A Gentleman's Honor

ELEVEN

HE STARTED BY TELLING THEM OF FINDING RUSKIN’S body, omitting to mention that Alicia had been there. Her gaze touched his face; he met it, held it, continued explaining who Ruskin had been, and what they now believed he’d been engaged in—selling information on ship movements that had led to at least sixteen ships being taken as prizes by the enemy.

The boys exchanged significant—excited—glances. Tony noted it; he bore their reaction in mind as he admitted to being an agent for the government, stressing that he was in charge of the investigation regardless of the Watch’s and Bow Street’s imaginings. The boys were, predictably, even more impressed, their approbation edging into awe.

From there, it was a small step to explaining that the investigation, while no longer strictly secret, would progress more surely if pursued with discretion to avoid alerting the mysterious A. C. He asked that they all continue as usual, but if anyone noticed anything out of place, no matter how small or mundane, they should tell Maggs or, if that wasn’t possible, send word immediately to him or, failing that, to Geoffrey.

Able to read behind his careful words, Geoffrey, his expression impassive, nodded, accepting the unstated commission.

Finally, he came to his peroration, specifically intended to impress on his audience, especially the three boys, that the matter was serious—deadly serious. It required tact to walk the line between frightening the boys and fixing it in everyone’s heads that in no circumstance were they to court any risk whatever. He alluded to Alicia’s recent trauma—a trauma her siblings and the household had shared—as an example of how A. C. might play his game, but he also cautioned that whoever he was, A. C. would not balk at more violent deeds—it was assuredly he who had murdered Ruskin.

From the looks on the boys’ faces, worry, concern, but also determination all present in their expressions, he succeeded in his aim.

He glanced at Alicia, faintly raised a brow; she met his gaze, read his question, nodded almost imperceptibly.

Glancing around, surveying the faces, he said, “So now you all know what the problem is, and that there’s a need to keep alert at all times.”

“Aye.” Maggs pushed away from the wall. He looked to the other servants, getting to their feet. “We’ll keep our eyes peeled, you can count on that.”

“Thank you.” With a nod, Tony dismissed them.

Alicia flashed them a grateful smile as they filed out of the room, then turned to her brothers. “Bed for you three, now. It’s been a very long evening, and you have lessons tomorrow.”

They looked at her, then, somewhat to her surprise, quickly rose. They came to hug her; she kissed their cheeks, then they hugged Adriana and, without any argument, headed for the door. Alicia turned. Maggs and Jenkins had dallied in the doorway; they took the boys under their wings and herded them upstairs.

She sat back on the chaise, hugely relieved, amazed, given the events of the evening, to feel so. Then Geoffrey was bowing before her. She gave him her hand, smiled in gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to stay with Adriana and the boys.”

He looked faintly irritated; he frowned at her, reminding her of Tony. “Nonsense. Any gentleman would have done the same.” He glanced at Adriana, who’d risen, too.

She beamed at him. “But you did.” She squeezed his arm. “Come—I’ll see you out.”

With a tired but genuine smile for Alicia, Adriana led Geoffrey to the door; he closed it behind them.

Alicia turned to Tony. He’d been watching the door close; now he looked at her.

His gaze rested on her face for a long moment, then he said, “My apologies. I should have asked before I spoke—do you expect any trouble with your staff?”

She blinked. “You mean because of…” She let her words trail away, uncomfortable with their direction.

He refused to mince words. “Because despite the fact I avoided using the term, a threat clearly exists toward this household, and, consequently, there has to be a certain if unspecified danger. Household staff aren’t partial to getting caught in any cross fire.”

She smiled at the military allusion. “In this case, you needn’t worry. Cook, Fitchett, and Jenkins have been with us for longer than even I can remember—they won’t give notice. They’re part of the family.”

He looked at her—studied her—then inclined his head and rose.

Quickly, she rose, too. In the distance, she heard the front door shut; she paused, waiting, then the sound of Adriana’s light footsteps on the stairs came clearly to her ears.

And Tony’s. One glance at him—at the black eyes that were watching her—was enough to assure her of that. But he made no move, simply watched her.

There was a great deal she wanted, indeed felt compelled to say. Quite aside from her rescue, aside from his revelations, his taking the lead in dealing with the matter, here, within her household, had given her time to calm, to reassess and catch her mental breath. She felt infinitely more confident, more assured, than she had two hours earlier. Her latent panic had disappeared; she could face the immediate future sure in her ability to cope.

He didn’t move, just watched, waited.

She drew breath, lifted her chin, and closed the distance between them. She stopped directly before him—or would have, but he reached out and smoothly drew her on, into his arms. Her heart leapt; her senses stirred, came alive. His arms settled about her, a loose cradle; her hands coming to rest on his chest, she looked into his face.

A face that gave little away; she couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

“I wanted to thank you.” Without his intervention, she couldn’t imagine what might have happened, how matters might have developed.

He said nothing; instead, he slowly raised a brow. His black gaze touched hers, then swept down to her lips.

She knew exactly what he was thinking. She didn’t stop to consider, to assess the wisdom of her response. Drawing in a quick breath, she gripped his arms, stretched up against him, and touched her lips to his.

It was an invitation rather than a kiss; when he didn’t immediately respond, she eased back.

His arms tightened, locking her more definitely to him. Her lashes fluttered up; his dark gaze met hers for an instant, then he bent his head.

His lips touched her cheek, a light, insubstantial caress. He paused, then closed again; this time, his lips found the corner of hers, and slowly teased.

As he drew back, just an inch, she turned her head, fleetingly met his eyes. Then she raised one hand, laid her palm along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers.

He closed them over hers and took what she offered. Her mouth, herself. He drew her deeper into his arms, parted her lips, and sank deeper into the kiss. Into the explicit exchange she now knew well.

She responded, more than willing. It seemed very right that she should thank him this way, that she should give and appease the hunger she sensed in him, that elusive desire she exulted in evoking, equally exulted in sating.

As far as she dared.

The warning sounded in her mind—there could not be that many milestones left in the long road they’d agreed to travel. All but instantly, that small voice of caution was drowned out by the memory of his assurance that instead they would dally longer, more intensely, more intimately at every stage.

His mouth feasted on hers; his hands roamed, pleasuring her while feasting on her curves. He molded her to him, explicitly rocked the hard ridge of his erection against her.

Heat erupted inside her, spread through her veins, suffused beneath her skin. Raising her hands, she framed his face, then ran her fingers back, spearing them through his hair. She opened her mouth wider beneath his, with her tongue boldly taunted, deliberately incited him to take, and take more. Never had she felt so alive, so blatantly desirable.

So wanted.

They were standing locked together in her family’s parlor; she was sure he wouldn’t forget. Felt sure she could leave the decision on what was appropriate to him.

She knew, in her heart, in her soul, that he wouldn’t let her down.

Tony had no intention of doing so, yet the demands of the moment were many. A wild and primitive emotion was burgeoning within him; he didn’t recognize it, but he knew what it demanded.

Her. Not just her giving but his taking. A claiming, yet… this, he accepted, was neither the time nor place.

Not yet, not here. Soon, yes, but tonight…

He didn’t question the instincts that told him what to do; he’d been their captive for too many years. Experience analyzed, instructed, informed; he fell in with its directives.

Breaking from the kiss, he murmured, unsurprised his tone was low, almost harsh, “Jenkins?”

Courtesy of their kisses, she was close to breathless. “Upstairs. He locks up the front of the house early, all except the front door.”

Thank God. He kissed her again, ravenously, arms locking her against him, lifting her as he backed her toward the chaise. Stopping before it, he lifted his head and let her slide down until her feet touched the floor. “So we’re alone?”

“Um-hmm.” Her hand pressed under his collar and curled around his nape; she lifted her lips to his.

“Good.” He took them, kissed her hungrily, in no way disguising his need. She met him, flagrantly urged him on—didn’t so much as catch her breath when he eased her gown over her shoulders, then pushed it down to pool about her feet.

Still he held her to the kiss. Shifting to trap her between the chaise and him, he closed his hands about her breasts. Through the fine silk of her chemise, he teased the sensitive mounds, stroked and kneaded until they were full, until her breathing was tight, threatening to fracture.

Swiftly, he undid the ribbon ties and eased the fine fabric down; it fell in folds about her waist. Deciding his control didn’t need further strain, he left the flimsy garment there. It was so fine, it was barely a sop to modesty, but having her completely naked on the chaise beneath him might be that one step too far.

At the first touch of his hands on her bare breasts, she murmured incoherently, the words trapped between their lips, and pressed closer.

He held her, for long moments simply savored the sensations—of her mouth freely offered, all his, of her tongue slowly tangling, caressing his, of the way she softened as he explored, claiming at will, then artfully stoking her fires. A deep pleasure coursed through him, part victory, part desire, at the tactile confirmation his hands reported; he had her in his arms all but naked, her breasts bare, pressed to his chest, her hips, the cradle in which he ached to lie, screened by nothing more than a thin barrier of silk.

Now she was his, it was time to feast.

His hands shifted over her body, then he lifted her, knelt on the chaise and laid her on the damask, following her down so their lips didn’t part, settling beside her, his longer, harder frame trapping hers on the cushions. One hand rising to cradle her face, he plunged once more into her mouth.

Plunged them both back into the building flames.

Alicia went willingly, eager to know, to experience whatever and wherever he led. She knew it was dangerous, yet when he finally lifted his head and released her lips, and she struggled to breathe, to fill her starved lungs, there was no thought in her mind of drawing back.

Not when he looked at her with desire, hot and glowing, behind his black eyes. His gaze had dropped to her breasts; they were swollen and aching. Nerves tightening, she waited for his touch, waited for the burning delight of his mouth, for the sharp, addictive pleasure.

His gaze flicked up to meet hers, briefly locked, then his lips curved, knowing and sure. He looked down, bent his head, and gave her all she’d wanted, all her tight nerves craved, the intoxicating play of lips and tongue, the hot, wet suction of his mouth.

He orchestrated the whole until her gasps filled the room, until her fingers were clenched on his skull, her body bowing under the hand he’d splayed across her midriff.

A deep rumble of satisfaction reached her; he shifted lower, leaning over her. One hand still massaged her breasts, stroking, tweaking, caressing as his lips trailed down between, down over the centerline of her body. With one finger he drew the silk folds of her chemise aside, so he could continue his line of openmouthed kisses to her navel.

Raising his head slightly, he circled the indentation with one fingertip, then lowered his head and boldly probed with his tongue, an echo of their kisses, of the plunder, the claiming.

Dazed, her limp fingers retensing on his skull, she watched him minister to her body as if it was a thing worthy of his worship.

Finally lifting his head, his eyes met hers; they were dark and fathomless, hot yet unreadable. Watching her, he shifted, parted her legs and settled between, ran his hand up her thigh, sliding it under the layer of silk to lay it over her stomach, hard possessive palm to her hot, soft skin.

She couldn’t take her eyes from his, from the intent, burning look burnished in the black, didn’t dare shift her gaze even when she felt his hand move, felt his fingertips brush her curls, then slide further to caress her as he had before.

Her breath strangled, her lungs slowly seizing as he artfully, deliberately explored, then stroked, caressed, finally probed. One large finger slid a little way in, just enough to tantalize, to freeze her mind, and send her frenzied senses searching. Reaching.

He caressed and her body came to life, muscles tensing, flickering, her hips lifting in anticipation. Slowly, he slid one long finger into her, pressed steadily deeper, deeper.

Her lungs locked; her hips lifted, but he held her down, moving lower, his shoulders sliding from her weakened grasp.

He looked down, watched as he worked his hand between her spread thighs, as he worked his finger within her, then he glanced up at her face, with his thumb circled that critical spot he’d discovered before, simultaneously reaching deeper still.

On a moan, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back. This had to be wicked; it was too glorious to be right.

A wave of sheer sensual delight swept through her, caught her wits, trapped her mind in sensations. Wild, wanton, indescribable pleasure flooded her; this time, he seemed content to let the wave lap at her, lap at her, rather than build.

The deliberate, flagrantly intimate repetitive penetration encouraged her to wallow in the warmth, to let her body simply enjoy every moment.

She was hardly relaxed, yet with every minute the landscape grew more familiar, less threatening. The urgency hadn’t infected her yet, but she knew it would. Before it did…

She managed to catch her breath and look down at him. Reach for him, with her fingers brush his shoulders. He looked up; his eyes were so black she could read nothing of his thoughts, but his face was a graven mask etched with a desire she comprehended instinctively.

“You…” She moistened her dry lips. “I’m the one who’s grateful. I want to give to you, not…”

Her gesture encompassed her body, thrumming with warmth and pleasure, and him, now propped between her knees, one shoulder cushioned against one of her thighs.

His hot black gaze didn’t flicker. He glanced briefly down to where his hand steadily pandered to her senses, then he looked up and met her eyes.

“Then lie back, close your eyes, and let me take this, at least.” His thumb swirled about the tight nub nestled within the now slick and swollen folds.

She tensed, but he held her with his eyes.

His words reached her, gravelly, low, primitively dark. “If you can’t be mine yet, give me this instead. Let me claim this much.”

Caught in his eyes, captured by the sheer need she could feel pouring from him, she tried to think, couldn’t—didn’t care. “Take—whatever you wish.” Caution reared. “But…”

His gaze seemed almost blank. “Just one more step.” He shifted further back. “Do as I asked—lie back and close your eyes.”

He waited; she could feel her pulse hammering in the soft flesh his fingers were tracing. She had no real idea… couldn’t imagine…

She closed her eyes, let her head fall back.

“Just like that—try not to move.”

She didn’t get a chance to reply. At the first touch of his lips, she lost all capacity even to think. Sensations buffeted her, rose and crashed through her. The intimacy all but slew her.

She heard her gasp, followed by a long moan as his fingers slipped from her sheath and blatantly, holding her thighs wide, he settled to feast.

His mouth worked, and she thought she might die. Of their own accord her hips lifted, twisted, but his hands had closed about them and he held her down, held her in position so he could, as he’d wished, claim her in this way.

A brutally explicit, intensely intimate claiming.

As she squirmed helplessly, struggled to breathe, the fact he knew of no reason to hold back, to withhold from her any degree of his transparently well-educated expertise, was forcefully borne in on her. He knew just what he was doing, to her, to her nerves, to her senses, to her mind.

To, in some way she didn’t comprehend, her heart.

She might be giving, he might be taking, yet he gave selflessly, too. If she’d harbored any doubts that lovemaking was in essence a sharing, the long, heated moments she spent under his hands, under his mouth, with his tongue stroking, probing, lapping at her softness, burned every shred of doubt away.

The flames built, expertly stoked, until the conflagration simply became too much. Too much for her to resist, to hold back from the beckoning delight. She would have warned him if she’d been able, but he didn’t look up, didn’t pause in his increasingly potent ministrations even when she tugged his hair.

And then she was there, at the heart of the firestorm, and for one blinding moment nothing else mattered but the intense, golden glory. It held her tight, a vise of his making, then she fractured, and the glory shattered, sharp shards streaking down her veins to melt deep within her, beneath her fingertips, under her skin.

Exulting, Tony savored the powerful contractions, savored her release, then licked, lapped. Eventually, he eased back and lifted his head.

Ignoring the fiery pressure in his loins, he looked at her, spent, dazed, gloriously sated. Gloriously exposed. He let his gaze travel slowly down her body, seeing and claiming anew, then he bent and placed a kiss on her damp curls, pushed up her chemise, and dropped a gentle, lingering kiss on her belly.

Next time. He promised himself that.

Lifting away, he shifted higher and lay down once more beside her. Propping on one elbow, he laid a hand on her breast, and settled to watch her return to earth and welcome her back.

An hour later, lying in her bed with the house silent about her, Alicia tried to take in, to understand, all that had happened. Not physically; shocking though that had been, stunning beyond her wildest imaginings—or, apparently, those of the authors of both sexual texts she’d consulted—she knew, to her bones, exactly what had happened, what part of him had touched what part of her, and how.

That was a problem in its own right, but what consumed her, what mystified her, was the connection she sensed, the link that steadily, day by day, interlude by interlude, seemed to be growing, forged in the fires between them.

That was something else. Something beyond the facts she’d considered when she’d decided to adhere to her widow’s role, to pretend to be as experienced as she was not.

He’d agreed to go slowly; by his standards, he probably had. Even though it was now patently clear that they’d all but arrived at their final destination, it wasn’t panic over that that filled her mind.

From the first, she’d responded to his practiced caresses instinctively, had been forced to rely on instinct to guide her. It seemed instinct had, but in a way she hadn’t foreseen, in a direction she hadn’t intended to take.

She hadn’t foreseen the danger. Not at all.

Rolling over on her side, she clutched a pillow to her and tried not to think about him, tried not to feel…tried not to be aware of the compulsion that had grown to give him more than she at any stage had contemplated.

Yet the more she fought it, the more she tried to turn her mind from the prospect, tried to deny it, the more it grew.

Fascination had turned into something more.

Something a great deal more powerful.

At an unusually early hour the next evening, Tony entered Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom. Without glancing at anyone else, he made his way to Alicia’s side.

Truth be told, he didn’t truly register anyone else’s presence; his mind, all of his awareness, was centered on her.

Not by choice. He felt driven, whipped along at the mercy of emotions he’d never before had to conquer. Mild possessiveness was one thing, but this?

There was so much in her life he wanted to spare her— more, that some part of him felt driven to fix, almost as if his very self—his honor, his name, his self-respect—depended on it. Taking care of her, protecting her, keeping her safe, ensuring her happiness, had become that important.

How, he wasn’t sure, but to his mind reasons were by the by. He knew how he felt; he knew what he wanted. He knew how he needed to act.

Reaching her side, he took the hand she smilingly offered, raised it, and placed a kiss on her fingers, then without pause, pressed another to her palm.

Startled, she searched his eyes. “Are you all right?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Perfectly.”

A lie, but he didn’t want her asking questions he couldn’t answer.

Tucking her hand into his elbow, he pretended to survey the other guests. The dancing had not yet commenced. “Has anyone behaved oddly toward you or Adriana today—here, or in the park?”

She glanced at him. “No.” After a moment, she went on, her voice lowered, “Are you expecting rumors about me being taken up by the Watch?”

“Possibly. I want to know if any surface.”

He could feel her gaze on his face, studying; he glanced at her, arched a brow.

She held his gaze. “What have you done? Tell me.”

He debated whether to inform her he wasn’t one of her brothers, but couldn’t see it stopping her interrogation. “I’ve asked Tante Felicité and her bosom-bows to keep their ears open. I told her the bare bones of what happened yesterday—she and the few other grandes dames who were present were shocked and suitably outraged.” He squeezed her fingers before she could protest. “This is the sort of thing that in different circumstances might happen to them. They have a vested interest in ensuring the customs of the ton aren’t manipulated for subversive purposes.”

Alicia frowned, then nodded, conceding the point. “I’ll tell you if Adriana or I encounter any difficulties.” She continued to study his face; he seemed more tense, more on edge than he usually was. “What else did you do today?”

He paused, to her now-informed eye deciding where to start rather than deciding whether to speak.

“I passed the information about the ships on to Jack Hendon.”

“The friend who owns a shipping line?”

“Yes. Now he knows what to look for, we’ll get along faster. I also sent word to another friend who’s checking along the southwest coast. With luck, we’ll have a clearer idea of what’s been happening soon, then we can start following the trail back to the perpetrator.”

“A. C.” Remembering the fright of the day before, she shivered. Feeling Tony’s gaze on her face, she met it. “He must be someone quite knowledgeable, mustn’t he? He knew how to start those first rumors, knew how to trick Bow Street into seizing me.”

Lips set, he nodded. “He’s intelligent, and cold-blooded.”

He hesitated, then went on, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the back of her hand. “I heard back from Smiggins. It seems his ‘anonymous information’ came via a flower seller who’d been paid by a well-to-do gentleman, one expensively dressed, to take the information to the Watch. She can’t describe the man beyond that.”

The vision of a gentleman wrapped in an expensive coat with an astrakhan collar, viewed through the mists of a chilly night, slid through Tony’s mind. For him, A. C. was no phantom, but a dangerous adversary, one he’d yet to put a name to.

Which, of course, only made it harder to protect Alicia from the danger. He let his gaze drift to Adriana’s circle; through her connection with Alicia, she, too, was in danger. There were six gentlemen gathered about her; Sir Freddie Caudel was, as usual, one of the crew. He was engaged in describing some play to Adriana; prettily, she hung on his words, her attention politely all his, at least for the moment. Tony was not at all surprised to see Geoffrey hovering even more determinedly, more definitely possessive.

From beside him came a small humph. “I daresay, if Lord Manningham is all you and Mr. King tell me he is, then I’ll shortly be entertaining an offer from him.”

He glanced at Alicia, caught her eye. “I should think that’s a foregone conclusion.” He paused, then asked, “Will she, and you, accept Geoffrey’s suit?”

She looked at Geoffrey and Adriana, hesitated, then nodded. “If she’s happy, and if he wishes to hold to his offer once he’s fully informed of the family’s circumstances.”

He arched a brow. “Circumstances?” He knew precisely what she meant—the fact she and her brood were as poor as church mice. She, however, didn’t know he knew; he wondered when she’d tell him.

She met his gaze, her expression open. “There’s the boys, of course, and myself—not every gentleman wants to marry into such a close family.”

More fool them. He raised his brows noncommittally, and let the matter slide. Time enough to see how she reacted to his proposal once he’d made it. With her and her family in A. C.’s sights, eliminating A. C. had to be his top priority; there would be time aplenty to speak of marriage once they were safe.

More guests were arriving; her ladyship’s rooms were fast filling. He remained by Alicia’s side; with only two weeks to go before the start of the Season, tonnish entertainments once more resembled the melee he recalled, one through which wolves of various hues prowled.

Felicité waved from across the room, then Lady Holland stopped by to compliment Alicia on her and Adriana’s gowns. The comment drew his notice; as usual, the sisters were superbly turned out…again he wondered how they managed it. Then he recalled Adriana’s preoccupation with fashion; she was forever sketching the latest designs, or similar designs artfully modified.

He looked again at their stylish attire. Understanding dawned; he saw Adriana in a new light.

“Good evening, Torrington—I trust you will introduce me to your lovely companion. I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.”

The perfectly modulated tones, still distinctly accented, jolted him from his thoughts. Lowering his gaze, he smiled easily and bowed. “Your Grace.” His gaze passed on to the lady—yet another grande dame if appearances spoke true—by Her Grace of St. Ives’s side. The lady smiled with charm, and a hint of determination.

“Allow me to present my sister-in-law, Lady Horatia Cynster.” The Duchess of St. Ives smiled at him, pale eyes alight. She waited while he bowed over Lady Horatia’s hand, then continued, “Bon! And now you may introduce us both to this lady, if you please.”

He nearly laughed; one of his mother’s oldest and dearest friends, Helena, Duchess of St. Ives, was both incorrigible and unstoppable. She was a petite force of nature, and woe betide any who thought to say her nay. He turned to Alicia. She met his eyes; he smiled encouragingly. “Ladies—Mrs. Alicia Carrington, allow me to present Helena, Duchess of St. Ives, and Lady Horatia Cynster.”

Alicia dipped into a curtsy of precisely the right degree.

Impulsively, Helena took her hand and waved her up. “Your sister is ravissante, as all the ton now knows, but you, too, will do very well I believe.”

Alicia smiled, but demurred. “I seek only to establish my sister.”

Helena bent on her a look of patent incomprehension, then glanced at her sister-in-law.

Whose lips were not straight. “My dear, a word of advice—you may not seek, but the gentlemen assuredly will. Indeed”—her gaze slid teasingly to Tony—“I’m quite sure they already are.”

The only way to deal with such females was to meet their jibes with polite impassivity; Tony did so. They stayed by Alicia’s side, chatting about this and that, for nearly ten minutes, then moved on.

Before Alicia had time to draw breath, two other haughty matrons stopped to speak kindly. He stood by her side, suavely urbane, and thought cynical thoughts along the lines of: where Cynsters led, others followed.

He was grateful for Helena’s support; he knew her well enough to know the gesture had been intentional. To be seen to be accepted by the elite of the haut ton provided a social cachet which was of itself a protection. Rumors were simply much less likely to be credited. Socially, Alicia and Adriana were gaining a status it would require a major public indiscretion to shake.

As more of the ladies on whose opinion the ton turned made a point of acknowledging Alicia, either by stopping for a few words or by exchanging nods across the room, he felt increasingly reassured on the social front.

Other fronts, however, were not so secure.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carrington.”

The deep timbre of the voice sent Tony’s hackles rising. He turned to see a dashingly handsome gentleman with unruly blond curls bowing over Alicia’s hand; from the look on her face, she hadn’t meant to surrender it. The gentleman had approached from the rear, escaping Tony’s watchful eye, which endeared him to Tony even less.

The gentleman straightened and smiled at Tony. “Your servant, Torrington.” Exchanging a brief nod, he looked back at Alicia. “My mama chatted with you earlier—she told me your name. I’m Harry Cynster.”

His smile thawed Alicia; she returned it, relaxing. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

It took Tony a few seconds to make the connections. Harry Cynster, he of the guileless blue eyes and a distinctly predatory streak. Horses—he was a renowned whip, a legendary rider, in more than one sense, appropriately nicknamed Demon.

He was chatting with Alicia, his voice a deep, fashionable drawl, deploying the charm for which the Cynsters were notorious. “My mama dragged me along. Now we’re all of us back from the wars, it seems our mothers and aunts are determined to marry us all off.”

“Indeed?” Alicia returned his innocent look with one of polite scepticism. “And what of you? Doesn’t marriage figure among your ambitions?”

His eyes met hers, their expression rather less innocent. “Not just yet.”

The undercurrent beneath the words registered as a warning.

Harry raised a brow. “I believe that’s a waltz starting up.”

To her surprise, Tony reached across; his fingers closed about her hand. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me, Cynster.” He smiled urbanely, and drew her to him. “Mrs. Carrington has promised me this dance.”

Over her head, blue eyes met black. There was something—some form of masculine challenge—behind Tony’s polite mask. She glanced from one to the other, then Harry Cynster raised both brows, faint surprise in his face. “Well, well. I see.” Then he grinned and saluted her. “A pity, but I wish you good riding, my dear.”

Before she could reply to the strange comment, Tony whisked her away.

“Mrs. Carrington doesn’t often dance at all,” she informed him as he drew her into his arms.

He met her eyes. “Except with me.”

With that, he whirled her into the revolving circle of dancers. The floor was crowded; he had to hold her close. So close his strength and that fascinating power he wielded, a potent blend of physical confidence and sexual prowess, wrapped about her, a seductive spell she wasn’t even sure he knew he was weaving.

Then he guided her through the turns; his thigh parted hers, and all she could think of was…

She looked away, cleared her throat. Desperate to cool her thoughts, she struggled to find some distraction…“What did he mean?” Glancing up, she caught Tony’s black gaze. “Harry Cynster—why wish me ‘good riding’? He doesn’t even know if I ride.”

For an instant, Tony stared down at her; she couldn’t interpret his expression. “He assumed,” he eventually said. His tone seemed flat. “He’s an exceptional rider himself…”He shrugged lightly. “Probably all he thinks of.”

His lips tightened, as if he didn’t want to say anything more. He looked up, steering her on; she wasn’t sufficiently interested to pursue the point—whatever it was.

But that left her mind free, and her senses susceptible. Left her nerves leaping when they were jostled and he drew her protectively close, into the safe harbor of his arms. For a moment, their hips and thighs touched, brushed; when they moved on, she felt heated. She glanced up at him, praying the heat hadn’t reached her cheeks, afraid it had, afraid that her eyes, too, would give her away, would hold some impression of her thoughts, reveal her sudden, unexpectedly flaring need.

His eyes met hers; darkly burning, they reflected thoughts that mirrored hers.

Abruptly, it seemed they were the only couple on the floor, the sole focus of their senses. They moved in a social vacuum charged with sensual heat, wracked with restrained passion. It flowed about them, caressed their skins. Teased, taunted, and left them yearning.

The music ended. It was a wrench to stop, to part, to step back even though both recognized they must. It was harder yet to pull back onto that other plane, to deny any expression to what was beating inside them, burgeoning between them, especially when each knew the other felt it, too. That the other wanted just as passionately, just as hungrily.

The need was there in his eyes; the answering tug was very real within her. But they had to play their parts, had to stroll easily, apparently nonchalantly back up the room, returning to take up her usual position near Adriana’s circle, with him by her side.

Tony settled her hand on his sleeve, but didn’t dare leave his hand over hers. He wanted her close, closer than she was; such unsatisfying skin-to-skin contact was almost painful.

Dragging in a breath, he glanced around, unseeing. How he would survive… one thing was certain—no more waltzes. Not until they’d danced to a different tune in a much more private setting.

Not until he’d felt her skin against his, naked body to naked body.

After…he assumed—fervently prayed—that the pressures that seemed to be building inside him, seething volcano-like from somewhere deep within, those emotions he accepted but didn’t wish to examine, would ease. That he wouldn’t feel like snarling when men like Harry Cynster hove near, that he’d be able to waltz with her without remembering… and imagining…

Without wanting to behave like some primitive caveman and toss her over his shoulder, seize her, and cart her away. And…

He had to stop thinking about it, or he’d go mad.

At the end of the ball, he and Geoffrey accompanied the sisters into the front hall. Adriana gave Geoffrey her hand; he bowed over it, whispered something Tony didn’t catch, then took his leave of Alicia, who, distracted, had missed that little interaction entirely. With a nod to him, Geoffrey left.

Alicia turned to him, held out her hand. “Thank you for your company.”

He looked at her, took her hand, and tucked it in his arm. “I’ll escort you home.”

She blinked, but allowed him to draw her close. “You don’t need to do that.”

He looked down at her, then softly stated, “I do.” After a moment, his chest swelled; he looked ahead. “Aside from all else, you’re in my custody.”

She frowned. “I thought you just said that for the benefit of the Watch.”

A footman came to tell them their carriage was waiting. Tony steered her onto the steps, then leaned close, and murmured, “I said it for my benefit, not theirs.”