There could be no doubt; as she watched Tony slowly, elegantly descend, his lips set in an easy line but his eyes watchful, intent, she understood what she was feeling, couldn’t stop the welling tide of anticipation, the burgeoning of simple happiness.
She was in a very bad way.
With one hand, he indicated the upper floor. “I’ve been with your brothers.” Reaching the bottom stair, he stepped down, walked closer.
With every step he took, she could feel her awareness come to life, feel her consciousness expand, reaching for him.
He stopped directly in front of her. His eyes met hers, their expression quizzical, faintly amused. Then, before she could stop him, he bent his head and kissed her.
Gently, warmly.
He raised his head, met her gaze. “I need to speak with you privately.” He glanced around, then gestured. “Shall we use the drawing room?”
She looked at the closed door. Her lips still tingled; it was an effort to bludgeon her wits into working order. “Yes. If…” Had her brothers said something they shouldn’t?
That thought and the incipient panic it evoked helped get her mind functioning. Turning, she crossed the hall by Torrington’s side, her protective instincts abruptly on full alert. No matter what she felt for him, she shouldn’t forget that if he learned the truth, he could pose as big a threat to her and her family as Ruskin had.
Indeed, the threat he could pose was even greater.
Tony opened the door, waited for her to enter, then followed her into the elegantly appointed room. His gaze went first to the windows—two long panes looking onto the street. Shutting the door, he glanced around, but there was nothing of her or her family there, on the mantelpiece or the occasional tables set between the two chaises and the well-padded armchairs.
She stopped in the middle of the richly colored Turkish rug; head up, spine straight, hands clasped before her, she faced him.
“You don’t have enough menservants.” He had no idea what she’d expected him to say, but it assuredly wasn’t that. She blinked, then frowned as her mind shifted to the domestic arena. If he told her he’d discovered a certain delight in throwing her off-balance, in confusing her, she most certainly wouldn’t approve, yet such moments revealed an underlying vulnerability, one she didn’t normally show, but which he treasured seeing and knew he responded to. As he presently was.
“Menservants?” Her frown was definite. “We have Jenkins, of course.”
“One man for a house of this size, with a family of this size?”
Her chin rose as he closed the distance between them. “We’ve never seen the need for a large staff. We’re quite comfortable as we are.”
Halting before her, he caught her gaze. “I’m concerned.”
She searched his eyes. “About what?”
“About the direction my investigation is taking, and the fact someone started rumors about you. Specifically you—the widow Ruskin was blackmailing.”
She hesitated, then said, “Adriana and I are always careful.”
“Be that as it may, this house is large… and you have three young brothers.”
He didn’t need to say more; he watched alarm flare in her eyes, only to be replaced by consideration, then consternation. He picked his moment to murmur, “I have a very large house with a very large staff, most of whom have very little to do given I’m the only member of the family in residence.” Her gaze lifted to his; he held it. “I would feel much happier, less concerned, if you would allow me to lend you a footman, at least until my investigation is successfully concluded.”
She returned his regard steadily. A minute ticked by, then she said, “This footman…?”
“I have one in mind who would suit admirably— Maggs. He’s been with me for years. He’s well trained, and I can assure you he’ll know how to deal with your brothers and the rest of the household, Jenkins especially.”
Her eyes narrowed; her look stated that she understood his tactics, that she recognized he’d left her little room to maneuver, no real excuse to refuse. “Just for the duration of your investigation?”
“You may have him for as long as you wish, but I’d urge you to allow him to stay at least until we have Ruskin’s murderer by the heels.”
She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll warn Jenkins.”
They were standing close; he sensed her impulse to step back, away. Instead, she fixed him with a direct look. “It may interest you to know that at the Waverleys’ ball last night and in the park this morning, Adriana and I met with, not just a gratifying degree of acceptance, but a quite astonishing level of support.”
He raised his brows. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.” She held his gaze. “You arranged it, didn’t you?”
His face remained impassive, unreadable; his eyes, he knew, gave nothing away while he debated his answer. Eventually, he said, “Although she no longer resides in the capital, my mother has a large circle of friends among the grandes dames of the haut ton. I used to find their existence a trial. Now… I’m prepared to admit they do have their uses.”
She drew a slow, deep breath; although he kept his eyes locked with hers, he was highly conscious of the swelling of her breasts. “Thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t know why you’re doing this—”
Alicia broke off when something flashed in his eyes— an expression so vibrant, so powerful, even as fleeting as it was, the glimpse distracted her.
In the same moment, he reached for her; hands sliding around her waist, he drew her to him. Against him. Into his arms as he bent his head.
“The reason I’m doing this…”
The words washed over her lips, suddenly hungry; for a second, their gazes touched, locked, then his lids fell. She felt his gaze on her lips.
“Ought to be obvious.”
Deep, low, the words sank into her brain as his lips covered hers, and he sank into her mouth. Claimed her attention, then sent it spinning, fractured, dispersed. Called her senses, drew them to him, then trapped them, held them enthralled.
She kissed him back, found herself mentally floating as the slow, drugging kisses took their toll. Sinking her fingers into his shoulders, she tried to hang onto her wits, to some degree of control, but steadily, inexorably, implacable and irresistible, he drew it from her grasp.
Then he drew her hard against him, locked her body to his, and the flames and the magic flared.
It had to be magic, that surge of sensation, the giddy delight, the anticipation streaking down her nerves, tingling, tightening so that the need to sate it was suddenly more important than breathing, far more important than any consideration of social strictures.
His hands spread over her back, stroked possessively down the long planes, curving over her hips to close proprietorially over her bottom, provocatively kneading, then boldly caressing. Hot as a flame, heat spread beneath her skin; a deep-seated yearning flowered in its wake.
Then he angled his head and ravaged her mouth, took more, demanded more. Unhesitatingly she followed him deeper into the exchange, encouraging and enjoying the ever more intimate melding of their mouths.
The first inkling she had that he’d opened her bodice was the slithering caress of her silk chemise as, loosened, it slipped down, helped by his long fingers. And then those fingers were on her skin, and she lost touch with the world.
And plunged into another.
Into a realm where sensation and emotions were the only reality, where touches and caresses formed the language, with needs, wants, and desires the only goals. Every slow, possessive caress heightened her need, made her want with an ever greater certainty fueled by escalating, burgeoning desire. Yet that desire seemed entwined with his, with him, with his obvious reason. With what she sensed, in her bones knew, he wanted.
Their lips parted; from under heavy lids, their gazes met, held as his fingers moved on her, upon her, drawing whorls of flame on her skin, tightening her nerves to an excruci
ating degree. Unable to bear it, she closed her eyes, with a soft gasp let her head fall back. Felt him bend near, felt his lips on her throat, sliding down to fasten over her thudding pulse.
His hands shifted; her gown slid over her shoulders, then cool air caressed her heated skin. The bared skin he set his lips to tracing, with flicking licks and long trailing laves teasing, the hot, wet promise of his mouth withheld…as the fever built, as some need within her grew, and grew… until she moaned.
The sound, soft, nearly suppressed, surprised her, but through the hands at her waist holding her, supporting her, she sensed his satisfaction. A wholly male triumph that he crowned by closing his mouth—every bit as hot and wet as she’d imagined—over the taut, aching peak of one breast.
She tensed, her nerves clenched, not with rejection but delight. Her hands slid through his hair, tightened on his skull as he swirled his tongue about the ruched peak, then sucked gently. Sensation, pure and elemental, streaked through her, racing through her body to pool deep and low, a warming glow within her.
Cracking open her lids, she looked down. Watched as he feasted on her bounty—and wondered at her reaction. Some part of her was shocked, yet she couldn’t, even now, summon any will to refuse him, deny him—to push him away. She couldn’t tense her muscles, couldn’t break the spell. She didn’t want to, couldn’t pretend. Could only watch, feel, learn, and experience.
Something new, something novel, something she’d never felt before.
Tony sensed her fascination and was content. For now. He knew her acquiescence was not, yet, freely given; he could draw her into such sensual exchanges, but she did not, yet, seek them of her own accord.
That was what he wanted. Needed. For her to want him as he wanted her.
Overwhelming her natural resistance, taking over, controlling her—for one of his talents, that wasn’t all that hard. For him, the challenge lay deeper, in making her come to him, making her desire him enough to set aside her reserve and actively seek to be intimate with him.
Only by that route would he gain the surrender he sought, the complete and conscious giving that, for one of his nature, was the ultimate prize.
He raised his head; their gazes briefly touched, then he covered her lips, and took her mouth again. In a slow, thorough, leisurely engagement that left them both starved of breath.
Gradually, he drew back. Her breasts were swollen, tight beneath his hands; her skin felt like hot satin beneath his fingertips. He kept his lips on hers as he searched for and found the top edge of her chemise, and drew it up, tugging the drawstring so it tightened and held.
She stirred in his arms. He ended the kiss and lifted his head. Their eyes met for an instant, then she looked down; drawing her hands from his shoulders, she resettled and retied the chemise, then, a blush tinting her cheeks, she rapidly did up the buttons of her bodice.
He couldn’t keep his lips straight when she glanced at him; his satisfaction was too deep to hide.
She saw it, read it; a frown in her eyes, she waved him to the door.
Smiling, he turned, glancing at her as she fell in beside him. Before the door, he halted, caught her eye as she looked up. “I’ll send Maggs this afternoon.”
She blinked at him. “Maggs?”
“The footman.”
“Ah.” She drew herself up, nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
He grinned, ducked his head, and kissed her—stole one last kiss from her luscious lips—then straightened and met her eyes, green and slightly dazed. “I’ll see myself out.”
He managed to suppress a smirk; feeling positively virtuous, he opened the door, gracefully saluted her, then closed it.
Alicia stared at the panels. Beyond them, she heard his footsteps recede, then the front door opened, and shut.
He was gone.
Reason and logic returned in a flood; the last minutes—however many minutes it had been—replayed in her mind.
Her increasingly horrified mind.
Her lips still throbbed, her skin still tingled, her breasts… she could still feel the sensation of his mouth moving over them…
With a groan, she closed her eyes and slumped against the door.
What was she going to do?
SEVEN
“MY DEAR MRS. CARRINGTON, MAY I PRESENT SIR Freddie Caudel?”
Lady Hertford beamed at Alicia, who divined that gaining Sir Freddie’s notice was something of a coup. She extended her hand with a polite murmur.
Sir Freddie took her fingers and bowed gracefully. A gentleman in his middle years, he was handsome in a quiet, patrician way.
Alicia smiled. In a few short minutes, she established that Sir Freddie was a scion of an old and ancient house and consequently socially prominent, held a political post in the government, possessed a degree of polish and address to which younger men could only aspire, and was on the lookout for a wellborn, beautiful, and young bride.
Not surprisingly, Adriana had caught his eye.
Alicia hestitated, wondering if she should, in all compassion, nip Sir Freddie’s aspirations in the bud; from all she could see, Adriana was fast losing her heart to Geoffrey Manningham.
Sir Freddie had followed her gaze to where Adriana stood by Lord Manningham’s side. “I realize, of course, that youth and beauty go hand in hand, yet often you ladies have a remarkably discerning eye.”
Alicia met Sir Freddie’s blue eyes, guileless and amused. Geoffrey might be younger, yet Sir Freddie was undeniably distinguished, and his manners, while absolutely correct, had an ease about them, a comfortable confidence deriving from years of moving in the first circles.
Sir Freddie might give Geoffrey a run for his money.
More particularly for Adriana’s heart, which her hand would follow.
Lips curving, Alicia inclined her head. “If you wish to join my sister’s circle, I have no objection.” She seriously doubted Sir Freddie would succeed, but there was no harm in him attempting to upset Manningham’s applecart.
Sir Freddie offered his arm. “If you would introduce me?”
Placing her fingers on his sleeve, Alicia allowed him to lead her to Adriana’s side.
Adriana was, as always, polite to anyone who sought her attention. Introduction completed, Alicia withdrew, rejoining Lady Hertford at the side of the room.
“He’s very highly thought of,” her ladyship whispered.
“Marcus tells me he can be quite stiff-rumped on occasion, but always the true gentleman.” Adriana drew Miss Tiverton into the conversation with Sir Freddie; Lady Hertford smiled delightedly. “Such a sweet girl, your sister. Who knows? If Sir Freddie doesn’t fix her interest, perhaps he’ll look at Helen. Of course, there’s his age, but when men of his stamp look to take a wife, one can at least be sure they’re in earnest. And his estates are quite respectable, I believe—they’ve been in the family for generations.”
Alicia smiled easily; she let Lady Hertford’s chatter wash over her, nodding here and there. Eventually, her ladyship departed, leaving Miss Tiverton along with Adriana under Alicia’s watchful eye.
She did keep her gaze on her sister’s circle, some yards away, but the instant Lady Hertford’s distraction disappeared, Alicia’s thoughts focused on her own distraction.
Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington.
Her reaction to his practiced seduction surprised her; she’d assumed she’d be uninterested, disinterested, that repulsing any gentleman’s advances, especially those of a predatory nobleman, would be instinctive, a natural response she wouldn’t have to pause to consider, let alone battle to achieve.
It was a battle she was losing; she’d already lost significant ground. Quite why, she didn’t understand.
When she was with him, in his arms or even simply alone with him, the world seemed to shift, the frame of reference by which she’d lived her life thus far to alter. It swung to focus on him, to accommodate him, to center, not just on him, not just on his wishes, but on hers—those wishes she had
n’t known she had.
When with him, her attention shifted to a different landscape, one encompassing all that was growing between them. That change was unprecedented, unsettling, yet fascinating. Even addictive.
Something in him called to something in her; from the coalescing of those somethings grew the power she sensed, the power that was strong enough to suborn her wits, shackle her senses… and seduce her.
She shivered, and refocused on Adriana’s circle, and saw Sir Freddie successfully solicit her sister’s hand for a waltz. Noting Geoffrey Manningham’s studiously impassive countenance, she smiled.
Hard fingers, a hard palm, closed about her hand.
She turned as Tony—Torrington!—raised it; eyes capturing hers, he pressed a kiss to her fingers. Faintly smiled.
“Come and dance.”
Within seconds, she was whirling down the floor. She didn’t bother trying to resist; instead, she turned her mind to her most urgent need—trying to understand what was going on.
He seemed content simply to dance, to hold her in his arms and revolve about the ballroom, his gaze resting on her face, on her eyes.
Drinking her in.
She lowered her lids, screening her eyes, shifted her gaze to look over his shoulder. Smoothly, he drew her closer as they went through the turns, and didn’t ease his hold; abruptly she was aware of their bodies, the subtle brushing of their hips, of his thigh parting hers as they turned…as if he’d reached for her and enveloped her in a flagrantly intimate embrace. The memory leapt to her mind, instantly impinged on her wanton senses.
Instantly stirred her hunger.
She looked up, met his gaze. “This is madness.”
The words were low, breathy. He smiled, but his eyes remained on hers, his gaze intent. “If it is, we’re both infected.”
Beyond recall. She drew breath, read his eyes; their expression was openly predatory—his intent could not have been clearer. Realization, as inescapable as the dawn, burst upon her.
Deep within her, something quivered.
Tony looked up, over her head, wishing for once that she possessed a more definite mask, a countenance less easy to read. One long look into her eyes, and he was aching. If Cranbourne House had boasted any suitable room, he’d have whisked her off to it, there to pursue, however impulsively, the connection growing between them. Unfortunately, Cranbourne House was small, pokey, a totally unsuitable venue. Added to that, her sister was present, which meant she’d be distracted. When he finally had her beneath him, he didn’t want her thinking of anything else.