A Gentleman's Honor

EIGHT

AFTERNOON TEA IN WAVERTON STREET WAS A SOCIAL engagement Tony felt he could easily grow fond of. In contrast, balls, routs, and soirées held far less appeal; there he had to share Alicia’s attention with anyone else who thought to claim it.

However, she’d asked to go slowly, to rein in their progress, and if he was honest and viewed the whole dispassionately, there was much to be said in support of her request.

He was engaged in a serious and difficult investigation, one in which she was involved; it made sense to conclude the matter, to identify, locate, and nullify A. C. before addressing what lay between them. Before formally mentioning marriage and precipitating the associated hullabaloo.

She was right; they should take the long road. Entering Lady Cumberland’s ballroom, he tried to tell himself he accepted the decree.

He found Alicia in her usual position by the wall near Adriana’s circle. As more families returned to town, that circle grew; the quality of its members was also increasing. Adriana now had two earl’s sons dancing attendance, along with six of lesser standing, including Sir Freddie Caudel and Geoffrey, who looked somewhat tense.

Recognizing in his childhood friend some of the impatience he himself was feeling, Tony inwardly raised his brows. Luckily in his case, Alicia seemed impervious to the frequent advances made by numerous gentlemen; she consistently dismissed them with an almost absentminded air. He was the only one she’d allowed to draw close, to impinge on her personal world. Unlike Geoffrey, he didn’t need to worry that some rake would appear and turn her head.

Reaching Alicia, all thoughts of Adriana and her swains disappeared; taking Alicia’s hand—the hand she now freely offered—he bowed, then placed her fingers on his sleeve, covering them with his.

She looked up at him, faintly arched a brow.

He simply smiled at her.

With a haughty look, she returned to her watching brief.

He studied her. Her gown of apricot silk, a warm and subtle shade, deepened the rich mahogany of her hair and made her creamy complexion glow. The gown hugged her curves, the silk flowing over her hips and down the long line of her legs. For the moment, he was content simply to stand and let his senses drink her in.

Two days had passed since he’d last had her to himself. He’d spent those days and the intervening evening pursuing a whisper Dalziel had heard of a possible link between Ruskin and someone in the War Office. Nothing, however, had come of it; while there might be someone in the War Office interested in things that were no business of theirs, there was no hint of a connection between Ruskin and anyone bar the mysterious A. C.

He’d caught up with Alicia at a ball yesterday evening; he’d had to content himself with a waltz before leaving to spend the rest of the night trawling through gentlemen’s clubs and exclusive hells.

Jack Warnefleet was busy, Gervase likewise in Devon, and Jack Hendon would arrive in town late tomorrow. Jack had conveyed his willingness to place his time and contacts at Tony’s disposal, an offer he intended to take up with all speed.

Tonight, however, the single question nagging him was: how slow was slow?

Cumberland House was a massive old mansion, one with numerous useful little rooms; he’d explored it years ago with some amorous young matron who had known more of its amenities than he. Such knowledge, however, was never wasted.

The musicians were resting; he wondered at his chances of convincing Alicia that Adriana would be perfectly safe for a time.

He glanced at her; she straightened, coming alert. He followed her gaze and saw Adriana looking questioningly Alicia’s way.

Alicia responded; he moved with her as she glided to Adriana’s side.

Adriana looked uncertain. “Sir Freddie was wondering…”

Smoothly urbane, Sir Freddie stepped in. “I was wondering, Mrs. Carrington, if you would permit me to take Miss Pevensey for a stroll in the conservatory. It’s been opened for the evening, and many others are enjoying the cooler air. I thought perhaps you and”—Sir Freddie’s gaze flicked, man-to-man, to Tony—“Lord Torrington might accompany us?”

Alicia smiled regally. “A stroll in the conservatory sounds an excellent idea—it’s quite stuffy in here.” She nodded encouragingly to Adriana, who smiled and accepted Sir Freddie’s arm. “You go ahead, we’ll follow.” Alicia glanced at Tony as Adriana and Sir Freddie turned away. “If you’re willing…?”

He looked down at her, then slowly arched a brow. She blushed lightly and glanced away.

Ignoring Geoffrey and his suppressed displeasure—an emotion Tony had no difficulty interpreting—he tucked Alicia’s hand more definitely in his arm and steered her in her sister’s wake.

While crossing the crowded ballroom, they chatted of this and that, but once inside the long conservatory, with its glass doors latched open and a wide corridor down the center cleared for promenading, there was space enough to ask, “How lies the wind in that quarter?” With a nod, he indicated Adriana, conversing animatedly with Sir Freddie.

Alicia humphed. “Much as I feared. Your friend Manningham has stolen a march on all others. However, as the saying goes, true love never runs smoothly.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Adriana believes she should be certain of her feelings before she bestows her hand on any gentleman. And how is she to be sure other than by testing the waters?”

“Ah. I take it Geoffrey isn’t taking well to her testing program?”

“Indeed.”

He glanced down; a distinctly satisfied expression was stamped on Alicia’s fine features.

“It’s only sensible that a lady should be sure of her choice before declaring it, and if a gentleman has problems with that, well…”

Her gaze was fixed on Adriana and Sir Freddie; Tony told himself she wasn’t speaking of herself. Their conversation drifted to other things, yet as they returned to the ballroom, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the suggestion.

If she needed assistance making up her mind, he was only too ready—and willing—to supply it. How slowly could slowly be, after all?

The musicians had resumed; Lord Montacute was waiting to claim Adriana’s hand in a country dance. Sir Freddie nobly requested Alicia do him the honor; to Tony’s irritation, she granted Sir Freddie’s wish.

Deserted, he went searching for the refreshment room.

Geoffrey found him there. He eyed the glass in Tony’s hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve been given your congé, too?”

Tony humphed; through the arch, he was observing the dancers. “Just for this dance.” He sipped, then said, “Incidentally, I was informed you’re being tested.”

It was Geoffrey’s turn to humph. “So I’d supposed.”

Shoulder to shoulder, they watched the couples swirl about the floor.

Geoffrey shifted, lifted his glass, and sipped. He glanced at Tony. “I don’t suppose you’d consider staging a diversion?”

Tony’s gaze was on Alicia, twirling down the set. “Divert the lioness while you whisk away her cub?”

Geoffrey swallowed a laugh, nodded. “Precisely.”

Watching Alicia’s body sway as, hand high, she turned beneath Sir Freddie’s arm, Tony asked, “What’s your interest there?”

Geoffrey’s tone—insulted, a touch vulnerable—gave him his answer more than the words, “What do you think?”

Tony nodded. “Done.” He set down his glass. “But I’ll have to move first. If she gets any inkling of your intention, I’ll never get her away.”

“The field’s yours.” Setting down his glass, Geoffrey followed him into the ballroom. “Just make sure I get at least half an hour.”

Tony glanced at him, then looked back at his prey. And smiled. “Half an hour won’t be any problem.”

Getting Alicia out of the ballroom and into the tiny withdrawing room at the end of the east corridor—a room Tony remembered from that long-ago exploration—was the principal difficulty. He managed it by the simple expedient of talking fast.

His topic was guaranteed to fix her interest—the contrast between sophisticated gentlemen such as Sir Freddie Caudel and backbone-of-the-country types epitomized by Geoffrey Manningham.

“I didn’t know he’d been in the navy.” Alicia looked thoughtful. “I don’t think Adriana knows that.”

“Understandably he doesn’t speak much of it, but he served with distinction. And then, of course—”

He rattled on, borrowing from his knowledge of Geoffrey, inventing shamelessly with regard to Sir Freddie. Her eyes on his face, her mind on his words, Alicia barely registered entering the corridor running alongside the ballroom; when she went to look around, he mentioned Geoffrey’s mother—her gaze immediately swung back to his face. His fingers firmly over hers, resting on his sleeve, he steered her on.

When he opened the door to the withdrawing room, she swept over the threshold of her own volition, held by the vision he’d painted of Geoffrey’s manor house and the surrounding countryside, the rolling fields leading down to the river with the blue hills in the distance, the lowering plateau of Exmoor stretching to the horizon.

Gesturing, she turned to face him. “It sounds an almost idyllic place.”

Much of what he’d described was his own land, his boyhood memories of home; his smile was genuine. “It is.”

He closed the door; without taking his gaze from her face, he snibbed the lock. The sound broke the spell.

She blinked, glanced around. A three-armed candelabrum threw a warm glow through the small room. Aside from a chaise and a single armchair, the only furniture was a small table and a heavy sideboard. She looked at him. Directly. “Why are we here?”

He raised his brows, approached. “Guess.”

Suspicion burgeoned in her eyes; as usual, she made no effort to hide it. He watched her cast about in her mind for some deflecting comment, yet as he neared…her

eyes widened, darkened—he could almost see her senses awakening, stretching. Reaching for him. Could almost see her wits start to slow…

He reached for her, gently drew her to him.

She came without resistance, her hands rising to rest on his chest. Her gaze dropped to his lips. “I…ah…I thought we’d agreed to slow down.”

“We did.” He urged her closer, settled her against him, bent his head. “We are.” He kissed her, made her lips cling. “Progressing step by small step.”

He took her mouth again; she gave it freely, met him, parted her lips, welcomed him in. Her hands clenched, clutched as he captured her senses and drew her deeper into the exchange, into the sensual game they both so enjoyed.

Lips caressed, pressed, tongues tangled, stroked, probed, mouths melded. Both took, gave, delighted, then explored.

Sensation streaked through Alicia; warmth welled, pooled, and dragged her senses down to wallow, to luxuriate, to expand and experience a world of sensual delight, of wanton, illicit, addictive pleasure.

No matter how much a small part of her mind tried to warn her, tried to make her see how dangerous it could be, her body, her nerves, her skin and her senses, and the greater part of her whirling wits, were eager to go forward, to follow the path he opened before her, to seize the moment to learn and feel.

To learn of herself, of what could be, of all she could be. To feel the welling tide of compulsive emotions—the hunger, the need, the flagrant desire, and most especially the triumph.

A simple and pure triumph she hadn’t known existed, the confidence, delight, and sheer pleasure of knowing he found her desirable, that he wanted her in the most blatantly sexual way, and the satisfaction that flowed from knowing not only that she could evoke his hunger, but also from the innate womanly knowledge that she could, indeed, sate it.

He’d drawn her close, fitting her body against his, but once they reached that plateau of more urgent, definite need—one she now recognized—his arms eased, then his hands, hard and demanding, slid over her silk-encased form. Over her back, over her sides, around over her already aching breasts.

Through the fog of desire flooding her mind, she inwardly smiled. She eased back from the kiss enough to murmur against his lips, “I’m afraid this gown has no buttons down the front.” She’d worn her topaz silk for that very reason.

“I’d noticed,” he murmured back.

His lips brushed hers, then settled, drawing her into a long, increasingly intimate exchange… as it ended her awareness slowly returned. And she realized the pressure about her breasts had eased.

Her bodice was loose.

She drew back from the kiss as he did. Looked down as he raised his hands to her shoulders. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed her now gaping gown off her shoulders, sliding the small puff sleeves down her arms.

He’d undone the laces.

Her mind seized; she stopped breathing. She hadn’t thought…

The neckline caught across the peaks of her breasts. Leaving the sleeves at her elbows, he ran his fingers up, then slipped them beneath the neckline and eased it over and down.

She shuddered, told herself it was due to the cool caress of the air. Knew it wasn’t. Desperate, she hauled in a breath. Ignored the sudden lifting of her breasts. “Wait—”

“Lift your arms.” The words were half entreaty, half command. They were reinforced by his touch, fingertips running over her bared shoulders, down the sensitive skin of her arms to her elbows. He gripped lightly, urged.

She freed her arms from the clinging sleeves. “This—”

“Is the smallest step I could think of.” His black gaze touched hers; the emberlike glow in the dark depths only heated her more.

She sucked in a tight breath. “But—”

“Going slowly isn’t stopping.” He held her gaze, his fingers lightly caressing—so lightly they barely touched the heavy, swelling curves of her breasts. “You don’t want to stop.”

Not a question, a statement, one verified by the shiver that streaked through her, a silvery sensation that brought every nerve alive.

His lips curved, openly predatory, entirely undisguised. He bent his head. His lips cruised over hers as his fingers drifted, as his hands followed, then firmed, taking possession as they had before. But before she hadn’t been as aware, as blatantly near-naked. As heated.

Her breath caught.

One hand kneaded, the other slid away. His arm slipped about her waist; holding her, he backed her, step by slow, easy step until she felt the sideboard behind her.

Lifting his head, he fastened both hands about her waist and lifted her to the sideboard’s top. He sat her there; hands clutching his shoulders, she glanced down. Her gown had slid to her hips. Before she could react, he bunched the skirts and raised them to her knees, allowing him to part them and step between.

Her mind was whirling, wits totally scattered.

He met her eyes; his lips curved, but it wasn’t exactly in a smile. “For us… the only way to slow our inevitable progression is to indulge in more intensive play.”

She searched his eyes, instinctively accepted that as truth. Yet…

He leaned closer, lips swooping, nearing as his hands rose, fingers reaching for the tiny ribbon bows securing her silk chemise. The last flimsy barrier screening her from his sight.

Dizzy desperation gripped her; she sank her fingers into his shoulders. “I—”

He hesitated, but when she couldn’t find the words— any words that made sense—he closed the inch between their lips, kissed. Drew back enough to breathe, “You know where we’re headed, don’t you? You know what lies at the end of our road.”

Her lips were dry, yearning, hungry. She forced herself to nod. “Yes.”

“Then there’s no reason I shouldn’t see you, bare you, and look my fill. No reason I shouldn’t take what pleasure I wish with you, in you—and you shouldn’t take all you wish of me.”

His lips closed on hers, warm and beguiling; he didn’t rip her wits away, didn’t send them spinning, but left her aware, attuned, every nerve tight and flickering.

So she knew when his fingers closed on the ribbon ties, so she felt the tugs as he unraveled the bows, then slowly, gently, inexorably eased the fine fabric down. Exposing her breasts.

And then his hands were on her, hot skin to hot skin. He caressed, fondled, kneaded, squeezed. Her senses filled, overflowed; sensation rushed through her, down her nerves, down her veins.

She couldn’t think, no longer had space in her mind for that activity, swept away, consumed by the dizzying splendor, the bone-melting pleasure he pressed on her. His lips left hers; he nudged her head back, skated his lips down the taut tendon to settle over her pulse point, heating her blood still further. Her fingers, until then gripping his shoulders, eased; she sent her hands sliding over and back, found and caressed his nape.

His lips left her throat and slid lower. Splaying her fingers, she speared them through his thick locks, then clutched. Eyes closed, she held tight as his burning lips cruised the upper swells of her breasts. Then dipped lower still.

Her world stopped when his lips found one aching peak.

Splintered when he took it into his mouth.

Hot, wet, he caressed, laved, licked, than gently rasped.

Her breasts felt on fire, tight, taut; head tilting back, she gasped, spine tensing as he artfully teased, then openly feasted. Then he shifted, drew the aching, tormented peak deep, and suckled.

The jolt of sensation rocked her, shocked her, surprised a small cry from her. Her fingers spasmed on his skull. Eyes shut, she struggled to cope, to cling to sanity as with mouth, lips, and tongue, hard fingers and palms, he pressed sensation after sensation upon her.

Through her fingers, through the tension gripping her, Tony read her increasing desperation. Every sense he possessed was locked on her, watching, gauging…he eased back.

Heard in her tortured breathing a return from the brink of panic.

He didn’t take his lips from her skin, but traced, kissed lightly, soothed with gentle caresses. When she’d calmed enough to be lucid, he cupped both breasts in his palms, straightened slightly, shifting between her spread thighs. Bent again to touch his lips to the hot satin skin of the now swollen mounds. “Didn’t your husband caress you like this?”

Her lids cracked open. From behind the screen of her lashes, her eyes met his. A moment passed, then she licked her lips. Tried to speak, ended by shaking her head.

When he waited, she dragged in a breath. “No. He…”

Primitive joy streaked through him. He waited; when she remained silent, he prompted, “Wasn’t inclined to see to your pleasure?” A common enough failing, after all.

She shuddered. Beneath his hand, he could feel her heart still pounding, but slower. Her skin was still heated; he kept it that way, idly kneading, caressing.

Again she drew breath, again met his eyes. “I… don’t know all that much about… pleasure.”

The word came out on a soft exhalation; she closed her eyes as he again bent and savored one tightly budded nipple. He released it, blew gently on it, then soothed it again.

Lifting his head to examine the effect, he murmured, “It’ll be my pleasure to teach you.” Shifting his hands, he set his thumbs to circle her nipples.

“I—that’s why…” She broke off, drew in a hissed breath. “Why it must be slow…”

On his shoulders, her fingers tensed again, but not, this time, with any sense of desperation. He watched her face as he caressed. “Forget about your husband. Forget all you ever knew.” Keeping one hand on her breast, he slid the other to the small of her back and eased her to the sideboard’s edge. His hand still at her breast, he bent his head to take her mouth.

Before he did, he murmured, his voice low, gravelly, decided. “Start again. With me. I’ll teach you all you should know, all you need to know.”

Her fingers slid to his nape, cupped as he covered her lips, held tight as he plunged into her mouth and took possession. Plundered, ravished, devoured as he wished; she met him, went with him, followed him deeper. Until the exchange became a flagrant echo of that other intimacy, until hot and heated she clung to the rhythm, matching him, sating his hunger as it rose, learning of her own.

He’d pressed her thighs wide; her silk skirts lay in a spill covering her knees, but beneath…he knew precisely what he would find when he released her breast and slid his hand beneath the folds of silk.

The skin of her inner thighs was as fine as the silk, as delicate, but far warmer. She was too deep in the kiss to do more than vaguely register as he stroked, caressed. Deliberately, he let her surface, step by step until he sensed her sudden awareness, felt the gasp smothered between their lips as she realized.

She started to tense; he deepened the kiss, just enough to distract her, to fracture her attention long enough to let him explore further. To reach higher and find her, swollen and fever-damp, hot enough to scald.

Slow. Step by step.

He forced himself to do no more than touch her, to find the tiny nubbin within the folds and caress, but go no further.

Tiny shivers of sensation coursed through her as he stroked, gently pressed. He knew what he might do, knew the potential, but sensed she wasn’t ready for that yet.

Alfred Carrington must have been an insensitive clod.

He continued to touch her gently, undemandingly exploring, letting her grow accustomed to him touching her there, to the intimacy, mild to his mind though it was.

Step by step.

He let her surface by degrees, let her awareness rise free from the drugging kisses, until at the last he could raise his head and watch her face. Watch her lips, parted and swollen as he circled, then pressed lightly. Catch her eyes as he stroked, and she shuddered.

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.