by Clee, Adele
She sucked in a breath and shot to her feet. Her wide eyes settled on the purple bruises to his ribs. “Good Lord. Did you get those at the White Boar?” She moved to touch his marred skin but pulled her hand back as if she might scorch her fingers.
“The devil had fists like mallets.” He captured her fingers, pressed them to the red scar crossing his pectoral muscle. “This, I received when I was ten, punishment for slouching. Bruises heal, but this scar carries the truth of my grandfather’s disdain.”
He released his grip on her hand, expected her to step away, but she continued to trace the mark as if she had a magical ability to heal.
“You fight hard,” she whispered, her fingers slipping lightly down his chest to his ribs—an examination and a caress. “Too hard. Save your energy for when we find the real culprit.”
Her tender touch hardened his cock. “You didn’t answer my question. Have you ever met a man you wanted to kiss?”
She gulped. “Only one.”
“Then I shall have to beat him half to death, too.”
She raised her head and met his gaze. “If these bruises are anything to go by, you’ve hurt yourself more than enough already.”
The heat in her eyes encouraged him to be bold. “Is this where we barter? After your veiled confession, know that I’ve thought about kissing you for days. But I value your friendship, and Daventry is firm about such matters.”
“As colleagues, there is a line we cannot cross,” she agreed.
Then why did she continue stroking his chest?
Would it hurt to kiss her once? Did Daventry not suggest they support each other when remembering the traumas of the past? Perhaps it would prove a disappointment, and they could sidestep this attraction and concentrate on the case.
“And I imagine you’re frightened, frightened any contact with a man might rouse memories you wish to forget.”
She nodded. “I pray my fear amounts to nothing more than a problem with enclosed spaces.”
“There’s only one way to know. You’ve helped me tonight. Let me help you forget your troubles. One kiss. One kiss to banish the ghosts. One kiss from a man you desire.”
He wasn’t conceited. From her shallow breathing, the softness of her tone, the gentle sway of her body, he knew she craved his attention. He welcomed the distraction, too.
“The choice is yours.” He glanced at the documents on the floor. “We can return to the matter of why a man attacked my mother in an alley, why he killed the poor fellow who came to her aid.”
Her gaze shifted to the scar on his chest. “You’ve suffered enough heartache tonight. We can meet at a coffeehouse in the morning and make a list of likely suspects. Begin there.”
“And now?” If the sensual thrum of energy in the air was any indication, he’d be inside her mouth in seconds.
“Now? Perhaps you should kiss me, Dante, just so I might test a theory, you understand. There’s every chance we’ll both feel slightly underwhelmed.”
Not if he could help it.
He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, reached up into her loose coiffure and pulled the pins. Long, golden locks came tumbling down around her shoulders. Hmm. Much better. He slid his hand into her hair, welcomed her sweet sigh, gently cupped her nape and drew her close.
“This will be a kiss to satisfy a desire, not a theory,” he whispered, tilting his head. “A kiss from a man whose only aim is to please you.” He brushed his lips softly over hers, not wishing to frighten her with the depth of his experience. And for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to make every second last a lifetime. “We’ll begin slowly.”
He nipped her plump lips, sipping, not drinking, not yet.
Beatrice seemed to find his chest fascinating, or maybe she wasn’t sure where to place her hands. He might have gathered her tight to his body, might have enveloped her in a steely embrace, let her feel the thick length of his arousal through the flimsy trousers. But he suspected she’d panic. And so he captured her hand and held it to his chest. A means to calm his pulse, temper his lust, but it only served to deepen his need to conquer and claim.
He fought it. Rained kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat to distract him from wanting to thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. The plan might have worked had he been kissing any other inexperienced woman, but this temptress spoke to his carnal needs.
“Oh, Dante,” she breathed, tilting her head and moaning her pleasure.
“You like that?”
“A great deal.”
Damn. His body burned to push inside her warmth and he’d not yet explored the delights of her mouth. So much for a slow tutoring, for easing her gently into the wonders of a physical relationship. Too late. His lust had escaped its leash.
She’d have all of him. And she’d have it now.
“Forgive me.”
“For what?” She was panting slightly.
“For rushing you.”
He kissed her open-mouthed, possessing her as he’d wanted to do the first night they met, slipping his tongue over hers and feasting on her innocence.
She faltered, took a moment to find a rhythm, but when she did—holy hell—every sweet stroke left his cock throbbing, throbbing to push into her tight channel, to feel her hugging his hardness, to make sure she remembered being stretched and full long after they’d parted.
His control slipped. It didn’t help that the minx moaned into his mouth, that he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest. It didn’t help that he gripped her thigh, raised it over his hip and ground his erection against her sex, that everything about her was so bloody intoxicating.
Blood surged through his veins like a fast-flowing river. He was in danger of being swept away, of tugging off her damn trousers, spreading her wide and plunging deep.
With the wild roar of passion ringing in his ears, he’d failed to hear the knock on the front door, but whispers of Evan Sloane’s voice drifted into his head, so close his friend could be standing in the hall.
“Move aside, Bateson. Don’t pretend your master has a woman here as we both know he never entertains ladies at home.”
“But, sir, you can’t go in there without—”
Hell! Dante tore his mouth from Beatrice’s luscious lips. She gasped for breath, stumbled back, but he caught her hand just as Sloane stormed into the drawing room.
Sloane came to an abrupt halt. He assessed the scene through the narrowed eyes of a skilled enquiry agent and grinned.
“Bateson was right. You do have company.” He bowed, his gaze skimming the lady’s unconventional attire and dishevelled appearance. “Good evening, Miss Sands. Forgive me, I expected to find D’Angelo alone. Indeed, I feared he might be about to head to the White Boar and have some lout pummel him senseless. I thought he might need a friend tonight.”
Damnation.
Dante wasn’t finished sampling Miss Sands’ delights. But he supposed he should be grateful. Without Sloane’s timely intervention, he would have struggled to temper his lustful cravings.
“I thought the same, Mr Sloane.” Her cheeks glowed red. “Mr D’Angelo wished to read the documents alone, and I woke in a sudden panic, fearing this new information might be too much for him to bear.”
Sloane glanced at Dante’s bare chest. “There is no need to explain.”
No, because it was obvious they’d been devouring each other, were seconds away from stripping off their clothes and writhing on the floor in a naked frenzy.
“Mr D’Angelo wanted to show me his scars.”
“Indeed. One must be thankful they’re all on his chest.”
Dante grabbed his shirt and dragged it over his head. “I’m to see Miss Sands home. Why don’t you pour yourself a drink and study the notes while you wait? I’ll be ten minutes, no more.”
“Ten minutes?” Sloane mocked.
Dante firmed his jaw and gave an inconspicuous nod, a sign for Sloane to cease with the teasing comments. Could he not see Miss
Sands fought to hide her embarrassment?
“I shall fetch my cloak and meet you outside,” she said, keen to make a hasty escape. “Good night, Mr Sloane. I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on the case.”
Sloane inclined his head. “I shall give the matter my full attention.”
She tucked her golden hair behind her ears and left the room. Having retreated to the hall, no doubt she took a moment to catch her breath, to close her eyes and chastise herself for succumbing to primal urges.
“I’ll be back shortly.” Dante tucked his shirt into his breeches.
Sloane stopped him before he reached the drawing room door. He lowered his voice. “Beneath the bravado, you’re a good man, D’Angelo, and I love you like a brother. Miss Sands has struggled these last twelve months, and I’m sure you don’t want to hurt her.”
“Trust me. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Then have a care. She’s not a courtesan, not someone to use and discard.”
Dante resisted telling his friend to mind his own damn business. “I know who she is.” A woman who brought calm to his chaotic world. A woman who affected him like no other woman had before. Someone rare. Someone special. Someone who deserved more than he could ever give.
He left the room, snatched the package from the console table in the hall, remained lost in the memory of her sumptuous mouth while Bateson helped him shrug into his greatcoat.
The brief walk to Howland Street was plagued by an uncomfortable silence. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure what to say, what to do. He supposed he should apologise, but he was not sorry.
When the silence became deafening, he gripped her elbow and brought her to a halt. “Beatrice, about what happened before Sloane arrived.”
“When I asked you to kiss me, and you did, so thoroughly?”
He could see through her feigned confidence. She didn’t know how to deal with these odd emotions either.
“The kiss, I did not intend for it to be so … so …”
“Wild and passionate?”
He smiled. “I did not mean to overwhelm you, yet I got caught up in the moment. And I—” Hell! Why could he not construct a simple sentence?
“You don’t want me to presume it was anything more than an experiment to see if my uncle’s attentions have caused irreparable damage.”
He could not reply.
That’s not why he’d kissed her.
“One thing is clear,” she said, a little choked. “I’m not frightened when I’m with you, Dante.”
Her words touched him in a dormant place. He reached into the inside pocket of his greatcoat and removed the leather box. “I want you to have this. It’s not a bribe, or a means to make amends for mistreating you tonight, but—”
“You did not mistreat me, Dante.”
“It’s a gift, a gift given from a desire to keep you safe.”
Curiosity danced over her delicate features. She accepted his gift, smiled when she lifted the lid and stared at the object inside.
“A silver and agate letter opener.”
“A practical gift to keep under your pillow.”
“When did you have time to make the purchase?”
“I went before returning home this evening. I hammered the door, dragged the proprietor from his supper and paid over the odds for the inconvenience.”
He had never given anyone a gift, yet the sheer joy on her face played havoc with his heart.
“Thank you. I shall treasure it always.” She cupped his cheek with her cold hand and pressed her lips to his. It was a chaste kiss—an intimate thank you—but he felt the essence of the woman infuse every aspect of his being.
“Good night, Miss Sands. I shall wait here and watch until you’re safely inside. Perhaps it’s unwise for us to meet at a coffeehouse tomorrow.”
Her smile slipped.
“I mean, we must insist on privacy when discussing the case,” he explained. “I suggest we meet at the office in Hart Street at noon, command use of the study.”
They needed to begin their investigation despite the fact he found the evidence distressing, regardless of the fact he couldn’t concentrate in her company.
“That’s an excellent idea. Until tomorrow, Mr D’Angelo. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Dante watched until she entered the house. He ignored the tug in his gut that would have him racing after her, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her to bed. Indeed, he’d struggle to be alone with her without thinking about that kiss. In Hart Street, his colleagues would be flitting back and forth, making it impossible for him to devour her mouth with the same reckless abandon. At least he prayed that would be the case. Above all else, he did not want to hurt a woman who’d suffered enough.
Chapter 10
To Beatrice’s surprise, she found Mr D’Angelo sitting behind the desk in the study when she arrived in Hart Street. She’d come half an hour early, needing to focus her mind on their investigation, needing to maintain a professional air after their intimate interlude last night.
But the sight of him roused thoughts of his bare chest, scarred and bruised, of her need to press her mouth to his bronzed skin and kiss his wounds. Similar thoughts had kept her awake most of the night, as had the memory of his tongue slipping into her mouth and luring hers into an erotic dance.
He looked up from whatever he was reading, and her heart lurched. “Miss Sands? Forgive me, I didn’t hear you come in.”
She might have challenged him. How could a skilled agent not sense her presence? But there was something different about him today, as if his muscles were restrained by a straitjacket worn beneath his expertly tailored coat.
She motioned to the papers littering the desk. “You’ve started without me, I see.”
“I am merely reading through your father’s notes.”
Was that why he seemed so stiff, so reserved, so formal? Was he battling to keep his emotions at bay? Was this his way of coping?
“Did Mr Sloane have a chance to study them?” She began unfastening her pelisse, but her fingers seemed incapable of gripping the buttons. “Did he offer an opinion?”
From Dante’s awkward pause, she knew Mr Sloane had discussed the reason he’d almost found them in a passionate embrace, and not his thoughts on the case.
“Something occurred to me after speaking to Sloane last night.”
“It did?” Her pulse thumped in her throat. Would he advise they keep their distance? Did he regret offering to help her forget her trauma?
Oh, he’d made her forget everything but the taste of him.
“You said my parents hired your father because of a previous attempt on their lives. They believed someone wanted them dead. Correct?”
“That’s what my uncle said when I confronted him with the evidence I found in the chest.” She was relieved he wanted to discuss the case and not their intimate exchange. “He seemed shocked and clearly had no notion my aunt had kept the leather case.”
John Sands had tried to take the documents and read them for himself. But Beatrice had already switched her father’s notes with letters she had stolen from her uncle’s study. And so she’d emptied the contents into the fire blazing in the hearth before he could offer any protest.
Dante pushed a letter across the desk. Beatrice took it and peeled back the folds, though she knew it was the letter of appointment she had given him in the coffeehouse six days ago.
“My father hired Mr Watson in the December of 1804, three months before someone attacked my mother in an alley. Now, unless there was a prior attack, we must assume he had another reason for seeking the services of an enquiry agent.”
Beatrice studied the date scrawled on the page. “Though Mrs Pickering’s statement isn’t dated, she said the man who called at the house in Tidworth came when your father was in Italy. Evidently that’s when the problems started, and so the attack must have had something to do with the reason your mother threw him out.”
Guilt surfaced, along with a sense of inadequacy.
What had she missed?
“Give me a moment. Let me sit so I might concentrate and take notes.” She managed to undo the buttons and shrug out of her pelisse.
“Shall I ring for Mrs Gunning to bring tea?” he said.
“No. Once we begin, I’d rather not be disturbed.”
“Indeed.” He watched her intently as she draped the garment over the chair, his gaze roaming over the lilac day dress she’d worn because it flattered her figure and gave her a boost of confidence. “Perhaps you should close the door.”
“Of course.”
He waited for her to sit, for her to take her black notebook and pencil from her reticule and give him her undivided attention.
“You spoke of a discrepancy,” she prompted.
“It’s more an inconsistency.” He motioned to the papers spread out on the desk. “Clearly this isn’t a year’s worth of work. When we work on a case, we record every comment, every statement, every description given. We date the records and file them.” He gestured to the walnut drawers lining the wall at the far end of the room. “Daventry insists on keeping meticulous records.”
Beatrice knew how important it was to keep accurate accounts. Men had been hung from the gallows because of misplaced evidence.
“You mean pages are missing. When I showed my uncle the contents of the leather case, he said my aunt must have taken it as a keepsake, a memento. But I find that odd, unless she took only what she could find.”
Why hadn’t Aunt Margaret cut a lock of her brother’s hair, or kept his signet ring? Beatrice remembered sitting on her father’s lap and tracing her tiny finger over the initials engraved into the gold. Had he been buried with the ring? Because she’d not seen it since.