The Theft

  Ashford bit back his shout of laughter, watching as Eric pivoted slowly, lowering his chin to regard Chloe with stupefied amazement. "I was certain no one could be as precocious as Noelle, not even you. Well, I was wrong." He shook his head, muttering half to himself. "What are the odds of raising two such daughters?"

  "Quite poor, I would imagine," Chloe supplied. A bright smile lit her face. "I guess you just got lucky."

  With that, she dragged him towards the kitchen.

  Brigitte's amused gaze found Noelle's. "Talk quickly," she advised. Then she gathered up her skirts and followed her husband.

  Laughter rumbled from Ashford's chest. "That sister of yours is a wonder."

  Noelle let out the breath she'd been holding. "Thank God for her—and for Mama. Had they not interfered, I shudder to think what would have happened." She gave Ashford a hopeful look. "Unless of course—I don't suppose Papa missed seeing—"

  "No, he didn't miss seeing a thing," Ashford replied, still chuckling over Chloe's antics. "Then again, he might have been angry, but I doubt he was astounded. Watching Chloe, pondering you…" His lips quirked. "I think your father is all too accustomed to unorthodox behavior."

  "I suppose you're right." The spark rekindled in Noelle's eyes. "Still, I doubt even Papa is prepared for just how unorthodox my behavior seems destined to be—in certain areas." A pause. Then, with her customary frankness, she blurted, "Or rather, in one area. You."

  All traces of amusement vanished at her declaration, and a surge of emotion coursed through Ashford's blood. He was besieged by a bottomless hunger, a relentless need to hold the woman he loved in his arms. Restlessly, he glanced down the hallway. "Where's the blue salon?"

  "Down that corridor." Noelle pointed, not even pretending to misunderstand. "I'll show you." She led the way, ushering him into the tastefully appointed room whose soft blue accents gave it its name and whose mahogany Chippendale settee held one vigilant occupant: Tempest.

  The cat sat erect, sphinxlike, narrowing her eyes speculatively when she spied the man who entered the room with her mistress.

  "Tempest, it's Ashford," Noelle informed her. "So you needn't look so fierce."

  Undeterred, Tempest blinked her huge dark eyes—the only sign that she'd heard her mistress's instruction. Then she relaxed her stance a bit, stretching out on the cushion, yet never closing her eyes nor averting her gaze from Ashford.

  "She's reserving judgment," Ashford noted, shutting the door as completely as he dared, given Eric's proximity.

  "I don't really think she'd claw you," Noelle clarified, watching Ashford's blatant bid for privacy, her flushed cheeks telling him that Tempest's reaction was the farthest thing from her mind.

  "I'll take my chances." He couldn't wait another instant. Urgently, he drew Noelle into his arms, tilting back her head and covering her mouth with his. "Kiss me," he commanded.

  Noelle said nothing, just wrapped her arms about his neck and did so—fervently—as desperate for him as he was for her.

  Gathering handfuls of her hair, Ashford tangled his fingers in the silken strands, parting her lips and possessing her with his tongue, his breath. He molded her closer, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs as he reveled in all the wonders he'd missed: Noelle's taste, her softness, the exquisite way she trembled in his arms.

  God, three days felt more like three years.

  He groaned deep in his throat and, ignoring the voice of reason that screamed out its censure, disregarding the imprudence of timing and whereabouts, he gave in to the moment, sinking into the hypnotic spell that separated the two of them from the world and all its realities.

  Of its own accord, his hand shifted to cover Noelle's breast, to savor its softness, its exquisitely rounded contours as they molded to his palm.

  "Noelle." He breathed her name into her open mouth, swallowing her gasp of pleasure as his thumb found and circled her nipple, feeling it peak and harden beneath his touch. It wasn't enough, and he unfastened two buttons of her gown, slipping his hand inside, untying the ribbons of her chemise and delving beneath to find and cradle her warm, bare skin.

  The contact was excruciatingly erotic—too erotic to resist.

  Ashford shuddered, his palm caressing her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, then capturing it, rubbing it with shivering, heated strokes.

  "Oh … Ashford." Noelle melted in a rush, rising on tiptoe and fitting her body to his, arching her breast more fully into his palm, straining to urge his hardened contours into her welcoming softness.

  Live flames licked at his loins.

  "God, I want to strip you naked and take you right here, right now," Ashford growled, gripping her bottom, lifting her higher against him, assuaging one ache and creating another. His body responded of its own volition, his hips jutting forward, pushing him deeper into the warm hollow that beckoned him through the intruding layers of clothing. He crushed her lower body to his, nearly shouting aloud at the gnawing hunger that now clawed at his loins.

  "I want you, Noelle," he said hoarsely, burying his lips against her throat. "So much I can't think."

  "I want you, too," she managed, struggling to get closer, to overcome the barrier of their clothes. "Ashe, I don't want to think. And I don't want to stop."

  Stopping was fast becoming an impossibility—a fact that shattered its way through Ashford's passion-drugged mind.

  "Dammit," he ground out. He threw back his head, forced himself to think rationally, to overcome the insanity that had possessed him the instant he took Noelle in his arms. "Sweetheart, your father's going to walk in any second. This can't happen—not here, not now."

  "Then when?"

  He lowered his head, met the wildness in her eyes. "Soon," he heard himself say. "As soon as possible."

  Silence ensued, as the significance of Ashford's words sank in, shimmered through them both.

  Then, slowly, tenderly, Ashford lowered his head, sealing his irrefutable message with a kiss—not a hungry kiss, but a slow, consuming one that branded her as his. When it was over, he remained silent, just readjusted her clothing before he leaned back against the wall, tucked Noelle's head beneath his chin, and clasped her against him until her trembling had ceased.

  "We need to talk," Noelle whispered against his coat.

  "I know we do."

  "While you were away, I dreamed about us. About the night of the ball … about what happened in that anteroom." She leaned back, gazed up at him—all her emotions bared for him to see. "Ashford, I—"

  "Sh-h-h." He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her parted lips. "I dreamed about us, too. I burned for you every night I was away. I'm burning for you now."

  "Then why must I 'sh-h-h'? Why can't I tell you that I lo—?"

  "Noelle—don't." He released her, turned away as frustration knotted his gut.

  "Don't what?" she demanded, walking around to face him. "Don't describe my thoughts? Don't give voice to my feelings? Why, Ashford? Why can't I tell you what's in my heart?" An astute pause. "Is it because you can't tell me what's in yours? Is that what this is all about?"

  The uncertainty, the pain on her face, was more than he could bear. "No. Yes."

  "Which is it?"

  "Both. I can't tell you what's in my heart. But not because I don't recognize what it is, but because first I've got to—" He broke off, his hand balling into a tight, stymied fist. "Please, tempête. Leave it. For now, just leave it. When I can give you not only the words but all that comes with them—then we'll talk. Not before."

  "I won't believe this is infatuation," Noelle contended. "Nor that it's passion alone."

  "Good. Because it's neither."

  Ashford uttered the words with absolute conviction, and Noelle nodded, studying him for a long, thoughtful moment. "All right," she said at last. "I wish I understood your reasons, but if this is the way it has to be, I'll wait. But not patiently and not for long."

  Ashford wasn't sure whether to laugh at her bold, braz
en admission or bellow his frustration to the skies. His head pounded with indecision, his body screamed with unfulfilled desire, and his heart ached for being the cause of her distress. "I'm sorry, tempête," he said wearily. "Truly sorry. And I agree—not patiently and not for long."

  Another pensive silence. "Whatever it is that's keeping you from me, can't I help?"

  "No, sweetheart, you can't. Not this time. This is one matter I must tackle on my own."

  Noelle's lashes swept her cheeks. "All right. I won't pry. But I hate this."

  "I know." His knuckles caressed her cheek. "And I wish I could explain. But it involves a confidence I can't betray, and a commitment I vowed to fulfill—one I now need to reassess."

  "Does that commitment involve a woman?"

  "No. Definitely not." He cupped her face, gazed deeply into her eyes. "Every woman I've ever known vanished the instant I stepped into that first-class compartment bound for London."

  That brought a small smile to Noelle's lips. "I'm relieved to hear that." She inclined her head quizzically. "The confidence—it relates to your father, doesn't it?"

  Warning bells sounded in Ashford's head. "Why do you assume that?"

  "I'm not sure. Your behavior at the ball, perhaps. The veiled way you and he spoke to each other. Or the fact that he received his information about Lady Mannering's murder before anyone else did." Even as Noelle cited her reasons, their implications seemed to strike home, caused her to pale. "Ashford—are you immersed in some dangerous assignment? Something only you and your father are privy to? Is that what this is about? Are you afraid something will happen to you? Is that why you're keeping your distance—are you trying to protect me?"

  Damn. If she only knew how close to the truth she was. Ashford drew a slow inward breath, coming to at least one unwavering decision. He might not be able to divulge the details to her, but he wasn't going to lie to her either. "To some extent, yes. But nothing is going to happen to me, nor will this situation go unresolved. Both those things I promise you. For now, that's all I can say."

  Searching his face once again, Noelle looked ready to burst with curiosity, her sapphire eyes filled with questions and worries. Visibly squelching both, she nodded, accepting his vow and complying with his request for privacy; exercising a self-restraint that was so clearly foreign to her nature that it made Ashford love her all the more, just knowing she would make that concession for him.

  "You mentioned that your business in London was at a standstill," she said, changing the subject with near-painful reluctance. "What happened with Lord Mannering?"

  Ashford took her cue. "Not nearly enough." He proceeded to relay the unrewarding details of his trip. "So my suspicion that Lady Mannering's maid knows more than she's willing to admit is the only promising thing to come out of this trip—and even that's pure speculation."

  Frowning, Noelle contemplated this latest impasse. "Maybe so. But I trust your instincts. If you believe this Mary is holding something back, she probably is. Besides, it stands to reason that no one would know more about the mistress of the house than her lady's maid—and that includes details on private, sometimes delicate, matters."

  "The problem is, she's not willing to trust me. And, believe me, I tried every manner of persuasion from compassion to flagrant pressure."

  "The real problem is, you're a man." Noelle stated that fact as if the correlation were obvious. "Mary undoubtedly feels that by telling you something indiscreet about Lady Mannering, she'd be betraying her mistress's memory—something she'd never forgive herself for doing." An idea burst forth, illuminating Noelle's face like sunshine. "Now, if another woman were to speak to her, she might feel differently. It would be acquiring an ally rather than a judge and jury."

  "I suppose that makes a degree of sense." Ashford quirked a brow. "Why do I feel as if I'm being baited? Or need I ask?"

  "Let me talk to her," Noelle requested fervently. "I'm sure I could convince her to tell me the truth—woman to woman." She gripped Ashford's forearms, trying to forestall the "no" she assumed was hovering on his lips. "Let me at least try."

  He waved away her oncoming appeal. "You're seeking approval from the wrong person. You're also misreading the cause of my skepticism. I'm not averse to the idea; in fact, I think it's an excellent one."

  "Then why are you skeptical?"

  "I think the idea is excellent. However, your father won't. That I guarantee. Think about it, Noelle. Your talking to Mary would mean riding to London, probably spending the night so you could meet with her several times, work to gain her trust. There's not a prayer—"

  "You're wrong." A discerning grin tugged at Noelle's lips. "Papa will think it's a wonderful idea. Especially when I point out that my staying in London—not only for one night but for many—will offer distinct advantages. For example, our Town house is cramped compared to this manor. Why, the sitting room there affords no privacy at all for secluded portrait sittings, much less for attempted seductions. On the contrary, although the room is quite sunny, it's also in plain view of the hall and the study across the way—Papa's study."

  Ashford stared in utter disbelief. "You're considering staying on in London, inviting Sardo to paint your portrait there? Noelle, that's insane. I don't give a damn if your house is a virtual one-room shack. Limited space won't deter Sardo if the two of you are alone with only a few servants to impede his plan. What in God's name makes you believe your father would agree to that? Hell, I won't agree to that."

  "Who said anything about being alone? I'll have my entire family, and you, in London with me."

  A puzzled frown. "You're not making any sense."

  "Oh, yes, I'm making a world of sense." Noelle's grip tightened. "Ashford, I'm not suggesting a visit. I'm suggesting a prelude to my first Season, an extra few weeks in Town. It's a splendid idea. After all, Papa is livid about André's attentions—just as you are, only more irrationally. He'll be thrilled to get me away from Farrington Manor, to take me to London as soon as possible. And of course he'll bring Mama and Chloe, too, since my coming-out is right around the corner. We can shop, settle in, prepare ourselves for the upcoming festivities. Trust me, if I present the situation properly, Papa will jump at the idea. Let's talk to him and see."

  Ashford grinned, thinking that life with Noelle would never be boring. Just keeping up with her inventive mind, much less her impulsive actions, was going to be the challenge of a lifetime.

  One he could hardly wait to take on.

  "Our Town house might be cramped, but in terms of your overseeing my sittings with André, there's an even longer sofa and a broader ledge in that sitting-room window than in the one at Farrington Manor," Noelle coaxed, caressing Ashford's jaw. She glanced over her shoulder at her now-dozing cat. "A ledge I'm sure Tempest will gladly share, given how much she apparently likes you."

  Ashford turned his lips into Noelle's palm, contemplating the sofa she was describing and conjuring up images, not of concealing himself from Sardo, but of making love to Noelle, burying himself inside her until neither of them could breathe.

  Not a likelihood, given the circumstances.

  "You'll leave Southampton and go to your London Town house early as well, won't you?" Noelle urged, as if reading his mind.

  "Without question," he murmured, kissing her fingertips. "I can hardly wait to pack."

  "That will reassure Papa."

  A husky chuckle. "I doubt it."

  Noelle gave a tiny shiver. "That's not what I meant. I meant he'd feel secure that you'd be there to safeguard me from André's lecherous advances."

  "But not from my own." Ashford's lips brushed the delicate veins at her wrist. "Still, your reasoning is sound. Perhaps your father will like the idea after all." He released her hand, smoothed his palms over the curves of her shoulders. "If it will thwart Sardo's efforts, I'm all for it myself."

  "Good." Noelle sounded breathless again, her cheeks flushed with excitement—a combination of their upcoming adventure and the same y
earning that singed Ashford's blood. "We should go find Papa." She didn't budge.

  "Yes, we should." Ashford drew her against him, lifted her arms around his neck and kissed her deeply—once, twice—continuing to brush her lips with his. "But, given that he'll be finding us in a matter of minutes, why don't we take advantage of this brief time together?"

  "Not so brief," Noelle corrected in a suggestive whisper. "You're spending the night."

  "Don't remind me." His tongue teased her lower lip. "And don't even consider what you're considering. Because I won't have the strength to turn you away, and your father will call me out and shoot me dead—before I've had the chance to savor every inch of you … again and again and again."

  "Um-m-m, I like the sound of that."

  "So do I. Too bloody much." With that, Ashford raised his head, regarding Noelle solemnly from beneath hooded lids. "Sweetheart, when I finally make love to you, it's going to include it all: the words, the commitment—everything."

  "When you finally make love to me…" Noelle repeated, stroking the nape of his neck with a sensual smile. "I'm not sure which sounds more wonderful: that, or the 'everything' you're alluding to."

  Ashford's eyes glittered with anticipation. "Both, tempête. Both." His jaw set with purpose. "And I intend to give them to you. It's no longer a question of if. It's only a question of when."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

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  Eric Bromleigh was as enthusiastic as Noelle had predicted—almost.

  There were two things that caused him to hesitate before agreeing to pack up the whole family and leave immediately for London.