The Bow Street Runner wasn’t far behind. Adonis had to smile when he heard Lydia drop Lord Chamberlain’s name. She was no doubt angry with the viscount and had decided she had no qualms about the man being roused from his bed in the middle of the night.
He rather hoped Chamberlain was sharing his bed with his wife and had already managed a tumble or two. If not, the man would be in a bad mood for days.
Deciding there was nothing he could do until Lydia joined him, Adonis closed his eyes. He tried hard not to think of Johanna, but the night’s events had brought her to the forefront of his memories once again.
It was another hour before Preston was bodily removed from Jasper’s bedchamber. A pair of constables did the work while the Runner gave orders. Having arrived within a few minutes of the first constable’s appearance, he quickly took charge of the investigation. Lydia calmly answered his questions, although it became apparent early on that Lord Chamberlain’s name would have to be spoken—the man seemed to think it was a simple robbery attempt rather than proof of a treasonous activity.
Preston was tossed into the back of a paddy wagon. At some point, the rogue had regained consciousness and claimed to be an agent of the Crown on assignment, but a swift kick to the jaw had silenced him—probably for the rest of the night given the stiff heel of Lydia’s shoe. She had no desire to learn the man’s fate, so she turned down the opportunity to ride with the Runner to pay witness to Preston’s incarceration.
A few minutes after the household fell silent, Lydia finally returned to her own bedchamber.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Coming to Terms with a Stubborn Man
“Are you there?”
Lydia’s whispered query could barely be heard over the crackle of the small fire that warmed her bedchamber.
“I am, milady,” Adonis replied as he straightened on the Greek lounging chair. “Is it all over?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry. He quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand, relieved to discover his tears had dried. “Is something wrong?”
There was a pause before Lydia moved to the edge of the chair, surprised by the sense of relief she felt at seeing him right where she expected him to be. “Not wrong, exactly. But I think it’s past time …” She paused a moment and cursed herself for not being more forceful—more insistent—with the man. “We need to have a talk about your need to play midnight watchman on my behalf,” she struggled to get out.
Adonis rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “My presence is not negotiable …”
“I know,” Lydia interrupted him.
“I have made a promise that I intend …”
“I know all that. Now it’s time we consider the full ramifications of your chivalry,” Lydia stated.
“Ramifications?” Adonis repeated in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes …” She paused when she noticed a satchel near his feet. “What’s that?”
“A change of clothes. I shouldn’t want to leave your house in formal attire,” he replied, not bothering to add that his sketchpad was in there, as well. At some point, he thought he might spend part of his watch doing a drawing of Lydia. Although his attempts to draw had been almost primitive since Ligny, he thought his skills were improving. “It was in the coach.”
“Oh.” Well, the man certainly planned well. “Could you please … help me remove my gown and corset and join me in bed? We could talk out here, but it’s much warmer under the quilts,” she whispered.
Adonis blinked. Had he heard her correctly? She wanted him to join her in the bed? He was up and out of the Greek lounging chair in a move that belied his bad leg. He had the fastenings on the back of her gown undone in a moment, the layers of watered silk removed from her body in an instant after that.
The thump of her pistol against her thigh reminded her she had hidden it there. She turned and placed both hands on Adonis’ shoulders to still his movements. “A moment, please.”
“What was that?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, well aware of the dense weight somewhere in the watered silk.
“My gun.” She took the gown from him and carefully removed the pistol, her fingers searching for the piece of paper she had plucked from the carpet earlier that night. “And a clue, I think,” she added as she held up the folded paper.”
Adonis stared at the tiny paper. “Where did you get that?”
Lydia moved closer to the fireplace, her corset-and-stocking clad body lit in a beautiful golden red as she unfolded the paper and held it to the light. “It was in Jasper’s ring. Along with the sapphires,” she murmured. She struggled to make out the tiny print on the paper, frustrated when she could not.
“May I?” Adonis whispered, his gaze coming from over her shoulder.
Lydia inhaled sharply, the scent of his cologne filling her nostrils. “Please.”
Not moving from where he stood, Adonis peered at the paper, able to make out the word “traitor” on one side. On the other, he found “OP is a”.
Gasping, Lydia pressed her back against Adonis, glad for the solidity of his body just then. “Jasper knew Oliver was a traitor. More than a year ago,” she whispered.
Adonis wrapped an arm around her middle, not too terribly surprised by the news the ring had held. “I think Chamberlain suspected as much back then. He must have known Barrymore would leave word in the ring. It was his way of passing information.”
“But why now?” Lydia wondered. “It’s been a year …”
“More. Commander Barrymore was on the Continent for nearly a month before he went into battle,” Adonis reminded her. “Since he didn’t take the ring, he made sure someone would find it. Oliver must have known what was in it …”
“Someone had to have told him …”
“Probably Commander Barrymore. Not directly, of course, but in a way that took months for the news to reach the bastard. He set a trap, actually.” He paused a moment, his lips moving to kiss her temple. “He put you in a great deal of danger by leaving the ring here, though.” No wonder he wanted someone to provide protection for Lydia.
Lydia allowed a sigh. “He knew I could take care of myself. He was the one who taught me how to shoot. How to kick a man.”
Adonis decided not to remind her just then that Jasper Barrymore had demanded Adonis provide protection for his soon-to-be widow. The man had to have known Oliver Preston would search for the ring—and do whatever he must to take possession of it.
Undoing the laces of her corset, Adonis said, “You have a rather effective kick, it’s true.”
“You’d be wise to remember that,” Lydia murmured, although her voice was tinged with a bit of humor.
“I will, my lady.”
Giving one last glance at the paper, she nearly tossed it into the flames, but Adonis caught her wrist before she could do so. “It’s evidence against Preston,” he reminded her.
Lydia nodded and instead set the paper on the nightstand. “You’re right, of course. Chamberlain will want it.” She pushed the corset from her body and tossed it onto the shin toaster. Although she should have been chilled to the bone—she wore only a chemise and stockings—she felt rather warm just then.
He lifted her body into his arms and moved to the side of the bed, placing her onto the expanse of white linen. He doffed his boots as he leaned the back of his thighs against the bed. Daring a backwards glance, he noticed how Lydia had moved to the far side of the bed, the quilts and counterpane pulled up and over one shoulder as she leaned on the opposite elbow. She used her free hand to pat the space closest to where Adonis stood. “You can sit here and lean against the headboard if you’d like,” she suggested, silently cursing her body for reacting as it did just then to the presence of a beautfiul male only inches away.
“Much obliged, my lady,” he murmured as he settled against the headboard, a pillow stuffed behind his back. The padded headboard provided a head rest when he allowed his head to drop back.
His gaze swept around the interior
of the canopied and curtained bed, the dim light from the fire barely illuminating the rich velvets and brocades. The fabrics weren’t feminine in the least, and yet the rest of the bedchamber was decorated in a manner that suggested it could only be the mistress suite. “Are you warm enough?” he whispered.
I am now, Lydia nearly answered as she inhaled the scent of his cologne mixed with a hint of musk. “I’m fine. You’re the one that’s been freezing every night in front of the window,” she accused with an arched brow.
“I have suffered nights far worse, my lady.”
Lydia considered his response. “No doubt. But I don’t want you to suffer on my account. Not any longer. Because of something Jasper made you promise a year ago,” she spoke in a low voice.
“Truth be told, I’m rather glad to do it. Especially since I find myself with no other avocation at the moment.” His words sounded almost sad, as if he were convinced he would no longer have a position with the Foreign Office. Oliver Preston was in custody and would probably end up transported for treason, if not hung.
“It’s true there isn’t a lot for Chamberlain’s men to do these days,” Lydia agreed. “But …”
“There are smuggling rings that need to be infiltrated. Illegal liquor trading and rum running are rampant. There are threats on Prinny’s life …”
“None of which you are suited to do,” Lydia interrupted in a quiet voice, rather stunned to hear his rant. Perhaps it was because they had solved the final puzzle earlier that night—she had come to realize Oliver must have been the final puzzle Chamberlain mentioned in his first puzzle—she decided Adonis was rather intelligent. Well aware of the issues that plagued England. Or perhaps it was because the man seemed entirely in the moment—not about to retreat into his head and stare into space for the next ten or twenty minutes—that she thought Adonis perfectly sane.
Adonis frowned, his gaze changing as he regarded Lydia for a long moment. “Why ever not?” he whispered, straightening against the headboard. Christ, my own bed isn’t this comfortable, and I’m not even lying down!
Lydia allowed a sound of amusement, the soft giggle forcing Adonis to readjust his position on the bed just a bit. He hadn’t been aware of how his body had been responding. He was far too close to a woman clad only in a chemise and stockings.
The three or four quilts didn’t count just then.
“You are a beautiful man, Sir Donald …”
“Adonis,” he interrupted. At her arched eyebrow, he added, “I rather like the way you say my real name. As if you actually believe there might have been a Greek god named Adonis,” he murmured. He was well aware of how his neck and face were probably coloring up just then, but in the dim light from the fireplace, he rather doubted his sudden embarrassment would be noticed.
She thinks me beautiful. Beautiful in appearance? Or …
“Why, Adonis Truscott, I do believe you are blushing,” Lydia accused, leaning forward so she could better see him. “Surely you’ve been told you are beautiful before,” she whispered. “By a lady of the evening, or a lover? Your mistress, perhaps?”
Adonis shook his head. “No, milady,” he insisted, trying with all his might to keep thoughts of Johanna from his mind just then. “I’ve never had a mistress, and you are the first to put voice to such a claim.”
Lydia stared at him for several seconds, stunned by his comment. At first, she didn’t believe him, but his manner had her realizing he had no reason to lie. “No wonder you spend your evenings in my bedchamber,” she whispered. “You’ve no place else to be.”
Stiffening at her words, Adonis was about to put voice to a protest when he had to admit she was right. He had a bed in his bachelor quarters in Green Street, but he had no desire to sleep there. He could spend an evening at Lucy Gibbon’s brothel in Covent Gardens—he would be in good company, no doubt, given the number of gentlemen who patronized the place—but he had no desire to share a woman.
“Don’t you dare,” Lydia said suddenly.
Adonis turned to stare at her. “Dare … what?” he countered.
“Go off to somewhere else. Some … when else,” she warned in a low voice.
Swalllowing, Adonis shook his head. “I assure you, my lady, I am not going anywhere. Do you honestly think I would take leave of my senses to spend time somewhere else when I am in your company?” he asked in alarm. The question was meant to be rhetorical, but Lydia lifted herself by straightening her arm and leaned in his direction, so close their bodies nearly touched.
“You did so whilst we were at the Serpentine,” she accused.
Adonis wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to do what he did next, but he did not regret it. For he leaned over, reached an arm around Lydia’s middle, and pulled her up and onto his body, her knees forced to straddle his body, her chemise hitched up so her naked quim was suddenly pressed against the arousal behind his satin breeches.
Lydia allowed a sound of startlement as she was suddenly out from under the quilts and atop Adonis. She should have felt chilled by the sudden loss of the covers, but instead she felt rather warm. Hot, even. For Adonis captured her lips in a kiss that was nothing like the one they had shared during the garden party. Nothing like the one she had bestowed on him. Nothing like the ones in the theatre, and certainly nothing like the soft ones meant to calm her after Oliver’s capture. This one was possessive. Unforgiving. Unforgettable. The entire time, she was aware of how his body reacted beneath her. Of his arousal behind the placket of his breeches pressing into her despite the barrier of his breeches.
Her fingers fumbled to find the fastenings. To tear them away, if necessary. To release the flap of fabric and allow his turgid manhood to spring forth so that she might impale herself. Perhaps Adonis would be the one who could see to a blessed release. To see to it she experienced what she had only read about in French novels or heard about in whispers in parlors. She didn’t want the sharp, almost painful shards of pleasure Jasper had her experiencing just before he plunged himself into her. She wanted the waves of pleasure she had imagined could happen given an experienced lover.
The satin of his breeches chafed at the same time it reminded her of how much she desired this beautiful man.
“Make me feel something,” she whispered before her lips captured his. She could feel his entire body still with her words, feel his brief hesitance, as if he wondered if he should give in to her desires. But his lips continued the kiss even as his hands moved to grip her hips and pull her harder against his arousal.
He could feel her attempt to gasp through the kiss and reveled in how easily the art of lovemaking came back to him. The knowledge of where to touch. How hard to press. How long to hold it. Johanna had taught him. Despite not understanding each other’s spoken language, she had communicated with her hands, with her kisses, with her sighs and with her body.
When Lydia suddenly pulled away from the kiss—she needed to breathe as much as he did—Adonis raised her bottom up from his lap, knowing his manhood would see to its own escape from the black satin that had him wishing he had removed his breeches prior to sitting on the bed. Slowly settling her onto his erection, her warm, wet folds as welcoming as they were tight and slick, Adonis had to close his eyes in an effort to concentrate on where he should place a thumb. On how hard to press as he sought and found her engorged womanhood.
He knew he’d found his prey when her entire body stiffened and her gasp of surprise sounded close to his ear. “I want you thoroughly pleasured, my lady,” he murmured. “I will not stop until you order me to do so.” He knew his words were understood when he felt her fingernails grip the back of his shoulders. He slid the hand that wasn’t busy seeing to her womanwood up the side of her torso to cover a breast, her hardened nipple settling between two of his fingers. She made another sound. He knew not if it was a whimper of protest or a plea for more, but her chemise had to go. The hand that held her breast moved to grip the gathered fabric and lifted it up and away, her lips briefly having to
release their hold on his so that he could remove the chemise completely from her body.
Jasper Barrymore must have known he wouldn’t be returning from this last mission. Of all the men Jasper could have sent to watch over her, Adonis seemed the most unlikely candidate. And yet, at that very moment, Lydia wondered if her late husband had known his last wishes would best be carried out by the man who sported dashing good looks and a broken body.
If Jasper thought she would accept the man’s annoying nocturnal visits because she felt sorry for the knight, then he was sorely mistaken. But if Jasper had thought to challenge both Adonis and her with an unsolvable puzzle—each other—then he had certainly succeeded. Perhaps he thought their shared avocation would give them common ground despite their differences. Perhaps it had nothing to do with their work for Chamberlain at all, but something else.
Lydia was considering the “something else” when one of Adonis’ thumbs happened to stroke a particularly sensitive spot. Inhaling sharply, she nearly jerked from his hold. The steel band of one arm held her hips, though, whilst the other hand was suddenly the source of all her pleasure. Well, that and his member driven deep inside her. Despite the amount of time that had passed since he claimed her, his cock was still rock hard. Yet he hadn’t moved, hadn’t insisted she lift and lower herself, or flipped her over onto the bed so that he might see to his own release. It was as if he intended to see she had climaxed not once or twice, but thrice before he would see to himself.
It was between the first and second that she saw to removing his shirt. She’d had enough of the fine lawn and instead wanted his bare skin pressed against her breasts.
Between the second and third, she complained of the satin breeches and insisted he remove them. Perhaps he thought she was giving him an ultimatum, for he suddenly set her aside, her bent legs akimbo, before angling his body over the edge of the bed. The offending garment was off his legs in seconds. Before she could take in the sight of his bare limbs, though, Adonis had pulled her atop him again, impaled her with his throbbing manhood, bent his knees, and arranged her so her back leaned against his thighs. Her bared breasts were suddenly on full display, although she was more concerned about the wicked things his fingers and a thumb were doing in the space where their bodies met. About how she was sure she was about to plunge over the edge of something very tall at any moment. Plunge and fall free.
The Enigma of a Spy (Regency Rendezvous Book 10) Page 18