A Gentleman's Honor

SIX

ALICIA CONSIDERED THE CLOSED DOOR, THEN LOOKED AT Tony. Torrington! He remained on the floor, shoulders against the side of an armchair; his expression gently amused, he raised a brow at her.

She cleared her throat. “Have you learned anything more about Ruskin?” She needed to keep his mind away from her, from his interest in her; his investigation was assuredly her best bet.

His eyes opened a fraction wider. “Yes, and no. I haven’t learned anything definite, but I have certain inquiries in train. Whether they bear fruit remains to be seen.”

When she waited, pointedly, Tony grinned. “I spent a most illuminating morning learning about moneylenders.”

“Moneylenders?” Alarm flared across her face; her hand instinctively rose to her breast.

“Not on my account.” He frowned fleetingly at her.

“It’s not unknown for gentlemen like A. C. to move the large sums they use to pay their informants via moneylenders, thus concealing their part in the transaction. I visited Mr. King this morning, and asked if he knew of any gentleman with the initials A. C. who had borrowed large sums regularly over recent years.”

She continued to stare at him; her stillness was strange. “Any gentleman…” She drew breath. “I see. And did he?”

“No.” Tony studied her, trying to fathom the cause of her reaction. “He had no such borrower on his books. However, he agreed to check with the other moneylenders. Given he’s something of an institution in the field, if A. C. has been using moneylenders to cover his tracks, I believe we can rely on Mr. King to unearth him.”

She blinked; some of her tension had faded. “Oh.” She searched his face, then abruptly rose; with a swish of skirts, she went to stand before the window. “Ruskin’s information must have some bearing on this. Presumably A. C. used it to his benefit, or why seek and pay for it?”

“Indeed.” His gaze on her, Tony got to his feet, resettled his coat, then approached. “There are other avenues I’m exploring.”

His voice warned her; she glanced over her shoulder as he halted behind her, so close she was to all intents and purposes—certainly his intents and purposes—trapped between him and the wide windowsill.

Her eyes widened; she sucked in a quick breath. “What avenues?”

Standing this close, with the perfume of her hair and skin rising, wreathing his senses, his mind wasn’t on his investigation. “The shipping is one.” He slid one palm across her waist, then splayed his fingers and urged her back against him.

She hesitated, then permitted it, letting him settle her, warm and alive, against him. “How are you going to investigate that?”

The words were thready, starved of breath. He inwardly grinned, and sent his other hand to join the first, anchoring her before him, savoring the supple strength of her beneath his palms, her warmth and the softness of the feminine curves riding against him. “I have a friend, Jonathon Hendon. He and his wife will be in London in a few days.”

Bending his head, he set his lips to cruise the fine skin above her temple. “Jonathon owns one of the major shipping lines. If anyone can indentify the likely use of Ruskin’s information, Jonathon will.”

There was a nervous tension in her he couldn’t place, didn’t understand.

“So you’ll learn what A. C. used the information for from Jonathon?”

Beneath his hands, she stirred. Her pulse had accelerated; her breathing was shallow.

“Not quite.” He bent lower, let his breath caress her ear. “Jonathon will be able to say what the information might have been used for, but proving that someone did use it, then following the trail back to that someone won’t be quite so simple.”

“But…it would work.”

“Yes. Regardless of how we identify A. C., we’ll still need to piece his scheme together. Eventually.” He breathed the last word as he set his lips to her ear, then lightly traced with his tongue.

A telltale shudder racked her spine, then she surrendered and sank back against him. Feeling ludicrously victorious, he changed position so he could minister to her other ear.

Her hands closed over his at her waist, gripped. “What other route…you said avenues… plural…”

Her voice faded as he artfully teased; when he lifted his head, she sighed. He grinned openly—wolfishly—knowing she couldn’t see. “There’ll be some other connection between Ruskin and A. C. They’ll have met somewhere, have known each other, even if only distantly. Their lives will have touched somewhere, at some time.”

Sliding his hands from under hers, he ran his palms slowly upward. Heard the swift intake of her breath as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She stiffened, stilled. He caressed knowingly, reassuringly; gradually, almost skittishly, she eased back.

“How—” She cleared her throat. “How do you plan to investigate…that?”

She was having trouble finding breath enough to speak; he decided to make it harder still. “I have a friend, not exactly up that way, but close enough.” Boldly turning his hands, he cupped her breasts.

Alicia thought she might faint. Her lungs seized; her head whirled. Desperate, she clung to her wits. Dragged in a tight breath. “Ah…what…?”

“I’ll ask him to check in Bledington. See if the initials A. C. mean anything to people there.”

She jerked as his hands shifted, frantically fought down all further reaction. She hadn’t imagined he would…

His voice had grown deeper, darker, more gravelly. Would a widow protest? On what grounds?

Giddiness threatened. She hauled in a breath, briefly closed her eyes, battered by conflicting impulses. Panic that his friend might stumble on more than she would wish. The urge to stiffen—not just in response to that, but to his boldness, to the liberties he was taking… her head was spinning. The countering instinct to sink against him, to arch her spine, press her breasts, now aching so strangely, into his hard hands only added to her dizziness.

Then he closed his hands and kneaded.

She lost the last of her breath. Her senses fractured. Her wits fled.

Beyond her control, her spine softened, gave; she had to lean fully against him, her hands dropping helplessly to brace against his muscled thighs.

His fingers shifted, then closed again. Tightened.

Fire lanced through her. She gasped, arched; eyes shut, she let her head fall back as he repeated the torture, then he bent his head to her throat, now exposed. His lips cruised, then settled.

Hot, wet, his mouth covered the spot where her pulse raced. He kissed, licked, laved, all the while massaging her breasts, sending wave after wave of pure sensation rushing through her.

Heat built beneath her skin; the rasp of his tongue over her pulse point shocked and teased her senses. His hands were strong, his grip confident, knowing, his body a wall of hard muscle and bone, holding her there, a captive to delight.

To the pleasure even in her innocence she knew he was orchestrating.

She felt totally at his mercy. And witlessly content to be so.

Madness—but an oh-so-pleasurable insanity.

This had to be lovemaking, a part of it, of the type a nobleman indulged in with his mistress.

Illicit. Exciting. Enthralling…

The moment for protest was long past. Her role was set; eyes closed, head back, she gave herself up to it—she couldn’t draw back now.

Tony was intrigued by her response, with the ardor he sensed beneath her restrained veneer. As he ministered to her senses, learned the curves of her breasts, their weight, their wonder, he cataloged, analyzed, noted for future reference. She was amazingly responsive; her breasts, now sensitive and swollen, filled his hands. She shifted under them, pressing back against him, sirenlike, openly sensuous.

Despite her reserve, an understandable defense for an attractive well-born widow, she couldn’t hide her reactions; she understood what lay between them as well as he. The flames that leapt into being at just a touch were more than strong—they were scorching. They could both feel them licking, beckoning, hungry yet held back.

They couldn’t take things much further yet, but their time would come. On the physical plane, the path ahead was straightforward, but there was much about her he’d yet to learn.

“Your parents.” Releasing her breasts, he nuzzled her ear, gently blew. “When did they die?”

Eyes still closed, Alicia dragged in a breath—it felt like her first in ten minutes. Then she felt a tug at her neckline; opening her eyes, she looked down—to see his long fingers easing the top button of her bodice free. “Ah… Mama died almost two years ago.”

Good Lord! She had to stop this—had to call a halt. If he touched her…

“And your father? From your brothers, I gather he’s been gone a long time.”

Her mouth was dry; she nodded. “Years and years.” Gaze fixed on his busy fingers, she licked her lips.

“And you have no other family? No one close?”

“Ah…no.” She dragged in a breath. “I really think—”

“You’re not supposed to think.”

She blinked, lifted her gaze. “Why not?”

“Because”—his fingers were inexorably descending, leaving her bodice gaping—“at the moment, you’re supposed to be enjoying, simply feeling. You don’t need to think to do that.”

He sounded eminently reasonable, even faintly amused; the idea of a missish protest and consequent retreat seemed unwise.

“Have you always lived near Banbury?”

“Ah…yes.” Once he’d opened her bodice, what did he plan to do?

He shifted behind her, easing back; the realization that she wasn’t the only one affected by his play burst across her mind, stealing what few wits she’d managed to reassemble.

“I assume Carrington hailed from that area, too?”

The words sounded distant, vague, but whether that was due to the drumming in her ears, the titillating panic locking her lungs, or because he was no more interested in the subject than she was, she wasn’t sure.

A cool wash of air slipped beneath her gaping bodice; she quelled a shiver. His hands drifted down, then fastened about her waist.

“Ah…y-yes. He came from there, too.”

“How old are your brothers?”

She frowned. “Twelve, ten, and eight.” His hands had settled; she gulped in a breath. “Why are you asking all this?”

His fingers gripped, then he stepped back, turned her and stepped forward once more, locking her against the windowsill, his hips to hers, his erection rigid against the softness of her stomach.

He trapped her gaze.

She couldn’t think—not at all. Could only stare into his black eyes, and wonder if there really were embers glowing in them. The sheer maleness of him engulfed her; his gaze dropped to her lips—she felt them throb.

His lips quirked, wryly humorous. He released her waist; one hand rose to cup her jaw, angling her face upward as he bent his head. “Because I want to know all about you.”

His lips closed on hers as his other hand slid boldly beneath her bodice, and closed about her breast.

She gasped, tensed; only a fine layer of silk lay between her sensitized skin and his burning palm. Her breasts instantly felt heavy, swelling, tightening, aching anew.

Then he entered her mouth, possessive and demanding, capturing her attention, insistent and commanding; she scrambled to meet him, to remember how, to play the experienced widow she was pretending to be. The hand on her breast shifted, knowingly cupping, then his fingers toyed with the silk, shifting it over the tightly ruched peak, heightening its excruciatingly sensitive state—then he closed his fingers around the pebbled tip, tugged gently, then tightened, tightened…

She tried to break from the kiss, but he wouldn’t let her; his hand framing her face, he held her captive. Once again lavished delight and sheer sensual pleasure on her through the play of his lips and tongue, and the even more expert play of his fingers.

He captured her totally. Not just with the heat, with the sudden flare of hot desire, but with something simpler, more fundamental.

His hunger—and hers.

He didn’t try to hide his want, his wish to have, to know, to take, to explore, to experience; it was there, laid before her, stated more clearly than in words. A hunger of her own rose in reply, not mere curiosity but something more definite—a need she hadn’t known she had.

He angled his head, ravaged her mouth, and she consciously met him. Flagrantly urged him on. His fingers closed again and she shuddered, no longer trying to disguise her response. Her hands rose, of their own volition found his shoulders, then pushed on, around, back, then she speared her fingers into his black hair.

The silken touch of the heavy locks didn’t distract, but only added to the tactile experience; her greedy senses, awakened and starved, welcomed and wallowed. His hand shifted on her breast, blatantly possessive; his fingers tightened again—hers clenched in response.

He moved closer, into her, deepening the kiss—and suddenly they were somewhere else, in some place they hadn’t been before. Somewhere hotter, more fiery, where their needs escalated and their senses grew ravenous. Clamorous.

Urgent.

It was he who broke the kiss, lifted his head and hauled them free of the fire. Drew them back to earth, back to themselves, to their bodies locked close in the parlor.

To their breaths fast and shallow, to their pulses hammering in their veins. Lids lifting, their gazes locked; in his, the flames still smoldered. Her lips throbbed, appeased yet still hungry.

His gaze fell to them, then lower. To where his hand lay over her breast. He closed that hand, slowly, deliberately. Desire welled and washed down her spine; something inside her clenched tight.

His eyes lifted to hers. “Not here, not now.” He bent his head and kissed her, slowly, deeply, intimately, then drew back. “But soon.”

His hand left her aching flesh, yet he didn’t step back. Instead, his gaze returning to her eyes, trapping her, holding her, he deftly rebuttoned her bodice.

Her head was whirling, but some part of her no longer cared. That part of her that seemed new, different— changed. Or perhaps revealed, called forth. That part of her that thrilled to that decisive “But soon.”

She might have thought she was mad, but knew she wasn’t. This was a facet of life she’d yet to experience, yet to explore.

As a widow, she couldn’t pretend not to understand. The look in his eyes convinced her she’d never succeed in denying what she’d felt, in pretending her hunger didn’t exist. He’d seen it, felt it, understood it—almost certainly better than she did.

There was nothing she could say—that she could think of that was safe to say—so she merely held his gaze and, her pulse still thundering, waited to follow his lead.

That seemed an acceptable response. When, stepping back, he quizzed her with his eyes, she merely arched a brow, and saw his lips quirk.

He took her hand, raised it to his lips. “I’ll leave you. I’m afraid I won’t be attending the Waverleys’ ball tonight.” He turned to the door; she walked beside him. “I need to consult with some others about the investigation.”

He opened the door; she led him into the front hall.

“The rumors concerning you and Ruskin should be fading.”

She glanced at him, saw a frown in his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Her even reply didn’t reassure him. “Lady Amery will be attending, and Lady Osbaldestone, too, should you need any support.”

Opening the front door, she held it, and looked at him. “I doubt that will be necessary, but I’ll bear it in mind.”

Pausing by her side, he looked into her eyes. She got the distinct impression he wanted to say something more, something other, but couldn’t find the words.

Then he reached out, with the pad of his thumb caressed her lower lip.

It throbbed.

Swiftly, he bent his head, pressed a kiss, hard and definite, to the spot, then he straightened. “I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

With a nod, he went down the steps.

She stood at the door, watching him walk away, then shut it. She paused, waiting until her nerves steadied and untensed, then, lips firming, she headed for the stairs.

Alicia tapped on the door of Adriana’s bedchamber, then entered.

Sprawled on her bed, her sketchbook before her, Adriana looked up, then smiled. Impishly. “Has he gone?”

“Yes.” Alicia frowned as Adriana bounced into a sitting position. “But you shouldn’t have left us alone.”

“Why ever not?” Adriana grinned. “He was waiting to be alone with you, wasn’t he?”

Sitting on the end of the bed, Alicia grimaced. “Probably. Nevertheless, it would be wiser if I didn’t spend time alone with him.”

“Nonsense! You’re a widow—you’re allowed to be alone with gentlemen.” Adriana’s eyes sparkled. “Especially gentlemen like him.”

“But I’m not a widow—remember?” Alicia frowned.

“And gentlemen like him are dangerous.”

Adriana sobered. “Surely not—not him.” She frowned. “Geoffrey told me Tony—Torrington—was totally trustworthy. An absolutely to-his-bones honorable gentleman.”

Alicia raised her brows. “That may be so, but he thinks I’m a widow. His attitude to me is based on that.”

“But…”Adriana’s puzzlement grew; curling her legs, she shifted closer, studying Alicia’s face. “Gentlemen do marry widows, you know.”

“Perhaps.” Alicia caught her eye. “But how many noblemen marry widows? I don’t think that’s at all common. And you know what the books said—unless of the nobility herself, a widow is often viewed by gentlemen of the haut ton as a perfect candidate for the position of mistress.”

“Yes…but the books were warning of the general run of gentlemen, the bucks, the bloods, the—”

“Dangerous blades?” Alicia’s lips twisted; reaching out, she squeezed Adriana’s hand. “You’re not, I hope, going to tell me Tony—Torrington—isn’t dangerous.”

Adriana pulled a face. “No. But—”

“No buts.” Alicia spoke firmly, then stood. “In my estimation, it would be unwise for me to be alone with Torrington in future.”

Adriana’s eyes, fixed on her face, narrowed. “Did he kiss you?’

Her blush gave her away; she met Adriana’s eyes fleetingly. “Yes.”

“And?” When she said nothing, Adriana prompted,

“How was it? How did it feel?”

The word brought back exactly how it had felt; warmth spread beneath her skin, her nipples tightened. One glance confirmed that Adriana was not going to be deterred. “It was… pleasant. But,” she quickly added, “indulging in such pleasantness is far too risky.”

She could see more questions forming in Adriana’s inquisitive mind. “Now that’s enough about me.” She reverted to her firmest tone. “I intend to avoid Torrington in future. But what about you? You’re the reason we’re here, after all.”

Adriana gazed up at her. After a moment, she said, “I like Geoffrey. He’s kind, and funny, and…” She drew breath and continued in a rush, “I think he might be the one.”

That last was said with an almost stricken look. Alicia sat again. “If you only think he might be, perhaps we should cast around a trifle more until you’re certain. There are three weeks yet before the Season begins, so you’ve plenty of time—there’s no reason to feel you must reach a decision quickly.”

“Indeed.” Adriana frowned. “I wouldn’t want to make a mistake.”

The sisters sat side by side, both staring into space, then Alicia stirred. “Perhaps”—she glanced at Adriana—“to help in deciding, it might be time to ask Mr. King to dine.”

Adriana looked at her, then nodded. “Yes.” Her chin firmed. “Perhaps we should.”

Alicia held her head high, her parasol deployed at precisely the correct angle as the natty barouche she’d hired from the livery stables rolled smoothly onto the gravel of the avenue through the park.

The morning was fine; a light breeze drifted through the branches of the trees, just coming into bud. She and Adriana sat in elegant comfort; on the box before them and clinging behind, the coachman and footman were attired in severe black with bright red ribbons circling the crowns of their hats. That last was Adriana’s suggestion, a simple touch to add a hint of exclusivity.

Such things mattered when going about in the ton.

“I still can’t get over Lady Jersey being so attentive.” Adriana lifted her face to the breeze; her dark curls danced about her heart-shaped face. “She has such a reputation, but I thought she was quite nice.”

“Indeed.” Alicia had her own ideas over what had prompted Lady Jersey’s kind words, and those of the other senior hostesses who had found a moment during the Waverleys’ ball to stop beside her to admire Adriana and wish them both well. She strongly suspected Lady Amery and her dear friend Lady Osbaldestone had been busy. And she knew at whose behest.

“Oh! There’s Lady Cowper.” Adriana returned her ladyship’s wave.

Alicia leaned forward and directed their coachman to pull up alongside her ladyship’s carriage, halted on the verge.

Emily, Lady Cowper, was sweet-tempered and good-natured; she had from the first approved of Mrs. Carrington and Miss Pevensey. “I’m so glad to see you both out and about. The sun is so fickle these days one daren’t let an opportunity pass.”

“Indeed.” Alicia touched fingers; Adriana smiled and bowed. “One can only attend a few balls each night, and there’s so many one simply cannot find in the crowds.”

Lady Cowper’s eyes gleamed. “Especially when so many need to have their notions set straight. But that small contretemps seems to be sinking quite as quickly as any of us might wish.”

Alicia shared a satisfied, understanding smile with her ladyship. They chatted about upcoming events for five minutes, then took their leave; the carriage rolled on.

To Lady Huntingdon, then Lady Marchmont, and finally Lady Elphingstone.

“That color so becomes you, my dear.” Lady Elphingstone examined Alicia’s maroon twill through her lorgnette, then turned that instrument on Adriana’s gown of palest lemon. “I declare you both are forever at the very pinnacle of modishness—always just so, never a step too far. I only wish my niece would take note.”

Alicia recognized the hint. “Is your niece in town?”

Lady Elphingstone nodded. “She’ll be at Lady Cranbourne’s rout tonight. I take it you both will be attending?”

“Indeed.” Adriana smiled warmly; she knew her role well. “I would be pleased to make your niece’s acquaintance, if that might be possible?”

Lady Elphingstone beamed. “I’ll be sure to make her known to you.”

Alicia returned her ladyship’s smile. “We’ll look forward to it.” By such little strategems were valuable alliances formed.

They parted from Lady Elphingstone. Alicia glanced ahead, then instructed the coachman to return to Waverton Street. Adriana cast her a questioning glance. Settling back, she murmured, “I’ve had enough for today.”

Adriana accepted the decree with easygoing cheerfulness; Alicia shut her lips on her real reason—she didn’t need to burden Adriana with that.

She had had enough—enough of deceiving others. But she’d accepted the role she had to play; any guilt associated with it was hers alone to bear.

As the carriage rolled under the trees, along the drive lined with the conveyances of the fashionable, she and Adriana continued to smile, wave, and exchange nods; the number of ladies with whom they were acquainted had grown dramatically over the past days. Or, more correctly, the number of ladies wishing to make their acquaintance had grown, courtesy of Tony—his lordship—and those he’d asked to look kindly upon them.

The gates of the park loomed; the carriage swept through, and they were free of the necessity of responding to those about them. Alicia couldn’t help but wonder what their reception would be if the ton knew the truth.

The prospect increasingly impinged on her mind. Tony—Torrington—had allied himself with them; if her secret became known, he would be involved by implication. Guilt by association, something the ton was quick to indulge in.

That worry dragged at her; only when they turned into Waverton Street and her mind swung to her brothers and her small household did she realize her worry for Torrington was of the same type, that nagging insistent consideration that she felt for her dependents, all those in her care.

The carriage rocked to a halt. Inwardly frowning, she let the footman hand her down. She wasn’t wrong in assessing how she felt, yet Tony wasn’t a dependent, nor yet in her care. Why, then, was her feeling so strong—so definite? So real.

After handing Adriana down, the footman bowed, then left. The carriage rumbled off. Adriana started up the steps. Closing her parasol, Alicia followed more slowly.

Jenkins would be upstairs with the boys; Adriana opened the door and went in, then turned to take Alicia’s parasol. “I’ll put these in the parlor. I thought of a new design—a variation of that French jacket. I want to sketch it before I forget.” With a swish of her skirts, she headed for the parlor.

Alicia paused in the hall, watching her sister… just for one instant pausing to give thanks, then she heard a footfall on the stairs.

She looked up—and her heart leapt.

There could be no doubt; as she watched Tony slowly, elegantly descend, his lips set in an easy line but his eyes watchful, intent, she understood what she was feeling, couldn’t stop the welling tide of anticipation, the burgeoning of simple happiness.

She was in a very bad way.

With one hand, he indicated the upper floor. “I’ve been with your brothers.” Reaching the bottom stair, he stepped down, walked closer.

With every step he took, she could feel her awareness come to life, feel her consciousness expand, reaching for him.

He stopped directly in front of her. His eyes met hers, their expression quizzical, faintly amused. Then, before she could stop him, he bent his head and kissed her.

Gently, warmly.

He raised his head, met her gaze. “I need to speak with you privately.” He glanced around, then gestured. “Shall we use the drawing room?”

She looked at the closed door. Her lips still tingled; it was an effort to bludgeon her wits into working order. “Yes. If…” Had her brothers said something they shouldn’t?

That thought and the incipient panic it evoked helped get her mind functioning. Turning, she crossed the hall by Torrington’s side, her protective instincts abruptly on full alert. No matter what she felt for him, she shouldn’t forget that if he learned the truth, he could pose as big a threat to her and her family as Ruskin had.

Indeed, the threat he could pose was even greater.

Tony opened the door, waited for her to enter, then followed her into the elegantly appointed room. His gaze went first to the windows—two long panes looking onto the street. Shutting the door, he glanced around, but there was nothing of her or her family there, on the mantelpiece or the occasional tables set between the two chaises and the well-padded armchairs.

She stopped in the middle of the richly colored Turkish rug; head up, spine straight, hands clasped before her, she faced him.

“You don’t have enough menservants.” He had no idea what she’d expected him to say, but it assuredly wasn’t that. She blinked, then frowned as her mind shifted to the domestic arena. If he told her he’d discovered a certain delight in throwing her off-balance, in confusing her, she most certainly wouldn’t approve, yet such moments revealed an underlying vulnerability, one she didn’t normally show, but which he treasured seeing and knew he responded to. As he presently was.

“Menservants?” Her frown was definite. “We have Jenkins, of course.”

“One man for a house of this size, with a family of this size?”

Her chin rose as he closed the distance between them. “We’ve never seen the need for a large staff. We’re quite comfortable as we are.”

Halting before her, he caught her gaze. “I’m concerned.”

She searched his eyes. “About what?”

“About the direction my investigation is taking, and the fact someone started rumors about you. Specifically you—the widow Ruskin was blackmailing.”

She hesitated, then said, “Adriana and I are always careful.”

“Be that as it may, this house is large… and you have three young brothers.”

He didn’t need to say more; he watched alarm flare in her eyes, only to be replaced by consideration, then consternation. He picked his moment to murmur, “I have a very large house with a very large staff, most of whom have very little to do given I’m the only member of the family in residence.” Her gaze lifted to his; he held it. “I would feel much happier, less concerned, if you would allow me to lend you a footman, at least until my investigation is successfully concluded.”

She returned his regard steadily. A minute ticked by, then she said, “This footman…?”

“I have one in mind who would suit admirably— Maggs. He’s been with me for years. He’s well trained, and I can assure you he’ll know how to deal with your brothers and the rest of the household, Jenkins especially.”

Her eyes narrowed; her look stated that she understood his tactics, that she recognized he’d left her little room to maneuver, no real excuse to refuse. “Just for the duration of your investigation?”

“You may have him for as long as you wish, but I’d urge you to allow him to stay at least until we have Ruskin’s murderer by the heels.”

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll warn Jenkins.”

They were standing close; he sensed her impulse to step back, away. Instead, she fixed him with a direct look. “It may interest you to know that at the Waverleys’ ball last night and in the park this morning, Adriana and I met with, not just a gratifying degree of acceptance, but a quite astonishing level of support.”

He raised his brows. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.” She held his gaze. “You arranged it, didn’t you?”

His face remained impassive, unreadable; his eyes, he knew, gave nothing away while he debated his answer. Eventually, he said, “Although she no longer resides in the capital, my mother has a large circle of friends among the grandes dames of the haut ton. I used to find their existence a trial. Now… I’m prepared to admit they do have their uses.”

She drew a slow, deep breath; although he kept his eyes locked with hers, he was highly conscious of the swelling of her breasts. “Thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t know why you’re doing this—”

Alicia broke off when something flashed in his eyes— an expression so vibrant, so powerful, even as fleeting as it was, the glimpse distracted her.

In the same moment, he reached for her; hands sliding around her waist, he drew her to him. Against him. Into his arms as he bent his head.

“The reason I’m doing this…”

The words washed over her lips, suddenly hungry; for a second, their gazes touched, locked, then his lids fell. She felt his gaze on her lips.

“Ought to be obvious.”

Deep, low, the words sank into her brain as his lips covered hers, and he sank into her mouth. Claimed her attention, then sent it spinning, fractured, dispersed. Called her senses, drew them to him, then trapped them, held them enthralled.

She kissed him back, found herself mentally floating as the slow, drugging kisses took their toll. Sinking her fingers into his shoulders, she tried to hang onto her wits, to some degree of control, but steadily, inexorably, implacable and irresistible, he drew it from her grasp.

Then he drew her hard against him, locked her body to his, and the flames and the magic flared.

It had to be magic, that surge of sensation, the giddy delight, the anticipation streaking down her nerves, tingling, tightening so that the need to sate it was suddenly more important than breathing, far more important than any consideration of social strictures.

His hands spread over her back, stroked possessively down the long planes, curving over her hips to close proprietorially over her bottom, provocatively kneading, then boldly caressing. Hot as a flame, heat spread beneath her skin; a deep-seated yearning flowered in its wake.

Then he angled his head and ravaged her mouth, took more, demanded more. Unhesitatingly she followed him deeper into the exchange, encouraging and enjoying the ever more intimate melding of their mouths.

The first inkling she had that he’d opened her bodice was the slithering caress of her silk chemise as, loosened, it slipped down, helped by his long fingers. And then those fingers were on her skin, and she lost touch with the world.

And plunged into another.

Into a realm where sensation and emotions were the only reality, where touches and caresses formed the language, with needs, wants, and desires the only goals. Every slow, possessive caress heightened her need, made her want with an ever greater certainty fueled by escalating, burgeoning desire. Yet that desire seemed entwined with his, with him, with his obvious reason. With what she sensed, in her bones knew, he wanted.

Their lips parted; from under heavy lids, their gazes met, held as his fingers moved on her, upon her, drawing whorls of flame on her skin, tightening her nerves to an excruciating degree. Unable to bear it, she closed her eyes, with a soft gasp let her head fall back. Felt him bend near, felt his lips on her throat, sliding down to fasten over her thudding pulse.

His hands shifted; her gown slid over her shoulders, then cool air caressed her heated skin. The bared skin he set his lips to tracing, with flicking licks and long trailing laves teasing, the hot, wet promise of his mouth withheld…as the fever built, as some need within her grew, and grew… until she moaned.

The sound, soft, nearly suppressed, surprised her, but through the hands at her waist holding her, supporting her, she sensed his satisfaction. A wholly male triumph that he crowned by closing his mouth—every bit as hot and wet as she’d imagined—over the taut, aching peak of one breast.

She tensed, her nerves clenched, not with rejection but delight. Her hands slid through his hair, tightened on his skull as he swirled his tongue about the ruched peak, then sucked gently. Sensation, pure and elemental, streaked through her, racing through her body to pool deep and low, a warming glow within her.

Cracking open her lids, she looked down. Watched as he feasted on her bounty—and wondered at her reaction. Some part of her was shocked, yet she couldn’t, even now, summon any will to refuse him, deny him—to push him away. She couldn’t tense her muscles, couldn’t break the spell. She didn’t want to, couldn’t pretend. Could only watch, feel, learn, and experience.

Something new, something novel, something she’d never felt before.

Tony sensed her fascination and was content. For now. He knew her acquiescence was not, yet, freely given; he could draw her into such sensual exchanges, but she did not, yet, seek them of her own accord.

That was what he wanted. Needed. For her to want him as he wanted her.

Overwhelming her natural resistance, taking over, controlling her—for one of his talents, that wasn’t all that hard. For him, the challenge lay deeper, in making her come to him, making her desire him enough to set aside her reserve and actively seek to be intimate with him.

Only by that route would he gain the surrender he sought, the complete and conscious giving that, for one of his nature, was the ultimate prize.

He raised his head; their gazes briefly touched, then he covered her lips, and took her mouth again. In a slow, thorough, leisurely engagement that left them both starved of breath.

Gradually, he drew back. Her breasts were swollen, tight beneath his hands; her skin felt like hot satin beneath his fingertips. He kept his lips on hers as he searched for and found the top edge of her chemise, and drew it up, tugging the drawstring so it tightened and held.

She stirred in his arms. He ended the kiss and lifted his head. Their eyes met for an instant, then she looked down; drawing her hands from his shoulders, she resettled and retied the chemise, then, a blush tinting her cheeks, she rapidly did up the buttons of her bodice.

He couldn’t keep his lips straight when she glanced at him; his satisfaction was too deep to hide.

She saw it, read it; a frown in her eyes, she waved him to the door.

Smiling, he turned, glancing at her as she fell in beside him. Before the door, he halted, caught her eye as she looked up. “I’ll send Maggs this afternoon.”

She blinked at him. “Maggs?”

“The footman.”

“Ah.” She drew herself up, nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

He grinned, ducked his head, and kissed her—stole one last kiss from her luscious lips—then straightened and met her eyes, green and slightly dazed. “I’ll see myself out.”

He managed to suppress a smirk; feeling positively virtuous, he opened the door, gracefully saluted her, then closed it.

Alicia stared at the panels. Beyond them, she heard his footsteps recede, then the front door opened, and shut.

He was gone.

Reason and logic returned in a flood; the last minutes—however many minutes it had been—replayed in her mind.

Her increasingly horrified mind.

Her lips still throbbed, her skin still tingled, her breasts… she could still feel the sensation of his mouth moving over them…

With a groan, she closed her eyes and slumped against the door.

What was she going to do?