A Gentleman's Honor (15 page)

Habit prompted him to answer with a simple “No,” and then distract her from the subject, but his decision not to conceal such matters from her weighed against such a tack. “Nothing specific—as I said, I’ve various inquiries under way.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out the originals of the lists he’d made of ships’ names, dates, and Ruskin’s payments. “This”—stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he settled back. Straightening the lists, he held them up before him—“are all we have to work with at present.”

She hesitated, but had to lean closer to look.

Her shoulder brushing his arm, Alicia read the entries; she was determined to keep their conversation focused on the safe and highly pertinent subject of his investigation. Relatively safe; clearly, he was not above using every opportunity that came his way to ruffle her senses, even this. His writing was neat, precise, but quite small; she had to press closer still to make out the dates—her senses flared with awareness, of him, of his strength, of the promise of sensual delight her wanton wits now associated with him.

She waved at the lists. “These dates. They seem to be related in some way—not exactly, but…”

He nodded. “We think—”

Without further prompting, he explained what the lists were, what he believed they meant. To her surprise, he even told her what his assumptions regarding the lists’ significance were, what he hoped to learn from the shipping companies, the ports, and the mariners, and how that might indicate further avenues to explore …it was intriguing.

She found herself enthused with a zeal to in some way assist in working out the puzzle of what Ruskin’s information was used for, and why. She’d intended to do something—pushing the investigation to a rapid conclusion would remove the most compelling excuse Torrington had to call on her, to be close to her.

About to ask how she could help, she stopped; why ask? Reaching for the lists, she drew them from his fingers. “May I make copies of these?”

His brows rose, but he nodded. “If you like.”

Tony watched as she stood and crossed to the escritoire standing against the wall between the windows. She sat, drew out a sheet of paper, then settled to copy his lists. A slanting beam of sunlight struck coppery red glints from her dark hair. In the evenings, she wore it coiled high; during the day, the heavy loops were neatly constrained at her nape, the dark silk lustrous against her pale skin.

A fleeting notion of releasing that restrained abundance, of spreading it in a sheening mahogany veil over her bare shoulders, a distracting screen about her charms, filled him. Caught him. Momentarily held him.

She glanced at him, alerted, suspicious, but not knowing why.

He frowned, surreptitiously shifted. “What do you intend to do with those?”

Laying aside her pen, she blotted the lists, then rose and turned to him. “I don’t know. If I have them, then when I think of something…” She shrugged. His originals in her hand, she walked back to the chaise.

His frown wasn’t feigned. “If you do think of anything, or learn anything, promise me you’ll tell me immediately.”

Alicia halted before him, met his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “I promise.” What else was she to do with anything she learned?

She held out the lists. For one moment, his gaze didn’t leave her face, then it slowly lowered, eventually fastening on the sheets in her hand.

He reached out—reached farther than the sheets and grasped her wrist. Long fingers locking, he tugged.

Before she could catch her breath, she was on his lap, in his arms. In a flurry of skirt and petticoats, she tried to right herself, tried to push back.

She heard a deep chuckle, felt it reverberate through her palms, braced on his chest. “We have a few moments…” His tone was pure temptation.

Resist, resist, resist.

She drew breath, looked up. And his lips came down on hers.

He captured them, captured her mouth, bewitched her senses. She was kissing him back, flagrantly participating in the exchange before her wits caught up with her actions. He shifted; she felt him pluck his lists from her nerveless fingers, fold them, and tuck them into his pocket.

Then his arms rose and closed about her, his head angled, and he parted her lips wider, his tongue evocatively thrusting deep, then settling to a typical, devastatingly intimate game. Of exploration, of enticement.

Soon her mind was whirling, senses locked with his as together they fed their mutual hunger, created and assuaged a mutual desire. Fingers tangled in his hair, she clung, savored, appeased, and demanded.

How long they indulged in the heated sensations she had no idea, but her wits returned with a jolt when she felt his hands between them, opening the buttons down the front of her walking dress.

It took a huge effort but she broke from the kiss; he was distracted, so let her go. On a gasp, she looked down, then glanced wildly around. “Ah…”

“Don’t worry.” From under his heavy lids, his black eyes caught hers. He searched, read, then his lips twisted wryly. “Your brothers are safe upstairs, so is your sister. Jenkins is with your brothers, and the rest are in the kitchens. No one is going to come through the door, not in the next half hour.”

Half hour? What might he do in half an hour?

“That’s—” She had to stop and moisten her lips, had to whip her wits into order. She was supposed to resist, or at least… she looked down, saw his fingers dark against the skin he was swiftly uncovering, couldn’t quite suppress a tense, expectant shiver. “This is… really too… that is…”

Good Lord!
Her words died along with her wits when he slipped a hand between the gaping halves of her bodice, with a flick of his fingers dispensed with her chemise, and boldly set his hand to her skin.

The touch was a sensual shock, not muted in the least by the fact she’d expected it, knew what his hand felt like there, cupping her breast, taking its weight, fingers gently kneading, then artfully teasing the already tightly ruched peak. Her lids drifted down, eyes closing as the sensations swept her—then she remembered and jerked her eyes open. Half-open. Enough to look into his face.

He was watching her. “Stop fighting it—just enjoy.”

His hand moved on her, her wits started to slide…

“No! That is…” She drew a determined breath, only to discover she couldn’t; her lungs had locked. Her nerves had tensed, not in rejection but in pleasured delight. The urge to press her breast into his warm hand was compelling, almost overwhelming. She held it at bay.

Fingers sinking into his shoulders, lids closing, she managed to shake her head. “I—you… this. We
can’t
—”

She broke off with a sound very close to a moan.

His hand shifted, fingers closing more definitely about the aching peak he’d so effectively tortured, with expert ministrations soothed the pain, but that somehow only escalated the ache.

“I told you not to worry.”

His words, deep and gravelly, reached through the fog of her whirling senses. “If you need to go slowly, we will. We have no need to rush.”

On the words, his hand left her, fingers trailing upward, then she felt him ease her gown over the peak of her left shoulder. Baring her breast. His hand returned to its seductive play; she knew he was watching as he caressed her swollen flesh. As he knowingly tightened every nerve she possessed.

“We can take the long road.” His voice had deepened, darkened, weaving a sorcerous spell. “And spend as much time as we wish enjoying every sight, every experience along the way.”

Her breasts ached; her whole body seemed to throb.

He leaned nearer; his lips brushed hers. “Is that what you want?”

She nodded. “Yes.” The word was a whisper between their lips.

“So be it,” he whispered back. Then sealed the pact with a kiss.

A kiss that ripped her wits away and sent them spinning. That sent heat and flame pouring through her, down every nerve, down every vein. His hand left her and he gathered her closer; holding her in one arm, he sent his hand exploring again.

Caressing her through her clothes. Not just her breasts, but everywhere. His hand traced her shoulders, her back, her spine, delineated the muscles on either side, then spanned the back of her waist. His palm, hot and hard, passed over her hip, then boldly caressed her bottom. He traced the globes, over and around, all the while holding her to their kiss, to the slow, steady dizzying rhythm of thrust and retreat he’d established.

Her senses spun as he cupped the back of her thigh, then moved down, found her knee, then swept upward. Inward.

She gasped, would have stiffened in his arms, but he didn’t allow it. His other hand shifted, gripping her bottom, holding her still. Then his questing hand splayed over her stomach; he pressed, kneaded, then held her tight, not just in his arms but sensually, too, as he reached lower, traced the tops of her thighs, then stroked, through the fine fabric of her walking dress gently probed the hollow between, caressed the soft curls beneath chemise and gown.

Teased her to life.

Until every nerve in her body was tingling, until heat pulsed just beneath her skin.

Eventually, gradually, he drew back. Eased her back.

Eventually he lifted his head, looked into her face, then brushed her lips once more with his. “If you want it slow, we’ll go slowly. Very,
very
slowly.”

From beneath her heavy lids, she caught the fire in his eyes.

The reassurance was what she’d wanted.

She wasn’t sure she’d survive.

A
FTERNOON TEA IN
W
AVERTON
S
TREET 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.