Richard held her fast, murmuring, “Steady, love.”
She couldn’t hear what the men were saying, but the cadence seemed adversarial. She identified the agitated voice as belonging to Billings; she couldn’t make out the owner of the other.
Pocketing the lock picks, Richard took her hand, silently leading her back toward the library. They hadn’t made it all the way back before she heard moans and grunts that indicated that the room was still occupied.
“Trapped at both ends.” Richard’s breath tickled her ear. “We’ll have to wait it out.”
She nodded, a shiver of awareness going through her.
He set the lamp down and took her into his arms. Tucking her cheek against his chest, he stroked her back. “No need to be afraid, sweetheart. We’ll be out of here soon.”
Clearly, he misunderstood her reaction. She didn’t know if it was his nearness or their extraordinary adventures this night, but it wasn’t fear she was feeling—it was arousal of a different nature. And while he no doubt meant his touch to be soothing, it instead fed the need simmering inside her.
To distract herself, she whispered the first thing that came to mind. “So those items we found in Monique’s box… what were they for?”
His hand stilled mid-stroke. “I’m not certain that is something we ought to discuss.”
If anything piqued her curiosity, it was something that shouldn’t be talked about.
She tipped her head back. “Why would Monique have a statue of a man’s you-know-what?”
“His you-know-what?” Laughter glinted in Richard’s eyes.
“You know, his… thingamabob.”
He began to shake silently against her.
“What’s so funny? You know perfectly well what I’m referring to…”
His wide shoulders were quaking in earnest, to the degree that she worried that he might give them away. So she covered his mouth with her hand. Gasped when he nipped her fingers lightly.
In the next instant, he had her back against the wall, towering over her. It was a tight fit in the tunnel. He filled her vision and senses completely, crowding out everything else.
“Discussion of you-know-whats and thingamabobs aren’t going to get us very far. If you want to know what those items are for, then we’ll have to improve your vocabulary. Are you up for it, love?”
Mesmerized by his low, husky tone, she nodded.
“Let’s start with the gold chain. The one with the jeweled clamps.”
Her pulse took off in a sprint when he ran a fingertip along the edge of her low-cut bodice. His finger dipped beneath the pink silk, rubbing against the tip of her right breast. She had to bite back a moan as he stimulated the stiff, throbbing peak.
“One of the clamps would fit here on your lovely nipple, just so”—he pinched the tip lightly, and her eyes widened in surprise—“while the other would attach to its equally lovely twin.” He trapped her other nipple between thumb and forefinger, tweaking the pulsing peak. The pleasure, with its slight tingle of pain, melted her center.
“Wouldn’t that… hurt?” she said, her cheeks warming.
“Aye, a little. But doesn’t it also feel good?”
She couldn’t deny that. Could barely breathe for the excitement.
“Imagine a little tug on the chain in between,” he murmured, causing her nipples to throb even more forcefully. “Would you enjoy that, lass?”
“I don’t know. That’s awfully wicked,” she managed.
“Aye. But not as wicked as the balls you were playing with.”
She wetted her lips. “Wh-what are those for?”
Instead of answering, he took her mouth in a hot, fiercely possessive kiss. Her fingers crushed his cravat as she pulled him closer. She couldn’t get enough of his taste, the aggressive thrust of his tongue into her moist cove. When he suddenly withdrew, she moaned in protest.
Panting, pressed against the wall, she stared up into his bluntly masculine features, those heated-iron eyes, and knew the truth: any man she met in the future would be compared to Richard… and found lacking. Because he was all that she’d ever wanted.
And she’d fallen head over slippers in love with him.
“Sweeting,” he said, his voice gravelly, “don’t you wish to know about the balls?”
Balls? she thought hazily. What balls?
In a quick movement, he tossed up her skirts and petticoats, pinning them to her waist with one hand. Her lungs constricted as humid air wafted against her stockinged legs, her bare thighs, kissing her dampened flesh. With his free hand, he took one of hers and brought it there, to that aching apex. She bit her lip, her cheeks burning as he pressed their joined fingers against her sex.
It was so terribly wicked—and so good.
“Feel how wet your pussy is,” he crooned softly against her ear. “How slick and swollen it has gotten for me. Do you like being petted this way?”
Closing her eyes, she let go of shame, drifting freely into the whirlpool of sensation.
“Yes. Oh yes,” she sighed.
The blunt tip of his finger circled her entrance, dipping just inside and no further, teasing her mercilessly. “Now the balls—they’d slip in right here, and you’d feel them inside your cunny, stimulating and arousing you with every move you make.”
Thunderbolts. Her eyes popped open. “That’s beyond wicked.”
“Aye.” His nostrils flared, and when she tried to withdraw her hand, he trapped it beneath his. Brought their joined fingers to the aching peak of her pussy. “Rub your pearl just like that, lass. Don’t stop frigging yourself while I show you the most wicked part.”
Most wicked?
Her head was already spinning, her mind inflamed by his naughty words, by how she was shamelessly touching herself at his instruction. The familiar tension was building inside her.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured and eased his hand away.
Aroused, she obeyed and watched as he undid the fall of his trousers and freed his manhood. The sight of that huge shaft, so thick and long, made her breath hitch. It stood boldly erect, the wide head nudging past the bottom button of his waistcoat. At its base, his bollocks hung like a heavy, ripe plum nestled against a masculine nest of hair.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away as he ran his fist slowly from the root of the shaft to the tip and back again. She remembered the potent quiver of his burgeoned flesh within her grasp, the bold, wild taste of him upon her tongue, and another rush of dew slickened her circling fingers.
“Now you’ll recall that last item you pulled from the box?”
She couldn’t reply, her eyes glued to his jerking movements, the way he wrung a bead of moisture from the engorged dome of his member.
“It’s a cock—fashioned from jade. A dildo, it’s called.” His sensual words heated her ear and her insides. “And a woman uses it for pleasure.”
She felt lightheaded—as if she were nothing but a mass of sensations, all of them raw, real, and exhilarating. Tingles melded together, a swirling, humid vortex beneath her fingers.
“Not that you’ll ever have need of a dildo. You’ll have the real thing, lass. Imagine my cock inside you. Moving in and out, filling your sweet pussy,” he whispered. “How would that feel?”
Her fingers moved on her pearl, quicker and quicker. The answer puffed breathlessly from her lips. “Good. So good.”
“Aye, lass.” His fist moved like a piston on his cock. His biceps bulged sleekly beneath the arm of his jacket; he touched himself with a ferocity that she would not have dared, and seeing the savage motion, carried out by this proper lord, caused more moisture to trickle between her legs.
“I’ve touched inside your cunny with my fingers, my tongue. I know how sweet you are, how wet and tight,” he rasped. “I can hardly wait to put my cock inside you, lass. To feel you squeezing and milking me harder than a fist.”
Her knees wobbled as the vortex whirled faster, her control slipping.
“When you’re
mine, I’ll have you day and night,” he growled in her ear. “I’ll want to be inside you at every moment, filling you up, loving you—”
It was too much. Her vision wavered as she tumbled over the edge.
He caught her against the wall, his mouth covering hers, swallowing her gasps. At the same time, she felt a scorching wet lash against her thigh. It was followed by another and another, his groans vibrating down her throat, his big body shuddering against her.
Bliss suffused her as they held onto each other, their breaths mingling, hearts pounding as one.
He lifted his head. Despite her lethargic state, the heat in his eyes caused a flutter in her belly.
“Don’t keep me waiting any longer,” he demanded huskily. “Say you’ll marry me, Violet.”
She gave the answer in her heart. What else could she do? “I’ll marry you, Richard.”
Triumph blazed in his eyes. Then he leaned in, murmuring in her ear.
At his question, she had to tamp down a giggle.
“I don’t think that any more. In fact,” she whispered back, “I’d say you’ve laid the title of Viscount Killjoy permanently to rest.”
Chapter Thirty
Early next morning, Richard accompanied Violet to see her brother. Not wanting to add to their sins, they confessed what they’d discovered last night, telling Kent about the map and hidden passageway. Kent didn’t appear best pleased by the news that the pair of them had been skulking around unchaperoned in the dead of night; luckily, Mrs. Kent was there to intervene.
“The horses have bolted, darling,” she murmured to her husband. “No use slamming the barn door now.”
This gave Richard the opportunity to officially ask for Violet’s hand. He still couldn’t believe that she’d said yes to him, that she was going to be his. And he had their burning passion to thank for it. He was no Casanova by any stretch of the imagination; that inspired bit of naughtiness in the passageway had surprised even him. Yet Violet had that effect on him, unleashing an inner wildness that felt strangely… liberating.
And she was going to be his viscountess. His. His insides billowed with warmth as he looked at her beautiful, blushing face. He felt as impatient as a Thoroughbred at the gates—and equally restless. For he couldn’t deny that the pleasure of her acceptance was accompanied by a strange apprehension.
What he wanted was within his grasp… but she wasn’t his yet. Nothing was set in stone. Promises made could be broken; it wasn’t the first time a lady had accepted his offer.
Violet said yes, he told himself. Leave it at that.
After a brief discussion with the Kents, they all agreed to keep the engagement under wraps until after the party. There were too many distractions at the moment, the most pressing of which included speaking to their host.
Thus, with the Strathavens in tow, they hunted Billings down in his study.
“We believe we know why Monique was in the library,” Kent said without preamble. “And why she was killed.”
“Well don’t just stand there. Spit it out,” the banker said.
“First, I have a question. Do you keep valuables in this chamber?”
From the way Billings’ eyes shifted, the answer was clear. “Why?” he said.
“Because we believe Monique might have stolen something from this room.”
The banker’s lips formed a hyphen. “Impossible. I have a footman guarding the entrance to this room day and night.”
“One of the entrances,” Kent corrected.
“What do you mean? There is only one door.”
“That you know of.” Richard spoke up. “Last night, we discovered a hidden passageway between the library and this study. I believe the entrance is behind that panel by the hearth.”
“You can’t be serious,” Billings said incredulously.
Going over to the hearth, which was nearly identical to the one in the library, Richard searched the roses on the plinth. He pushed two of the petals down. There was a clicking noise… and then the panel separated from the wall, revealing the gaping darkness behind.
“Heavens, how exciting,” the duchess breathed.
“That’s one way to describe it, pet,” Strathaven said wryly.
Billings turned paler than a banknote. Without another word, he headed back toward his desk and past it, to the painting of the dead game on the wall. He reached for some hidden mechanism in the frame. The painting swung open, revealing an iron box concealed in the wall.
Removing a key from his pocket, Billings inserted it into the lock.
When the compartment opened, Richard saw a collection of velvet boxes within. With methodical precision, Billings removed each one, piling them upon his desk. He opened the lids: there was a dazzling array of jewelry—necklaces, bracelets, even a diadem. In the morning light, gems glittered in a rainbow of colors, precious metals gleaming.
The banker patted his brow with a folded handkerchief. “Everything’s here and accounted for. I purchased these for Gabriella at an auction, outbidding several members of the aristocracy.” Satisfaction threaded his voice. “It was mentioned in The Times, I believe.”
“Yes, I recall the hubbub,” Mrs. Kent said. “A stunning array, I must say.”
She examined the jewels, Billings hovering beside her as if he expected her to make away with the lot. A muscle ticked in Kent’s jaw.
“Well, if everything’s here, then perhaps Monique didn’t manage to take anything?” Her Grace suggested. “Maybe her lock picking skills weren’t up to par.”
“I don’t think that’s the case.” Mrs. Kent was perusing a sapphire necklace intently—the one, Richard recalled, that Miss Billings had worn at supper that first night. “Something’s amiss here.”
“I beg your pardon?” Billings said.
“May I?” Mrs. Kent arched her fair brows.
The banker gave a nod, and she lifted the necklace from its box. Everyone crowded in to have a closer look. The large, faceted blue stones flashed, their depths clear. The web of diamonds that connected them was similarly bright. Richard was no connoisseur of jewels, but, to him, the necklace appeared flawless.
The duchess canted her head. “What’s wrong with the necklace? The sapphires have a nice, clear sparkle, don’t they?”
“Aye, pet, and that’s the problem,” the duke replied. To Mrs. Kent, he said, “May I?”
She passed him the necklace, and he turned it this way and that, inspecting it. “No inclusions to the naked eye. The depths are far too clear. The color is straightforward, bland, with little richness.”
“So you’re saying… it’s a fake?” his wife said.
“Yes. Though an excellent copy,” he replied. “That is your opinion as well, Mrs. Kent?”
“Indeed,” the blonde said. “Quite convincing to the casual observer.”
“Thank heavens you’re the one who buys my jewelry, Strathaven,” the duchess exclaimed. “How I should hate to be taken by cut glass, no matter how prettily made.”
His Grace’s lips twitched. He chucked his wife under the chin. “I know how you like a bargain, sweeting.”
“Now wait just a minute.” Billings’ voice shook with outrage. “I had these pieces authenticated by a top jeweler. He assured me these pieces, including the necklace, were the genuine articles.”
“They are. As was the necklace I saw your daughter wearing at supper that first night,” Mrs. Kent replied. “But the necklace before us now is a copy made of glass.”
The explanation was clear.
“Monique made a switch, by God.” Kent’s irises blazed. “This was all part of a premeditated plan. She comes to the party with a map of the house, a replica of the necklace, and means to break into the safe box.”
“But something unexpected happens,” Mrs. Kent murmured. “After stealing the necklace, Monique returns to the library, only to encounter the murderer. Is he or she an accomplice in the theft—or is this a meeting of chance?”
“We don’t know,”
her husband replied, “but let’s say he or she pushes Monique into the mantel. She hits her head but does not die. So the villain has to finish the job, smothering her with a pillow and dragging her body into the shelves. He or she takes the necklace and leaves.”
Frowning, Richard said, “That sounds logical, but what I don’t understand is why Monique stole only the necklace. Why didn’t she take all the jewelry?”
“Perhaps she was being cautious,” Mrs. Kent said. “Replacing one piece with a forgery is one thing; taking the entire collection increases the risk of getting caught exponentially. And let’s not overlook the fact that the necklace is the most expensive piece by far.”
“How much is it worth?” Violet asked.
“By my estimation, at least nine thousand pounds,” the blonde replied.
“Over ten thousand,” Billings said in a brittle voice, “according to the appraiser.”
Violet let out a low whistle. “By Golly, that is a haul, isn’t it? But why would Monique risk everything to steal this necklace?”
“From the little Garrity was willing to disclose, she was making her payments to him in a timely fashion,” Richard said. “He implied that she was a prime customer, one in good standing. But who knows what other debts she might have had.”
“Jeanne, her maid, might know,” the duchess suggested. “Now that we have evidence of Monique’s plot, we ought to question Jeanne again.”
“My thinking precisely.” Kent summoned in a footman and gave orders to fetch the maid.
When the door closed again, Billings said cuttingly, “I don’t give a damn why that French bitch stole from me, I want to know where the bloody necklace is now!”
“I advise patience, sir. The two questions are interrelated; finding the answer to the former may lead us to the latter.”
Billings turned red in the face. “In the meantime, I am out ten thousand pounds. That is entirely unacceptable, do you hear me?”
“I believe the entire party can hear you,” Strathaven drawled. “You were interested in discretion, were you not, Billings?”
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) Page 24