Fanning the Flame (12 page)

She found him standing in front of the hearth in his study, his long legs splayed, a half-empty snifter of brandy in his hand.

"I thought you had gone to bed," he said.

With the firelight glinting on the magnificent bones in his face, he looked impossibly handsome, and warning bells went off in her head.

Jillian paid no attention. "I don't feel like sleeping. Time is rushing past and I am sitting here doing nothing. I need to formulate a plan of some kind. I need to do something useful."

He eyed her in that way he had of making her feel uncomfortable. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"I-I don't exactly know. I thought that perhaps you might help me."

Blackwood took a sip of his brandy, set the snifter down on a Hepplewhite table. "I
am
helping you, Jillian." He started walking toward her, his strides long and graceful,
pantheresque
, she had mentally dubbed them. "I'm doing everything in my power."

His mouth held a slightly sensual curve, and in the light of the fire the narrow scar formed a thin dark shadow along his jaw. His eyes glinted with heat and intensity, and she wondered for a moment what insanity had driven her to seek him out.

"The truth will eventually surface," he said. "I won't stop until I know what it is." Why did those words make her more nervous than she was before? "You just have to trust me."

Did she? There were moments she trusted him completely and other times, like now, when she didn't trust him at all.

Or herself.

"You're worried. I don't blame you." Adam reached out and touched her cheek. "But are you sure you didn't come here for something else?"

Why
had
she come? She was restless and fearful, but the truth was, she had simply wanted to see him.

"I-I wanted to do something useful." She moistened her lips, hoping he wouldn't realize how nervous she had become. He was standing closer than she thought, looking at her now with predatory dark eyes that warned of danger.

She realized what that danger was when his hands encircled her waist and he slowly drew her toward him. Her rose silk gown brushed his thighs. She could feel the warmth of his body, smell his cologne.

He was dark and male, and standing this close sent a flood of heat rushing into her stomach. Adam tilted her head back and Jillian closed her eyes as firm, warm lips descended over hers. Blackwood nibbled and tasted, sank himself farther into her mouth. His assault was sensual and so erotic her fingers curled into the lapels of his coat.

The fire cast shadowy angles on his starkly beautiful face, and she remembered how he had looked that night in his room. She wanted to touch him, wanted to run her fingers over his smooth dark skin, to feel the ridges of muscle on his chest. She wanted him to kiss her as he was doing now.

His mouth slid over hers, hot and wet and arousing, taking her more intimately, sending little shivers into her stomach. She could feel the slick heat of his tongue as he took her more deeply, claiming her in some way, and the wild heat rushing through her blood left her trembling.

Unconsciously, her hands slid up to twine around his neck, which was as corded and strong as the rest of him. She found herself pressing against him, searching for the promise of that lean, powerful body.

Too many layers of clothing were in the way. She wanted to tear them off, wanted to drink in the sight of his hard bare torso as she had done that night.

The thought was so erotic—and terrifying—she started to pull away, but Blackwood caught her face between his hands and kissed her deeply again. Jillian moaned.

"We . . . have to . . . stop, my lord."

"Adam," he said softly, kissing her again, first one way, then the other." 'We have to stop, Adam.' "

"Adam . . ." she whispered, but she didn't ask him to stop. She didn't want these incredible feelings to end.

He must have read her mind. She felt a series of tugs on the buttons at the back of her dress and the front of her gown yawned open. He slid the sleeves off her shoulders, eased down the straps of her chemise, pushed the fabric to her waist, and long, dark fingers curled round her breast.

Jillian's stomach contracted so swiftly she sucked in a breath. Dear God, nothing had ever felt so good. She had told herself she wouldn't do this again, that succumbing to the charms of a man like the earl could only bring disaster, but the danger he posed only made it more exciting.

As he bent to capture her lips, he gently kneaded her breast. His thumb stroked over her nipple and it hardened into his palm. What they were doing was completely and utterly improper. It was the most outrageous thing she had ever allowed to happen.

And she didn't want it to end.

His tongue tangled with hers and hers entwined with his. His mouth slid down, moved along her jaw, touched the skin behind her ear, and each moist kiss felt like a brand on her flesh. Her head fell back, giving him better access. She gasped as his dark head dipped down, his lips took the place of his hand, and strong white teeth closed over her nipple.

Oh, dear God!

She was going to incinerate, to simply burst into flames. She wanted to tear off his crisp white stock, to tug his shirt out of his breeches so that she could touch him, press her mouth against his skin as he was doing to hers. She longed to gaze at that hard, masculine body, drink in the erotic, male scent of him. Instead, she trembled and clung to his shoulders while funny little moans escaped from her throat.

"Do you know how badly I want you?" he whispered near her ear, his voice a sensual caress.

She could guess. Dear God, she was beginning to understand what passion was all about. She lusted after the Earl of Blackwood. Just days ago, she wouldn't have believed herself capable of an emotion so foreign to her until now.

"I want to be inside you," he said, and she could feel that part of him pressing like a stiff, hot rod against her belly. "I need you, Jillian. Let me make love—" He stopped mid-sentence, his brows slashing down, his eyes going fierce and dark.

Stepping backward, he jerked away from her as if someone had dumped scalding water over his head.

"Goddammit! This isn't going to happen. I'm not going down this road again!"

Jillian swayed, a little shocked at the profanity, trying to collect her muddled senses. "What . . . what are you talking about?" She held her dress up over her breasts with shaking hands and tried not to let him see how flustered and embarrassed she was.

His face looked granite-hard as he stepped behind her, tugged the straps of her chemise back into place with sharp, jerky motions, then pulled up her gown and began to refasten the buttons down the back.

When he was finished, he turned away and simply started walking. At the door, he paused.

"Good night, Jillian." He didn't look back, just stepped into the hall and firmly closed the door.

Adam couldn't sleep. Not with his body hard and aching, his mind troubled by thoughts of the woman sleeping in the room next door. He shouldn't have kissed her. He should have known where it would lead and that ultimately he would be the one to suffer.

But she had looked so damned lovely standing there in the light of the fire, so vulnerable and uncertain. So damned desirable.

He wouldn't bed her, no matter how rampant his lust. If she had killed Fenwick . . .

Adam refused to let his thoughts drift that way. Instead, he dressed in evening clothes and left the house. He had promised Peter Fraser he would find out if Lord Eldridge's alibi would hold, and to do that, he needed to pay a visit to his club.

Afterward, he would make a long overdue stop at Madame Charbonnet's House of Pleasure. It was a favorite of Clay's before he had married, and Adam knew the women there were beautiful and well-skilled. It wasn't his usual sort of place, since he preferred a slightly more personal encounter, but this time he wanted a woman he could take without restraint. He wanted to pound out his frustrations until he was free of the ache that had been with him since the day he had first seen Jillian in the park.

As he climbed aboard his carriage and Lance drove the conveyance away, he envisioned several hours of mindless, physically exhausting sex. He was trying to decide whether to choose a fiery little blonde or a tall, sultry redhead when the carriage turned onto St. James's and pulled up in front of his gentleman's club.

He only meant to drop in, try to obtain the information he needed, and leave, but Clayton Barclay was there in the card room, embroiled in a game with Ford Constantine, the Marquess of Landen, and Clay's friend, the Earl of Greville. After checking the betting book in a futile search for Lord Eldridge's name, Adam found himself joining the game.

It was sometime near midnight that Sir Hubert Tinsley walked into the club and took over Landen's seat. As Tinsley and Eldridge were friends, Adam casually asked if he and the marquess had been gaming the evening of April second, the night Lord Fenwick was killed.

"Actually we were here for quite some time that night," Sir Hubert said. "I remember distinctly because Theodore trounced me soundly." He grinned with obvious relish. "Afterward he made amends by treating me to a night with a delicious little lady bird he knew in Covent Garden."

Disheartened by Eldridge's alibi and what appeared to be another dead end, Adam leaned back in his chair and tried to concentrate on the game. He told himself the news wasn't important, that even if the marquess was in Brooks's Club during the time of the shooting, there was still the possibility the man had hired someone to avenge him against the aging earl.

But Adam's mood didn't improve and eventually he tossed in his hand and left the club. He considered the stop he intended to make at Madame Charbonnet's but couldn't muster the interest.

Instead of the night of debauchery he had planned, Adam simply went home. He wondered if he'd be able to fall asleep and knew that if he did, it would be Jillian who haunted his dreams.

Dressed in a prim white night rail, Jillian sat at the window of her bedchamber. The hour was late. She had awakened at the sound of the earl's footfalls coming up the stairs and had been unable to return to sleep.

If she closed her eyes, she could still see him standing in front of the hearth, long legs splayed, wearing that sensual expression. She could scarcely believe what had happened downstairs. The man had very nearly seduced her, and she had very nearly let him. Once again, it was he who had stopped.

Embarrassment washed over her. Sweet God, what must he think? She wished she could leave his house, get as far away from the Earl of Blackwood as she possibly could—before she made a complete and utter fool of herself Or worse.

She thought again of the way he had kissed her, the way he had touched her, and her embarrassment began to fade, replaced with a shot of anger.

True, she probably should have stopped him, but she wasn't entirely to blame. She was a novice at passion while he, no doubt, was an expert. She was the person who'd gone into his study, but he was the one who had initiated the encounter. It was hardly
her
fault she had succumbed to his superior skill. She still didn't understand why he hadn't continued his seduction, but for the second time she was glad.

Or at least she thought she was.

In the room next door she heard movement. Blackwood shifting about, preparing himself for bed. She knew he had left the house and tried not to think where he might have been or whom he had been with. Wherever he had gone, he was returned now and in minutes, he would be lying in his big four-poster bed, his chest bare and rippling with muscle, the sheet shoved down to his hips.

Jillian swallowed past the dryness in her throat and ignored the rush of heat that curled in the pit of her stomach.

By the time dusk arrived the following day, the fog had begun to roll in. Adam ignored the cold evening drizzle that turned the cobbled streets slick and sank into his dark blue tailcoat and arrived at Knowles, Glenridge, and Morrison precisely at seven in the evening. 

Benjamin Morrison, a sophisticated man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pale complexion, led Adam into his office. It was paneled in richly grained cherry wood, with a polished rosewood desk and pictures of hunting scenes in gilded frames hung on the walls.

"I spoke to your man, Peter Fraser," Morrison said as he closed the door. "I've been expecting to hear from you." He motioned for Adam to take a seat on a dark green velvet overstuffed sofa, then sat down in one of the two matching side chairs.

"I know you're a busy man, Mr. Morrison,'' Adam began, "so why don't we dispense with formality. You represent the late Lord Fenwick's legal interests. I'm hoping there's something you can tell me that will help establish a motive for his murder."

Morrison crossed one leg over the other and adjusted a wrinkle in his pants. "I'm not sure I can do that, my lord. I can tell you what I know and trust you to use the information with discretion."

Adam gave a brief nod. "You have my word."

"As the late Lord Fenwick's solicitor, I've given a great deal of thought as to why the earl might have been killed. I don't know what bearing it might have, but . . ."