Then softly sighed.
She dropped her forehead to his shoulder. After a moment, said, “This is all so—”
She broke off. He stroked again, felt her shiver. “More than you expected?”
Against his shoulder, she nodded. “Much, much more.”
Satisfied with the way events were proceeding not just with Alicia but also with his investigation, Tony felt distinctly mellow, a prey to pleasurable anticipation as the next evening he went upstairs to change.
He’d reached the landing when a heavy knock fell on the front door.
He recognized the knock. Halting, he waited, one hand on the balustrade as Hungerford strode majestically to the door. He’d recognized the knock, too. He pulled open the door, revealing Maggs.
Hungerford looked down his nose. “I believe you know where the back entrance is?”
“’Course I do. Live here, don’t I?” Maggs lumbered in, his hat in his hands. “But I’m supposed to be Mrs. Carrington’s footman. If I came with a message, I wouldn’t come to the back door, would I?”
Turning back down the stairs, Tony straightened his lips. “What is it, Maggs?”
Maggs looked up. “Oh, there you be.” He hesitated, frown growing as Tony descended. As he gained the front hall, Maggs suggested, “You might want to hear this in private.”
Brows rising, Tony looked at Hungerford. “Thank you, Hungerford. I’m sure Maggs can see himself out.”
That last was said with a hint of understanding. Hungerford bowed stiffly. “Indeed, my lord. If you have need of anything, you have only to ring.”
“Thank you.” Tony turned to Maggs and waved to the study. Hungerford departed; Maggs opened the study door. Tony entered and went to sit behind his desk; closing the door, Maggs came to stand before it.
Maggs had been a stable lad at Torrington Chase when Tony had been a boy; he’d attached himself to the son of the house and followed him into the army. Whenever Tony had had need of a batman, Maggs had filled the position. He’d been a part of Tony’s life for longer than he could remember, and continued as his most trusted servant. Despite Maggs’s bruiser’s countenance, the man was intelligent, capable, and effective.
“What is it?” Tony asked.
Maggs’s frown hadn’t eased. “I don’t know as you’ll believe this, but the ladies, Mrs. Carrington and Miss Pevensey, are sitting down to dinner—well, they’d be near to finished by now—with a gentleman goes by the name of Mr. King. Wouldn’t’ve thought much of it ’cept I’ve seen him before, and I’d swear on my mother’s grave he’s Mr. King, the moneylender.”
Tony blinked. After a long moment of staring at Maggs, he nodded. “You’re right—I find that very hard to believe.”
Maggs sighed heavily. “Well, there you are. But Collier’s on watch at the corner, so you needn’t think I’ve deserted my post and left the lady unguarded.”
“Good.” Tony was finding it hard to focus his thoughts. Mr. King? As a dinner guest? He refocused on Maggs.
“What’s the relationship between Mr. King and the ladies? How did they react to him?”
“Friendly.” Maggs shrugged. “Nothing heavy-handed, if that’s what you’re thinking. They treated him like he was an old friend of the family.”
Tony inwardly goggled. He stood. “Come on. I’ll know Mr. King if I see him.” He shook his head as he rounded the desk. “I can’t believe this.”
“Aye, well.” Maggs lumbered after him. “I did warn you.”
Half an hour later, from the shadows of his town carriage pulled up by the curb close to the end of Waverton Street, Tony watched a large, burly gentleman take his leave of Alicia and Adriana. The sisters remained just inside the front hall, but the hall and porch lights were lit; it was easy to make out the genuineness of their smiles as the three shook hands.
Then Mr. King turned and descended to the unmarked black carriage that awaited him.
Maggs had returned to his duties. Collier, the man Tony had set to watch the street, was in his accustomed place. Tony sat back and waited until Mr. King’s carriage rumbled past. He didn’t bother to glance again at the occupant; it was definitely London’s most famous moneylender.
He remembered Alicia’s odd reaction when he’d mentioned he’d visited the man.
The door of the Carrington abode shut. Slumped against the cushions, Tony waited, totally unable to formulate any possible scenario to account for what he’d seen. Five minutes later, he tapped on the roof and directed his coachman to return to Upper Brook Street.
Courtesy of Maggs, these days he always knew where Alicia would be. That evening, she was attending Lady Magnuson’s ball; as usual, he found her by the side of the room, watching over Adriana.
Who, he inwardly admitted, now needed to be watched. The Season was nearly upon them; the wolves of the ton were back in force, actively hunting in their favorite ground. As he approached, he saw Alicia step forward and engage one of the younger brethren who, until then, had remained unwisely oblivious of her presence.
It was instantly apparent from the young buck’s face that a few words had sufficed for her to draw blood; his face hardened, lips thinning. After one last look at Adriana, he sloped off to find easier—less well guarded—prey.
A flicker of unease tickled Tony’s shoulder blades. Adriana and her beauty posed a danger. She was too young to fix the interest of the truly dangerous blades, yet she nevertheless drew their eyes, which then passed on— to her sister. Who was much more the sort to attract a connoisseur’s attention.
Reaching Alicia, gowned in a pale bronze creation edged with tiny pearls, he took the hand she offered, almost absentmindedly raised it to his lips, then met her eyes as he kissed.
He watched a light blush rise to her cheeks.
She tugged; placing her hand on his sleeve, he covered it with his.
“I need to speak with you.” He glanced at Adriana’s court. “And before you tell me you need to remain here and protect your sister, regardless of your recent intervention, you don’t.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you consider.” Casting a last glance at Adriana’s circle, he turned her, steering her down the long room. “If you hadn’t stepped in, either Sir Freddie or Geoffrey would have. Or even Montacute. They’ve been dancing at your sister’s feet for weeks—none of them will take kindly to any rakish interloper thinking to poach their prize.”
She still frowned, more in puzzlement than irritation, but continued strolling beside him. “You make it sound like a competition. A sport.”
“It’s a game no matter which side you’re on.” He spotted an opening between two groups of potted palms; deftly, he whisked them into it. “Now, quite aside from that…”
He stopped, unsure how to proceed. How to ask what he had to. He glanced at her; she was studying him, not suspiciously but directly. “I was passing along Waverton Street earlier this evening and saw Mr. King leaving your house.”
Her gaze didn’t waver; she continued to regard him attentively.
“I mentioned meeting Mr. King in the course of my investigations. Is he…an acquaintance?”
Without hesitation, she nodded, then looked out at the room. “Yes—he’s just that, an acquaintance.”
Alicia let a moment elapse, then, her gaze still on the crowd, asked, “Do you want to know why he called?”
She heard a hiss, an exhalation through his teeth.
“Yes.”
She’d assumed he would hear of King’s visit; she’d rehearsed her explanation. “We made his acquaintance some months ago through matters arising from my late husband’s estate. Mr. King knew of our wish to establish Adriana creditably.” She glanced up, and found Tony watching her closely. “He offered to give us the benefit of his knowledge regarding the financial status of any gentleman Adriana was seriously considering.”
The look in his eyes was priceless; he was astounded, could barely believe his ears… she sensed
it the moment he did.
His gaze sharpened. “What did Mr. King say about Geoffrey?”
She grimaced, let her uncertainty show. “That he’s perfectly sound. He’s never had dealings with any moneylenders, but they would be happy to have him on their books. His credit is excellent, his estates are in exemplary order. Financially, he passed with flying colors.”
“So why aren’t you thrilled?” Two matrons took up position on the other side of one set of palms. Grasping Alicia’s elbow, Tony guided her out of their nook. A waltz was just starting; the dance floor seemed the next safest place.
He drew her into his arms, looked down at her face as he started them revolving, noted the frown in her eyes. “It’s obvious your sister favors Geoffrey, and he’s intent on her. You’ve received reports from all and sundry that his character and situation are beyond reproach. Why, therefore, your hesitation?”
They revolved twice before she met his eyes. Her gaze was level and serious. “Money, title, and estate are all well and good, and character to date as well. But who can foresee the future?” She blew out a breath and looked away. “If I could be certain he’s all Adriana deserves, I’d feel happier.”
Tony steered her around the tight turn at the end of the room; she remained relaxed in his arms, warm, at ease, yet as so often was the case, focused on her family, in this case, Adriana. He studied her face as they precessed up the room; he could read her abstraction clearly.
What a lady deserved.
He’d never heard that advanced as a criterion for marriage, yet for the sort of marriage Alicia wished for her sister it was perhaps more pertinent, more relevant. And she was right; such a stipulation was much harder to guarantee—that a gentleman could and would provide what a lady deserved.
The waltz ended, but her concept remained, inhabiting his mind, directing his thoughts as they strolled through the glittering throng. Lady Magnuson was old but wealthy and well connected; all those of the haut ton already in town were certain to attend, to look in for at least an hour and show their faces. Many stopped them, most trying their hand at divining just what their relationship was; neither he nor Alicia gave them any joy. Which only fed the whispers.
He glanced at her. She was frowning, trying to catch a glimpse of her sister’s court. Lifting his head, he looked over the crowd. “Adriana appears hale and whole.” He glanced at Alicia. “She’s managing perfectly well.”
She frowned at him. “I should return to her—”
“No, you shouldn’t.” He anchored her hand more firmly on his sleeve. “She’s too sensible to go out of the ballroom without your permission, and with both Geoffrey and Sir Freddie standing guard, no bounder will have any chance of whisking her off undetected.”
“Yes, but—” She broke off as he whisked her into a dimly lit corridor. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know.” That was the worst of having spent the last decade elsewhere. Taking her hand in his, he strolled on. “I don’t know this house.”
His hearing was acute; he passed door after door, hearing muffled giggles or grunts from the rooms within.
She tried to slow, but he kept her with him. She tugged at his hand. “We can’t just—”
“Of course we can.” He stopped outside a door, listened, then hearing nothing opened it silently. Caught a glimpse of a white rump plunging, and swiftly closed it.
“Just not there.”
He heard the growing frustration in his voice; from the odd glance she threw him, she heard it, too.
They turned a corner; it was instantly apparent they’d reached a wing that was no longer in use. No lights glowed; there was dust on the sidetable farther along. He stepped to the side and opened a door, cautiously. Looking in, he breathed again. “Perfect.”
He drew her over the threshold and closed the door, with one finger snibbed the lock. Busy looking around, she didn’t hear.
“What a lovely room.”
He released her and she headed for the windows; uncurtained, they looked out over a stone-flagged courtyard with a long pond in its center, a fountain, still and silent, rising from the black water. Lily pads were unfurling, spreading across the obsidian surface. Moonlight, stark and ghostly white, poured softly over all, casting black shadows in the lee of the creeper-covered walls, edging each new ivy leaf in silver.
She glanced at him as he joined her. “I wonder why the room’s unused.”
“The Magnusons were a large family, but there’s only Lady Magnuson left now. Her daughters are married and gone.” He hesitated, then added, “Both her sons died at Waterloo.”
She looked around the room, at the furniture swathed in holland covers. “It seems…sad.”
After a moment, she glanced up at him.
What a lady deserves.
How unpredictable, how ephemeral, how precious life was.
Slowly, he bent his head and kissed her, despite all gave her the chance to deny him if she chose. She didn’t. She lifted her face, met his lips with hers. They touched, caressed, firmed. She raised a hand and gently, tentatively, laid her fingers along his cheek.
He slid an arm around her, smoothly yet more slowly than usual; it seemed important to savor each moment, to draw each instant, each movement, each acceptance, each commitment out. To fully know and appreciate every subtle nuance as they came together, as without words, he steered her to the next step.
Heat blossomed, spread beneath their skins, pooled low, then coalesced. Tightened. Throbbed.
Alicia opened her senses, tried for the first time to deliberately explore the effect of each touch, each caress. Whenever she tried to cling to control, she was swept away, so instead she went forward of her own accord, eyes open, senses aware, ready to learn, to see, to know. To, perhaps, understand what this was, what fed the power he could so easily conjure between them.
And learn to manage it herself.
As he did.
The kiss lengthened, deepened, yet not once did his control even quiver. He knew what he was doing, scripted and directed their play… this time she participated without hestitation, eagerly, determinedly following his lead. Waiting to see where it led.
She was trapped in his arms, locked against him, flagrantly molded to him when he finally raised his head. He looked down at her face. She could feel their mutual need, a well-stoked furnace seething between them.
He eased his hold on her, held her until she was steady on her feet. His eyes were dark as they held hers, yet she could feel the heat in his gaze.
“Open your bodice for me.”
The words were gravelly, deep, and dark. She held his gaze for an instant, then calmly looked down. Lifting her hands, she slipped the tiny pearl buttons free.
She felt him exhale. His arms fell from her. He looked around, then stepped back and lifted the holland cover from a large shape, revealing a big, well-padded armchair. It was set facing the windows so any occupant could enjoy the view.
Dropping the dust sheet to the floor, he looked at her. Met her gaze as she slipped the last button free.
He reached for her, still moving with that measured grace that only heightened her expectations, that gave time for anticipation to well before she felt the next touch as he drew her to stand before him.
She watched him watching her as his hands rose and closed on her shoulders. He pushed the gown down, inch by inch steadily slipped the sleeves down. Without waiting for any instruction, she lifted her arms from the narrow sleeves, then, emboldened, draped them about his shoulders and stepped closer.
Saw the dark flare in his eyes as she did. Felt his hands tense on the folds of silk at her waist, then, holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hands down, tracing the curve of her hips, sliding her gown over them until, with a soft swoosh, it fell to the floor.
She caught her breath, felt the air on her skin, felt panic rise—
He circled her waist, drew her against him, flush against his hard body, and kissed her. Not ravenously but forcefully,
then he lifted his head. “Slowly. One step more.” He lifted his lids, met her gaze. “Trust me. It’ll be as you wish.” His gaze dropped to her lips; he lowered his head. “And all you deserve.”
The promise feathered over her lips. Then he kissed her.
She stood locked against him in a dark, deserted room clad only in her chemise and her even finer silk stockings. If she wished, she could retreat—she knew it—yet as he kissed her she could feel the strength of his control, could feel the tight rein he kept on his passions.
Therein lay safety.
Nothing ventured, nothing learned. And she had to learn more. At least his next step, so she could predict the one after.
Tightening her arms about his neck, she kissed him back.
NINE
HER CHEMISE REACHED TO MIDNIGHT; IN THE POOR light, he wouldn’t be able to see through it. Her stockings covered her legs, the garters hidden beneath the chemise’s hem. She was clad, albeit thinly; wrapped in his arms, his lips on hers, his tongue tangling with hers, she certainly wasn’t cold.
Committed to playing her part, she set aside all maidenly reserve and gave herself up to it—to his embrace, to the slow-burning embers that glowed between them. No flames yet; he kept them dampened, but she knew the potential was there. It was a measure of his control that he could so easily hold the conflagration at bay, at a safe distance so she could feel the warmth, experience the pleasure, but not be burned by it. Not be consumed.
He held to his slow, measured, almost languid pace. The intimacy deepened; the urgency did not.
His control—the trust she placed in him—was what allowed her to stand within his arms and with simple passion kiss him back. He took her invitation as offered, savored her mouth, her lips; she in turn savored his pleasure.
When he straightened, eased his hold on her, sat in the armchair and urged her onto his lap, her confidence, her need to know, and her trust in him held firm, allowing her to sit across his hard thighs, to let him lift her, arrange her as he would. Then he drew her to him, locking her again in the circle of his arms, and kissed her. She responded willingly, eagerly, waiting to learn.
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