A Gentleman's Honor (22 page)

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.”

A
FTER THAT COMMENT…
A
LICIA SPENT THE ENTIRE
journey home in a fever of speculation. The waltz had left her nerves, her senses, primed and flickering; rocking over the cobbles in the dark with Tony beside her, his hard thigh riding alongside hers, did nothing to calm them.

Last night—or had it been this morning? Whichever, there was no doubt in her mind that there were no further halts along their road. Yet she hadn’t until now seriously considered, hadn’t asked herself the fateful question.

If it came to that, would she?

If the moment arose and she had the chance, would she take it? Or try to the last to avoid it?

A small voice whispered…how did one avoid the inevitable?

By the time they reached Waverton Street, and he handed her down, she felt as tense as a bowstring. Adriana followed her up the steps. Tony brought up the rear. Maggs opened the door and held it wide; Alicia stepped back and let Adriana precede her. Tony, she noticed, cast comprehensive glances up and down the street as he climbed to the door.

She entered; he followed.

Adriana, no doubt thinking thoughts of Geoffrey Manningham, drifted upstairs without so much as a good night. Uncertain if she should be grateful or irritated, Alicia nodded to Maggs. “Thank you. You may retire. I’ll see his lordship out.”

Maggs bowed and lumbered away.

She watched the green baize door swing shut behind him.

Leaving her alone with the man who would be her lover.

Slowly, she turned… and found herself alone.

Tony had gone. The drawing-room door stood open.

Frowning, she went to the threshold; a dark shadow in the unlighted room, he was standing before the long windows. Puzzled, she went in. “What are you doing?”

“Checking these locks.”

The windows gave onto the narrow area separating the house from the street. “Jenkins checks the locks every night, and I suspect Maggs does, too.”

“Very likely.”

Halting in the middle of the floor, she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Do you approve?”

“No.” Tony turned from the windows, through the dimness studied her. “But they’ll do.” For now.

Until he could think of some way to improve the defenses he felt compelled to erect about her. He needed to know she was safe. He wanted her his. In the circumstances, satisfaction would—indeed needed to—come in that order.

The reality had come crashing down on him as he’d sat beside her in the carriage and sensed the flickering and skittering of her nerves, her growing agitation. After all she’d been through in the last two days, what woman wouldn’t be on edge?

This was not the time to press his suit, regardless of the strength of their passions. Aside from all else, he hadn’t forgotten her earlier mistake over him expecting her to be grateful. Hadn’t forgotten Ruskin’s diabolical scheme—“gratitude” demanded as payment for protection.

Now
he
was her protector, in more ways, more arenas, more effectively established than Ruskin had ever stood to be.

No. He wanted her safe, wanted her to know she was safe, and had no need to thank him further. No need to come to him out of gratitude.

He didn’t want her in that way, didn’t want her to come to him with any complicating emotions between them. He wanted much more from her.

When she came to him, it had to be because she wanted to, because she wanted him as he wanted her.

That simple—that powerful.

To gain all he wanted, to achieve all his goals, that point was critical. He didn’t question why that was so, but knew absolutely that it was.

She was watching him, puzzled, increasingly tense.

He crossed the room to her. She watched him approach, but didn’t move. Either toward him, or away.

Halting in front of her, through the shadows he looked down on her upturned face. Slowly raising both hands, he feathered his fingers along her delicate jaw, then cupped her face, framed it as he tipped it up, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.

She opened to him readily; she kissed him back, not urging him on, yet not denying their mutual hunger. Her hands rose, her soft palms lightly clasping the backs of his, a subtle, accepting, very feminine caress.

For long moments, they stood in the cool dark, their bodies inches apart and, mouths melding, giving and taking, drank each other in.

The distant chiming of a clock broke the silence, reminding him of time passing. Reluctantly, he drew back; equally reluctantly, or so it seemed, she let him.

Lifting his head, he looked into her face, into the soft pools of her eyes. He couldn’t read their expression, but he didn’t need visual cues to know that she was as aware as he, as achingly, tormentingly conscious of the sensual whirlpool that was swirling about them, of the sheer strength of the attraction that had grown into so much more between them.

He lowered his hands, had to clear his throat to find his voice. “I’ll leave you then.” Despite his determination, there was the tiniest hint of a question in the words.

She drew a deep breath, breasts rising, and nodded. “Yes. And… thank you for all you’ve done.”

No words could have better convinced him he should go. He turned to the door. She followed. He stood back to let her step over the threshold; as she did, a heavy knock fell on the front door.

They both froze, then he reached forward and moved her to the side. “Let me see who it is.”

She made no demur but stood quietly where he’d set her while he crossed the hall and opened the door.

One of his footmen looked up at him. The man smiled in relief. “My lord.” He bowed and offered a letter. “This came from the Bastion Club with instructions it be delivered to your hand as soon as possible.”

Tony took the missive. “Thank you, Cox.” A quick glance at the seal informed him it was from Jack Warnefleet. “Good work. I’ll take care of this. You may go.”

Cox bowed and retreated. His footsteps faded along the street as Tony shut the door.

“What is it? News?” Alicia came to his side.

“Very likely.” Breaking the seal, Tony spread the single sheet. Took in the single sentence with a glance.

“What? Who is it from?”

“Jack Warnefleet. He’s been digging into Ruskin’s county connections.” Folding the note, Tony slipped it into his pocket. “He’s returned with some news he thinks I should hear immediately.”

Jack had written that he’d uncovered something significant and suggested Tony meet him at the Bastion Club “pdq.” Pretty damn quick. Between such as they, that meant with all speed—urgent.

The possibility that they’d finally got some handle on A. C. sent anticipation, a keen sense of the hunt, rising through him. “He’s at the club—I’ll go there now.”

He glanced at Alicia. His welling excitement had communicated itself to her; eyes wide, she reached for the doorknob. “You will tell me if you learn anything major, won’t you? Like who A. C. is?”

Already speculating on what avenues the new information might open up, he nodded as she opened the door. “Yes, of course.”

The words were vague, the nod absentminded; Alicia stifled an oath. She caught his arm and tugged until he looked at her, actually focused on her. “Promise me you’ll come and tell me the instant you learn anything significant.”

She held his gaze, prepared to be belligerent if he turned evasive.

Instead, he looked into her eyes, then smiled. “I promise.”

He ducked his head, kissed her swiftly, then slipped out of the door she was holding half-open. “Lock it— shoot the bolts. Now.”

Grimacing at him, she shut the door, dutifully reached up, and shot the bolt above her head, then bent and slid home the other near the floor. Straightening, she listened. An instant later, she heard his footsteps descending the steps, then he strode away down the street.

Half an hour later, in the shrouded darkness of her bed, she sat up, pummeled her pillow, then flung herself down on it again.

She hadn’t wanted to take the final step.

She reminded herself of that fact in inwardly strident tones—to no avail. They didn’t impinge on her restless moodiness in the slightest, didn’t alleviate the deflated feeling dragging at her—as if she’d been on the brink of receiving some wonderful gift, but it had been delayed at the last moment.

The feeling was nonsensical. Illogical. But very real.

She’d spent the entire evening on tenterhooks, increasingly sharp ones, worrying over what would unfold between them next, worrying that she knew all too well, that Tony would press ahead, engineer the moment, and…

That she felt so ungrateful for his forebearance was damning indeed.

He’d clearly decided to hold back; she should grasp the time he’d granted her to concentrate on those things that were most important—Adriana and their plan and the boys. Closing her eyes, settling her head on the down-filled pillow, she willed herself to keep her mind on such matters, on the things that had always dominated her life.

Determinedly, she relaxed.

Within seconds her mind had roamed, to a pair of hot black eyes, to the feel of his lips, firm and pliant on hers, to the sensations of his hands stroking, caressing, to the intimate probing of his tongue…

Sleep crept into her mind and swept her into her dreams.

She woke sometime later to a preemptory knock on her bedchamber door. She couldn’t imagine… she stared through the shadows at the door.

It opened. Tony walked—stalked—in. He scanned the room and located her in the bed; even through the dark his gaze pinned her. Then he turned and quietly closed the door.

She struggled up onto her elbows, struggled to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and make her mind work. What? Why? Had something serious occurred?

Tony’s calmly deliberate movements made that last seem unlikely. He’d crossed the room. Without meeting her eyes, he turned and sat on the end of her bed. It bowed beneath his weight.

She stared at his back, then wriggled and sat up, hugging the coverlet to her breasts. She’d caught only a glimpse of his face, but her eyes were adjusted to the darkness; it had seemed somewhat harder than usual, the harsh features sharply delineated, the angular planes set like granite.

He didn’t turn around, but bent forward.

She frowned. “What’s going on?”

Her whisper floated out through the room.

He didn’t immediately answer; instead, she heard a thud.

Realized with a sudden clenching of nerves that he’d pulled off one shoe.

He shifted and reached for the other. “You made me promise to come and tell you the instant I learned anything significant.”

Those had been her exact words. She shifted, wondering…“Yes? So what—” A sudden thought took precedence over everything else. She stared at the back of his head. “How did you get in?”

His second shoe hit the floor. “I slipped the lock on the drawing-room window. But you needn’t worry.” He stood and faced the bed. “I locked it again.”

That wasn’t what was worrying her.

Eyes widening, mouth drying, she watched as he shrugged out of his coat, glanced around, then flung it over her dressing table stool. Then his fingers rose to his cravat, smoothly tugging the ends free.

“Ah…” Good heavens! She had to…had to…she swallowed. “Did you learn something from your friend?”

She had to distract him.

“From Jack?” His tone was flat, his accents clipped. “Yes. As it happened, I learned quite a lot.”

He had the cravat undone; dragging it free, he flung it on his coat, then his fingers went to the buttons of his shirt.

It was getting harder and harder to think, to swallow, even to breathe. Had the moment really come? Just like that, without warning?

Panic inched higher and higher.

She clutched the edge of the coverlet. “So…what did you learn?” She tried to recall what had passed between them earlier—had she inadvertently issued some sexual invitation?

“Jack investigated Ruskin’s background. In Bledington.” Tony followed the line of buttons down, then glanced at her, yanked the tails from his waistband and stripped off the shirt. His eyes had adjusted; he could see how wide hers were. Wondered, cynically, intently, just how far she’d go before she broke.

He tossed the shirt aside, set his hands to his waistband, his fingers on the buttons of the flap. “Ruskin’s estate amounts to little more than a few fields—he inherited his liking for gambling from his father. The income he enjoyed could not in any way derive from his ancestral acres.” He slipped the buttons free. “If anything, the upkeep of the house in which his mother and sister live was a drain on his purse.”

She didn’t shift, made absolutely no sound as he removed his trousers and sent them to join the rest of his clothes. His determination hardened; it was an effort to keep his emotions—the mix of incredulity, anger, and hurt, and so much more he didn’t want to examine—from his face.

Clothed only in shadows, he turned to the bed. Silent-footed, he prowled down its side; it was a large, canopied affair. He was aroused but, apparently stunned, she was following his face; she’d yet to look down.

She moistened her already parted lips. “Ah…so… what does that…” She made a valiant and quite visible attempt to focus her mind. “I mean, why is that important?”

“It’s not.” He heard the harshness in his tone. Watching her closely, primed to smother a shriek, he reached for the covers. “But there were other facts Jack discovered that were far more startling.”

Her knuckles turned white as he grasped the covers, but when, jaw setting, he lifted them, her grip eased; the silky quilt slid through her fingers as he raised the sheets.

“Oh. I see…”

She was looking straight at him, but he would have sworn she wasn’t seeing him. Her tone seemed distant, as if she was thinking of other things.

His temper, held in tight check until then, flared. He slid onto the bed, dropped the covers, and turned to her.

His plan—what plan he had—was to force her into admitting the truth, the truth Jack had uncovered. The truth she’d so artfully kept from him, her protector and would-be husband. He’d intended to shock her, to use that truth itself to chastise her, to embarrass her into admitting all; he’d imagined she’d succumb to virginal fluster long before now.