A Gentleman's Honor (26 page)

“There’s no reason to step back.”

She knew he didn’t mean from their kiss.

His gaze fell to her lips, then returned to her eyes.

“And don’t think to deny this.”

She couldn’t; given what was so manifestly flaring between them…he was right—there was no point.

He bent his head again. She was lifting her lips to meet his when she heard his soft murmur, “Or me.”

She set her hand to his cheek as he took her mouth again; he was all heat and fire, tempting and familiar. This, she accepted, was the way it would be; if he wanted her, she was willing.

A minute later, he broke from the kiss to murmur, his voice dark and gravelly, “Upstairs.”

He turned her. His hand remained on her bottom as he guided her into the hall, then up the stairs to her bedchamber; her skin didn’t cool in the least.

Then they were in her room, and he closed the door. She’d halted in the middle of the floor, the candle in her hand. The flame wavered, but was enough to shed a golden pool of light into the general gloom.

He glanced at her, then at her dressing table; he waved. “Put it down there.”

She moved to do so. Leaning over the stool, she set the candlestick down on the polished top, straightened—and saw in the mirror that he’d followed her.

His hands slid around her waist. He shifted her slightly so that she stood directly in front of the three-paneled mirror with its wide central panel flanked by two narrower wings. The rectangular stool stood before her knees. She glanced down at it, then looked up as his hands slid farther and gripped, anchoring her as he stepped closer, trapping her before him.

She caught her breath as, in the shadowy mirror, she watched his dark head bend beside hers; releasing her waist, one hand rose, gliding upward over the purple silk, now deep as the midnight sky, to close possessively over one breast. His other hand splayed down, covering her stomach, pressing in, gently kneading, pressing her hips back against his hard thighs.

Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder at his face; inches away, she saw his teeth gleam in a fleeting smile.

“Bear with me,” he murmured, then his lips touched the corner of hers, then cruised back along her jaw to trace her ear. “I want to see you naked.”

He whispered the words, dark and erotic, into her ear.

It took a moment before she realized what he meant— he wanted to see her naked in the mirror.

Her nerves seized; before she could think of any protest—even decide if she wished to protest—he nudged her head back. She complied without thought; his lips traced downward along the column of her throat, then fastened over the spot where her pulse leapt.

His lips moved on her skin; his hands moved over her silk-clad body, roaming, caressing, then his fingers found her laces.

She closed her eyes, leaned back against him as he loosened her gown, then his hands rose to her shoulders and pressed the soft fabric down.

“Lift your arms.”

Opening her eyes just enough to see beneath her lashes, she watched her reflection in the mirror as she obeyed, sliding her arms free of the tiny sleeves. His palms swept down, over her breasts; the gown slithered down to her waist. His hands followed, pressed the folds past her hips; with a soft swoosh, the dress pooled at her feet.

For an instant, he paused, surveying what he’d uncovered. She caught the gleam of his eyes from beneath his heavy lids, felt his gaze briefly roam. In the flickering candlelight her chemise was opaque, the shadowy valleys and contours it hid mysterious.

He looked down. His hands rose and gripped her waist. “Kneel on the stool.” He lifted her, and she did; with his knees he nudged her ankles wide and stepped between, so his chest was again a warm wall at her back, his erection a promise against the swell of her bottom.

The candlelight reached her, but didn’t light him well; he was a dark presence behind her, his tanned hands contrasting starkly against the whiteness of her skin, the ivory of her chemise. He was a phantom lover, come to claim her, to lavish pleasure on her and take his own.

Her breath caught. He looked up, in the mirror trapped her gaze—as his hands slipped beneath the front hem of her chemise. She steeled herself, anticipating his touch, the fiery delight of his hands on her flesh, skin to bare skin. Instead, he turned his hands, caught the fine fabric and lifted it. Without touching her at all, he raised the diaphanous garment; lungs seizing, she lifted her arms and he drew it off over her head.

She put out a hand to steady herself as the cool air caressed her skin—the only firm purchase she could reach was his thigh behind her. Sinking her fingers into the hard muscle, giddy, she stared at the vision in the mirror—that of a slim, slender woman, her dark hair elegantly high, totally naked but for her silk stockings and the ruched satin garters that held them in place, circling her thighs.

Lifting her gaze to his face, she sensed rather than saw his satisfaction; it was a tangible thing, filling the air, surrounding her. She realized she still had on her ballroom slippers; even as the thought occurred, she saw him glance down, then his fingers caressed each ankle, and he slipped the shoes from her feet and let them fall.

He moved close again, and reached around to her garters. But instead of easing them down, as she’d expected, he ran his fingertips around the upper edge of each. And smiled. “They can stay. For now.”

The timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. It took effort to remain upright, yet pride dictated she keep her spine erect; she could feel the fabric of his coat and trousers gently abrading her bare skin.

His gaze had returned, slowly, to her face. He studied it, then shifted back a fraction, just enough to shrug off his coat. Seconds later, his waistcoat joined it on the floor.

He had to step back to deal with his cravat and shirt; she had to let go of him. She watched as he flung the shirt aside, then looked down, his hands going to his waist. His trousers hit the floor, and he stepped out of them, returning to her, his hands sliding over her hips, over her waist, drawing her back against him, against the heat of his skin, the rock-hard wall of his chest and abdomen, the hard columns of his thighs.

“Lean back. Let me love you.”

The words were an erotic whisper in the darkness.

“Let me see you. Watch you.”

She did as he asked, leaning back against him, eyes almost closed, committed to following his lead, only later, as his hands made free with her body, with her senses, fully understanding what he meant.

At first, his hands simply roved her body, a basic pleasure, heating her skin, teasing her senses to even greater awareness, evoking a deeper, persistent hunger. Flaring need grew as he weighed and caressed her breasts, taunting the tight, aching peaks, then tracing the lines of her body, sculpting the curves with his palms before gliding his fingertips down her thighs, then nudging her knees farther apart.

She watched, immersed in the sensations as he stroked the quivering inner faces of her thighs, then laid his hand over her stomach, the other sliding across her waist, holding her, surrounding her with his strength, giving her a moment to assimilate the heated, raspy reality of his skin, his muscled body pressed to her, locked about her.

In the mirror, she could see his shoulders above hers; his chest was wider than her back, his arms a cage in which she willingly waited.

He murmured something in French—she didn’t catch the words but let her head rest back against his shoulder, watching, watching as he shifted, then the hand at her stomach slid lower, long fingers gliding over, then through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. He reached farther; the breath strangled in her throat, her lungs seized. The vise about her chest locked tight as he stroked, caressed, then deliberately probed.

Farther, then yet farther, until his hand was pressed between her thighs, until her body was awash with flame. Her hands fastened on the arm locked about her waist, fingers sinking into the hard muscle as she watched him watching her—watched his hand, so much darker than her skin, rhythmically lavish fiery delight upon her senses.

She gasped, felt her body tighten, arching, reaching for the beckoning peak. He didn’t stop but steadily pushed her on, on, on—until she fractured.

Her soft cry hung in the air; he wrapped her in his arms, in his strength, held her safe as she slowly drifted back from the crest.

She turned her head, glanced at him. He met her gaze, but briefly. His lips curving in what wasn’t quite a smile, he glanced down at her body, soft, pliant, still locked against the hard aroused length of his. Then he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the point where her neck met her shoulder.

“First course.”

His tone made it clear he intended to feast.

Reaching out, he moved the single candle, still burning bright, across and back on the dressing table, positioning it near the central pane of the mirror, at the very center. Reaching farther, he tugged first one side panel, then the other forward, angling them so they reflected the candlelight back at them. At her—it was her smooth, white skin the light illuminated; in contrast, his darker, tanned, and haired limbs seemed to disperse the light. Yet she could now see him clearly. The new position of the side panels let her see beyond her shoulders.

His hands returned to her body; they circled her breasts, gently kneaded, then slid down, tracing her sides, then he gripped her hips. Bent his head and murmured, his breath a heated promise, “Lean forward—hold on to the edge of the dressing table.”

She did, and felt his hand caress the globes of her bottom. He traced the backs of her thighs, then reached between. Touched, stroked.

On a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes; she had only an instant’s warning—an inkling of what he would do—before he shifted, pressed close, and entered her.

Instinctively she locked her thighs, braced her arms, held still as he sank in, gasped when, with a last thrust, he filled her completely. His hands gripped her hips, anchored her as he withdrew, returned, then settled to a slow, steady plundering.

Her senses shook; her wits had long gone. Her breathing sounded ragged in her ears. Beneath her skin, her pulse throbbed, her body aflame as she rode the increasingly powerful thrusts.

The tempo escalated, degree by degree, until she was barely clinging to sanity, wrapped in heat, driven by desire.

“Watch.”

The command reached through the flames fogging her mind. She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up. Looked.

And saw.

Him, behind her, his face etched with passion, set, his whole being focused completely on her, on the pleasure he found in her heated body. A body aglow with desire, softly sheened, his hands curved over her hips, his fingers locked on her skin.

She moved with him, not by thought but in instinctive concert, taking, giving, wanting more. Glancing to the side, into the side mirror, she watched their hips move, locked together in their sensual dance.

Her lungs seized; she glanced back at his face, saw the gleam of his eyes beneath his lashes as he watched her.

Then he shifted, thrust deeper, harder, higher. She gasped, let her lids fall; he was impossibly high inside her.

Faster, faster—and the flames roared. Took them, consumed them in an orgy of feeling, of sensations too sharp, too bright, too excruciatingly powerful to survive. And they were whirling, trapped in a whirlpool of delight, passion still driving, ecstasy beckoning… until it broke over them, drenched them, washed through them.

Leaving them shuddering, locked tight together, his arms wrapped around her, hers wrapped over them.

The tide faded, and left them.

The bed was close. He lifted her, staggered the few steps, then they collapsed amid the covers. It was a long time before either could summon the will or the strength to move.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE AMONG THE STRANGEST
Alicia had known. And quite the fullest.

With the Season about to commence, the social pace approached the frenetic; not only were there three or more major balls every night, but the days, too, were crammed with activities—driving in the park, at-homes, teas, luncheons, picnics, and all manner of diversions. So established were they now among the ton that their absence at such events would have been remarked; people expected to see them—they needed to be there.

She’d schemed, hoped, worked for, plotted so that at the start of the Season she and Adriana would be accepted members, indeed fixtures on the social scene. Fate had granted her wish, and they were dancing every night.

Those who had only recently come to town cast covetous eyes at their now-combined circle, with Tony, Geoffrey, Sir Freddie, and a bevy of others regularly forming part of that select company. But most, certainly the major hostesses and the matrons on whose opinion tonnish acceptance hung, had grown used to them; they merely smiled, nodded graciously, and moved on through the crush.

Of course, given Adriana’s clear preference for Geoffrey’s company, and his for hers, such social prominence was no longer necessary, yet Alicia would have managed society’s demands easily enough—if it hadn’t been for the distraction of all else in her suddenly and unexpectedly full life.

Tony left her bed every morning before dawn; through the day, he traveled—to the coast, to various towns and hamlets, over the Downs, to Southampton and Dover— speaking with his mysterious “contacts,” constantly seeking information that might shed light on A. C.’s nefarious activities.

In the evening, he’d return, not to Waverton Street but his own house; later still, he’d join her at whichever ball or soirée, musicale or rout they had chosen to attend.

Each evening, she’d wait, chatting with those about her but with her thoughts elsewhere, wondering, circling… until he arrived. Every time he appeared to bow over her hand, then set it on his sleeve and take his place by her side, her heart leapt. Quelling it, she’d wait still further, impatient yet resigned, for the ballrooms were now too crowded to risk talking of his findings.

Only later when he’d escorted them home, then followed her to her bedchamber would they talk. He’d tell her all he’d done that day, all he’d learned. Snippets of information verified their suspicions that A. C. had somehow profiteered by ensuring certain ships had been taken by the enemy, yet nothing they’d discovered so far had shed enough light to show them how.

Later yet…they’d come together in her bed, and the day would fall away, and nothing else—nothing beyond the cocoon of the coverlets and the circle of each other’s arms—seemed real, of any consequence.

Later still, she’d lie wrapped in his arms, surrounded by his strength, listening to his steady heartbeat, and wonder…at herself, at where she was, where she was heading…but those moments were fleeting, too brief to reach any conclusion.

And then the sun would rise, and there’d be another day of frantic activity, of ensuring her brothers’ lives and their lessons stayed on track, that Adriana and Geoffrey’s romance continued to prosper, and that all else—the facade of her making—continued as it needed to.

Beneath the social bustle, she was conscious of an undercurrent of action. Things
were
happening; Tony and his friends were steadily, quietly, chipping away at A. C.’s walls—at some point they’d break through. Twice, she glimpsed a watchful face in the street; the sight reminded her of the potential danger, kept her on her mental toes.

She tried, once, to find time alone to think, but Adriana burst in in a panic over a new gown that wouldn’t drape straight, and she put aside her nebulous concerns. Time enough when the Season had run at least a few weeks, enough to take the edge from society’s appetite, and A. C. had been exposed and her family was safe again, and Geoffrey had proposed… time enough, then, to think of herself.

That evening, she nearly suggested they stay home— perhaps send a note to Torrington House, and another to Geoffrey Manningham, inviting them to a quiet dinner… then she sighed and climbed into the fabulous apple green silk gown Adriana had fashioned. It was the Duchess of Richmond’s ball tonight.

The traditional, recognized, start of the Season.

Even before they reached the duchess’s door, it was clear the crowd would be horrendous; their carriage took forty minutes just to travel up the drive and deposit them beneath the awning erected to protect the ladies’ delicate toilettes from the light showers sweeping past. Once inside, the noise of a thousand chattering tongues engulfed them; friends called greetings through the throng—it was impossible not to be infected with the gaiety.

Geoffrey was the first to find them. “Let me.” He took Adriana’s arm, offered Alicia the other, then steered them to where a trio of potted palms gave some respite from the packed and shifting bodies.

They stopped, caught their breaths. Alicia snapped open her fan and waved it. “Now I see why they refer to such events as ‘crushes.’”

Geoffrey threw her a commiserating look. “Luckily, it doesn’t get much worse than this.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Adriana murmured.

Gradually, the others with whom they’d become most friendly found them; it was a comfortable circle that formed by the side of the room, Miss Carmichael and Miss Pontefract, both sensible and well-bred young ladies, helping to balance the genders. They exchanged the latest stories they’d heard during the day; the gentlemen, most of whom kept to their clubs during the daytime, often had not heard what the ladies had, and vice versa.

Occasionally, a matron would stop by and engage Alicia; some brought their daughters to be introduced. Lady Horatia Cynster smiled and nodded; later, the Duchess of St. Ives stopped by Alicia’s side and complimented her on her gown.

“You have become as
ravissante
as your sister.” The duchess’s pale green eyes quizzed her. “I confess I am surprised Torrington is not here. Do you expect him?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer, in the end admitted, “I believe he’ll arrive shortly.”

“Indeed, and no doubt he will see you home.” The duchess’s smile deepened. She laid a hand on Alicia’s wrist. “
Bien
. It is good. I am most pleased that he has had the sense to act, rather than prevaricate—it is pleasing to see that he takes such excellent care of you.” Her pale gaze fell on Geoffrey. “And this one, if my eyes do not lie, will take good care of your sister,
hein
?”

Alicia raised her brows. “It appears he wishes to, certainly, although she has yet to tell him he may do so.”

The duchess laughed. “
Bon!
It is wise to keep such as he wondering, at least for a little time.”

With a nod to Adriana, and to Sir Freddie Caudel, who had noticed her and bowed low, the duchess patted Alicia’s hand, then moved on into the crowd.

The dance floor was in the next salon, separated by an archway. Alicia refused all offers to lead her thence, remaining by the palms chatting with whichever gentlemen were not engaged with the ladies on the floor.

Such was the crowd, she was almost surprised that Tony managed to find them. It was late when he did.

His fingers slid around her wrist; she looked up, smiling in welcome, aware as usual of faint but definite relief. A relief that turned to concern when she met his eyes and saw her weariness mirrored there.

He raised her hand to his lips, using the gesture to mask his grimace. “I’d forgotten how bad these affairs could be.”

She smiled, and let him draw her close. “The dance floor is unnavigable, I’ve heard.”

He raised a brow at her. “There’s always the terrace.”

“Is there a terrace?”

He nodded. “Through the drawing room.”

She considered the question in his eyes, then faintly smiled. “I’d rather go home.”

His black eyes held hers. After a moment, he murmured, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then nodded. With a look and a quiet word, he gathered Adriana; not surprisingly, Geoffrey came, too. Sir Freddie bade them a suavely courteous good night, remaining to chat with Miss Pontefract and Sir Reginald Blaze. Leaving the group, they made their way through the still dense crowd to the foyer.

Tony sent a footman for their carriage. Richmond was a long way from Mayfair; in response to a pointed look from Adriana, Alicia invited Geoffrey to share their carriage. He accepted; minutes later, the carriage arrived, and they set off on the long rocking ride back to town. Once they were free of the gate and bowling along the main road, Geoffrey looked at Tony. “Have you learned anything yet?”

Tony felt Alicia’s glance, shook his head. “Nothing definite. Corroboration, yes, but nothing that defines the game A. C. was playing.”

“Was playing? You’re sure of that? That it’s all in the past?”

He wasn’t surprised to find Geoffrey interrogating him; if he’d been in his shoes, enamored of the lovely Adriana, he, too, would want to know. “That much seems certain. Indeed, that’s why Ruskin was no longer valuable—why he became an expendable liability.”

Geoffrey thought, then nodded.

Conversation lapsed, then Adriana asked Geoffrey something; he looked down at her, and replied. They continued talking, their voices low.

Tony wasn’t in the mood to chat; he was in truth tired—he’d traveled down to Rye and spent much of the day chasing men who rarely ventured forth in sunshine. Nevertheless, he’d found them, and learned all he’d needed to know.

He looked at Alicia; shifting his hand, he found hers and wrapped his fingers about it. She glanced at him; in the weak light he saw her smile gently, then she looked forward, leaned her head against his shoulder, her other hand finding and covering their clasped hands. He sensed she was as tired as he; he was tempted to put his arm around her and gather her against him, but in light of the pair on the opposite seat, refrained.

It took nearly an hour to reach Waverton Street.

Geoffrey jumped down; Tony followed. They handed their ladies down, then Geoffrey took his leave of Adriana and Alicia, and walked off.

Tony followed Alicia up the steps of the house, glancing as always to left and right. He’d caught a glimpse of his man on the corner, recalled the report that had been on his desk when he’d returned home that evening.

In the front hall, he waited with Alicia while Adriana went upstairs, and Maggs retreated to the nether regions; he was perfectly sure their charade wasn’t fooling Maggs, but he suspected it was important to Alicia, at least at that point, to preserve her facade as a virtuous widow.

Once Maggs’s footsteps had faded and Adriana had disappeared down the corridor to her room, he turned back to the front door and slid both bolts home. Alicia had picked up the candle from the hall table; on the lowest tread of the stair, she glanced back at him. He joined her; together they climbed the stairs to her room.

Her bedchamber was the largest, closest to the stairs. Adriana’s room lay along the corridor, two dressing rooms and a linen press separating the rooms. He had no idea whether Adriana knew he spent the nights in her elder sister’s bed; given the distance between their rooms, there was no reason she would have guessed.

The boys’ rooms were on the next floor, the servants’ rooms in the attics above. Following Alicia into her bedchamber and shutting the door, he reflected that thus far, her reputation remained safe.

If there was any reason to imagine it threatened, he would make his intentions public, but as things stood, with the ton believing her a widow and thus according her the associated license, there was no compelling urgency to declare his hand.

Indeed, he prayed the necessity wouldn’t arise, that once A. C. was unmasked and they were free of his threat, he would have time to woo her, to ask for her hand with all due ceremony. That was, to his mind, the least she deserved, regardless of their established intimacy.

He hadn’t intended that, but having once spent the night in her bed, the notion of not continuing to do so hadn’t even entered his head. The fact he’d simply assumed her agreement occurred to him. He glanced at her. She’d crossed the room to set the candlestick on the dressing table; seated on the stool, she was calmly letting down her long hair.

The simple, domestic sight never failed to soothe him—to soothe that part of him that was not, even at the best of times, all that civilized.

She had not at any time drawn back, either from him or from their relationship; her quiet, calm acceptance was both balm to his possessive soul and a wordless reassurance that they understood each other perfectly.

Indeed, words had never featured much between them. Aside from all else, he’d always believed actions spoke louder.

Sitting on the bed, he removed his shoes, then shrugged out of his coat. He stripped off his waistcoat, untied his cravat, all the while watching her brush the long, mahogany tresses that spilled down her back, a silken river reaching nearly to her waist.

When she laid down the brush and stood, he crossed to her. Bending his head, murmuring an endearment, he set his fingers to her laces, and his lips to the sensitive spot where her white shoulder and throat met. When her gown was loose, he forced himself to move away, allowing her to remove the gown, shake it out, and hang it up.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he inwardly frowned, returning to a thought that frequently nagged; it would be nice to give her more servants, a maid at least to take care of her clothes and see to her jewels…frowning, he pulled his shirt from his waistband. As far as he’d seen, she didn’t have any jewelry.

“Oh.” At her armoire, she turned, through the shadows looked at him. “I meant to tell you—something rather strange happened today.”

Clad in her chemise, she headed for the bed. He started unbuttoning his cuffs. “What?”

Picking up a silk robe, she slipped it over her shoulders. “A solicitor’s clerk called this morning.” Sinking onto the bed, she met his eyes. “Adriana and I were in the park. The man—”