man told him what had occurred. “I knew it must be urgent. I thought perhaps she had found you, the way you hurried upstairs.”

  “Found me? What do you mean?” He slapped a hand on the high desk. “Where is she?”

  The man’s eyes had gone wide. “I don’t know. She left right after she read it.”

  “Left?” Stoneacre’s mind was racing. “How? With whom? How long ago?”

  “Alone. On horseback. Not quite an hour ago.”

  “Damn it all!”

  The man cringed.

  Stoneacre stared at the note again. “Where the hell is Clevedon?” he demanded.

  “On the coast?” The clerk seemed uncertain. “Somewhere near Bristol.”

  Bristol. What had happened? He stared at the note again. At the image stamped there. And the memory stirred in his head.

  Marstoke has a mark he uses in special correspondence. Did you know?

  She’d told him, back in Reading. He hadn’t known. And she had not described it. But looking at the image now, it seemed exactly the sort of thing Marstoke would commission. Yes, he enjoyed thinking of himself as above all men, the grand master of his Great Game.

  And a message bearing that mark had been delivered to him? It made no sense—

  He stopped. No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

  Had Hestia truly believed that he, Stoneacre, could be one of Marstoke’s chosen players?

  Fury and disbelief erupted. “Damn it! Get me a horse. Now!”

  Chapter 16

  Lord M—targets younger sons and men who lay far from the succession of their family’s titles and wealth. He stirs up feelings of discontent, jealousy and ill use and recruits them into his Game with ideas of change, of revolution, of plots to reinvent the systems of inheritance and promises of favor and influence in the new regimes.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  The moon had not yet risen above the horizon when Hestia left the lights of Bath behind. She pushed the mare on while the darkness closed in on her, pressing in on her chest and shoulders, making it difficult to breathe.

  No, that was grief, and the weight of her burdens settling back into their accustomed places. She should have known better than to cast them aside, even for a short time.

  They were so very difficult to pick up again.

  Because, for the first time, she’d had someone to help carry the load.

  Not that she would ever disparage the hard work and support that came from her family—from Brynne and Callie, from Rhys and Francis, from Isaac and the others at Half Moon House. But even they hadn’t made her feel seen and safe and cherished the way Stoneacre had. And it had started months and months ago, at the very beginning.

  Had he been playing so deeply, for so long? Hestia reined in her mount as they passed over a fast moving stream, her thoughts racing just as quickly. Had she missed something? A sign? Her head could pick out all the logic, all the points where it made sense that the earl could be the one working with Marstoke. But her heart—her heart did not want to believe.

  She began to mentally review their association. Back from the start of it. Slowly, she let each interaction sift through her head. One by one. Each thought and feeling recalled and scrutinized. And the further she went, the more certain she became.

  She was a fool.

  A suspicious, reactionary fool.

  This. This is how Marstoke would win. If she let his wickedness color her own view. If she looked for deceit and betrayal from the people around her. This was a battle she’d long fought—to remember to look for human decency. Friendship. Love.

  And that’s what it came down to. She was more than a fool. She was a coward.

  Her feelings for Stoneacre had surprised her. Scared her. Gone beyond the desire for a short, physical escapade. She wanted more—and she could not have it.

  It was going to hurt to let him go. She would have to do it. She knew it—and Amelia’s warning had driven the knowledge home.

  How much easier to allow Marstoke to convince her to doubt him? It had been her chance to get out with anger instead of pain.

  She hung her head, ashamed.

  But she’d never been a coward. And she would not start now. She would not believe such a thing of Stoneacre. Not when he had continually shown himself to be a strong, kind and generous man. A man who had given her respect, patience, friendship and passion.

  Of all the evil Marstoke had done to her, this might well be the worst.

  She would not hurt Stoneacre this way. Neither would she allow Marstoke to steal his friendship from her, or the last, precious moments they had alone out here.

  Her heart pounding, she pulled the mare up, spun her about and sent her racing back to Bath.

  Stoneacre was taking the reins of his hired horse from the ostler when Hestia came riding into the courtyard.

  There she is. Something frantic inside of him eased.

  “Hestia! Thank God.” A great relief swept over him and he held onto the saddle for support. But then he stiffened his spine. “What’s happened? Where have you been?”

  She slid out of her saddle and moved right for him. He turned the reins over to the boy right before she launched herself into his arms. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from holding her tight, even as anger and disappointment tried to choke him. “You believed it? You thought that I—”

  He couldn’t finish.

  She reached up and framed his face with her hands, forced him to meet her gaze. Her eyes shone with tears in the torchlight.

  “I allowed myself to believe it. For a short while.”

  His eyes closed against the stab of hurt.

  “Because I was a coward,” she whispered.

  That startled him. “A coward?”

  Her hands dr
ifted down to grip his shoulders. “I’m so ashamed. But I was already fearful and then along came that note, and the idea, and . . .” She swallowed and her fingers tightened. “It was so much easier to latch on to hurt and betrayal than to admit how afraid I was.”

  Sudden understanding and wild hope melted some of his pain. “Why were you afraid?” he asked gently.

  “I have feelings for you, Stoneacre. I didn’t want to, but there you are.”

  She sounded almost cranky about it. He could not laugh, though, even though he wanted to—nearly as much as he wanted to shout his triumph out loud.

  “They are real and strong and dreadfully inconvenient, but I cannot deny them,” she continued. “No one has ever seen me like you do—the real me, flawed and uncertain but still determined. The defiant, contrary me.”

  “I do see her,” he whispered. “And I find her fascinating.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” she said with a sigh. “No one has ever challenged me like you do. No one has ever lightened my burdens just by standing at my side.”

  Suddenly, she ducked her head and pressed close. “Part of me doesn’t want this to end. It’s going to hurt like the very devil to let you go when this is over.”

  Something twisted inside of him at her words. He couldn’t think of parting with her. “Perhaps—”

  “No.” She stopped him with a finger to his lips and gave a mighty frown. “Saints and baby cherubs, Stoneacre. How did this happen?”

  He did laugh, then, and shrugged. “Oh, the usual. Brothels and highwaymen. Assassins and arson.”

  Her chuckle sounded painful, but then she sighed. “Kind words to my wild houseful of girls. Friendship. Secrets.”

  He nuzzled her hair. “Don’t forget the buttons.”

  She closed her eyes. “It has to end. And it won’t be pleasant. But I will treasure the memories we’ve made, Stoneacre. And tonight—tonight is still ours.”

  “I want more than tonight, Hestia. And I won’t stay quiet about it any longer.”

  “I know you do. You do want more. Right now. Things will look different when we go back, but surely we can hold the world at bay just a little longer.”

  In answer, he picked her up in his arms and carried her inside.

  Behind him, the ostler called out. “What about your mount, yer lordship?”

  The porter standing over a pile of luggage in the corner snorted. “Send it back, lad. The gent and his lady have other plans tonight.”

  Hestia buried her face in the crook of Stoneacre’s neck, breathing in bay rum and reveling in the electric charge of anticipation between them.

  She would not be forlorn. She would not worry that this might be their last time together. She would relish the sweet and leave the bitter for later.

  They were in the rented room almost before she finished the thought. Stoneacre set her down. He drew her in and wrapped his arms around her.

  There was no teasing this time. No laughter. His expression shone intense and solemn—just the way she felt.

  “I want it to last,” she whispered. “I want to fill your senses. I want you to remember this night years ahead, when you close your eyes. I don’t want you to forget me.”

  “Never,” he vowed.

  She stepped back a little, peeled off her pelisse and turned to drape it over a chair. He stepped in close behind her. His hands ran down her arms and her breath caught when his tongue traced the outline of her ear.

  Heart pounding, she sank back against his tall, warm body. His tongue journeyed lower and shivers wracked her, from scalp to toes. His mouth was warm and wet as he kissed his way along her nape, then gave a quick, hard nip at the curve of her neck.

  Her nipples stood at attention. His hands moved along the curve of her waist, climbed higher over her ribs. He cupped both breasts and brushed his thumbs over the extended peaks.

  “Oh, yes,” he whispered in her ear. “Your nipples are hard for me already.” One hand moved steadily lower. She arched her back and made a sound of protest, but he only chuckled—and ran his hand over the length of her thigh. Tucking his fingers behind her knee, he urged her leg up and placed her foot on the chair. “I want to see if all of you is ready.”

  Soft fingertips teased her ankle, circled it, stroked up her calf. He grasped the hem of her gown and began reeling it in, inch by delicious inch.

  Cool air brushed over her heated skin. Pleasure spiraled through her, centering in heavy coils in her womb. He teased the inside of her thigh and she sucked in a breath.

  She knew what his seeking fingers would find. Wet heat and proof of a woman’s passion. But it didn’t compare to the oceans of joy and gratitude and delight in her heart.

  He kissed her nape again as his fingers explored amongst her curls, then he slid a finger into her folds and a jolt of excitement arced between the two spots.

  His fingers moved on her and they both moaned.

  “So wet,” he whispered.

  He found her swollen bud and she jerked against him as he teased her, circling in a delicious, slow motion.

  She cried out and reached behind her, grasping behind his neck. His other hand pinched her nipple through her bodice and she bucked, aching for more. She was lost in the pleasure, at his mercy. She thrust forward, asking—and he answered, letting a finger slide into her, then back out and up to rub hard against her nub.

  She cried out, inarticulate with want, entranced with the sensations that danced along all the nerves in her body. He repeated the motion and reason melted. She was only a shower of light, of need, all focused on the delicious movement of his hand.

  And then the light exploded outward and collapsed, rushing in again to gather at her pulsing womb, sending ecstasy tearing through her.

  She moaned a little when it was through with her. She hung in his arms and he cradled her against him while he murmured in her ear.

  Only for a moment, though. Mind and energy and determination returned—a determination to give as good as she got.

  She stood straight and turned in his arms and kissed him deeply. “Your turn,” she rasped.

  He smiled, but she pulled him to her, kissing him soundly and without mercy. Pulling back, she nudged him to move until he leaned back against the tall bedpost. Pausing a moment, she searched his face and was satisfied with the anticipation she found there.

  She took her time, kissing him thoroughly, loosening his cravat so that she could return the favor and rain soft, nuzzling kisses over his neck. She ran eager hands over his broad chest and along the narrowing slope to his waist.

  Then she dipped lower and cupped the rigid length of his erection. He made a choked sound and thrust into her hand. “Are you ready, too, then?”

  He growled his agreement and she dropped to her knees before him.

  “Hestia—”

  “Shh. I want to drive you wild, as you do to me.” Efficiently, she began to loosen the fall of his trousers.

  In seconds, he sprang free and she had him full and hard in her hands. She eyed his dusky, red length with approval. When she gave him a long stroke, he shuddered all over.

  “Yes,” he breathed. “Touch me.”

  She did. Eyeing him with a raised brow, she rested the tips of her fingers on him. Carefully, she began to explore his entire velvety-smooth expanse. He was firm and alive beneath her touch. And then she bent forward and put her mouth on him.

  He moaned out loud.

  Slowly, gently, she treated him to the same exquisite torture he had shown her. With soft touches and a gentle tongue and the lightest of caresses, she found all of his sensitive spots and veined ridges and teased his high, tight sac.

  His gasps and low exclamations told her how much he enjoyed it.

  And then she gripped him firmly and pumped. His chest heaved and his rod lengthened and hardened even further.

  Abruptly, he reached down to lift her to her feet. With a quick, smack of a kiss he urged her toward the bed. “I need you, now.”
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br />   She was ready. She wanted him hard and deep. She wanted him to brand her with every inch, to take her hard and long so that she would always remember.

  Turning, she bent over the bed. Spreading her legs just a bit, she hiked her skirts, looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.

  “Hell and damnation, Hestia. You’re going to kill me.” He moved to cover her, to run his hands over her and kiss her neck. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

  He was there then, at the entrance to her core. He pushed her legs a bit wider apart and eased the broad head of his cock just inside her.

  “Damn, but you are so tight,” he groaned. He rocked his hips, advancing further. She threw back her head, feeling her body change, feeling stretched and unbearably empty all at once.

  Slowly, he worked her. And her body gave way, welcoming him home. Saints, yes. She put her head down and focused on the incredible sensations, until, suddenly, he was fully seated.

  He moaned his triumph and began to move—and she moved with him. It was wild and lovely and oddly intimate. They strained together, rocked together, read every nuance of position and tone. As one, they climbed.

  She tilted her hips and he slid in deeper, touched her at just the right spot. All of her muscles responded and clenched tight.

  With a gasp, he began to thrust, hard and fast. And then he reached around and stroked her center.

  And she was no longer in control. She jerked and rose and fell as his fingers and body dictated—and he carried her higher than she’d ever gone before. He was inside and outside and all around and he touched her with loving and tender care—and she was gone. Lost to herself. Totally abandoned to the storm of pleasure he brewed.

  Convulsions gripped her and him and she let them shatter her. She was safe. With him. She flew apart, knowing he would be there to help her pull herself back together.