He’d known she was—had been—a virgin; he’d watched for every second as he’d taken her virginity, as she’d willingly yielded it to him.
He looked down, at her hand spread on his bare chest. He took it in his; his long fingers toyed with hers. “There wasn’t any trace of any Carrington anywhere near Chipping Norton. No entry in the parish records. No one of that name known at any of the stables or inns. Yet many knew the Misses Pevensey—both Misses Pevensey.”
He glanced up; his eyes were sharp as they found hers. “I would have stopped if you’d wanted me to.”
A statement, but there was a question buried in it. She held his gaze steadily. “I know.”
She let the two words stand alone, a simple acknowledgment of the decision she’d made. She’d gone to him willingly; she wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
What was done was done; she was his mistress now.
She frowned. “How did you learn…?” The truth struck her, left her horrified. “Your friend?”
Incipient panic flared in her eyes; Tony closed his hand over hers. “There’s no need to worry.” He hesitated, then explained, “Jack Warnefleet—Lord Warnefleet—investigated Ruskin for me. He also asked after your supposed husband, Alfred Carrington. Another A. C.”
Understanding lit her eyes; he added, “We can rely on Jack’s absolute discretion.”
She studied his face, his eyes; a long moment passed, then she asked, “That was the urgent information he sent you the note about last night?”
He felt his jaw set. “He knew I’d want to know.”
She blinked, then her lashes veiled her eyes. “I couldn’t tell you.” A heartbeat passed, then she added, “I couldn’t risk it.”
There was no hint of excuse in her tone; she was stating a fact, at least as she’d seen it.
He drew in a breath, lifted his gaze to look, unseeing, across the room. Given all he now knew of her, of the plan she and, he assumed, Adriana had concocted, of her commitment to her sister and even more to her brothers, he couldn’t fault her; any hint that she wasn’t the widow the ton thought her would, even now, result in complete and unmitigated disaster. Any chance of Adriana making a good match would disappear. They’d be social pariahs, expelled from society, forced to retreat to their cottage in the country to scrape a precarious existence for themselves and their brothers.
Trusting him with the truth…
He suddenly realized she had. She just hadn’t told him in words.
His silence had bothered her; she tried to edge away. Even before he’d thought, his arms were tightening, holding her to him. “No—I know.” She stilled; he drew in another breath, glanced down at her bent head. “I understand.”
When she didn’t look up, he bent close, placed a kiss on her crown, hesitated, then gently nudged her head.
Alicia looked up, into black eyes that promised far more than understanding. Safety, protection from both the finite and the nebulous dangers of the world, but more precious, at least to her, was the strange and novel relief of having someone with whom she could share her thoughts, her concerns, her schemes. Someone who did indeed understand.
His eyes searched hers; as if to confirm her reading, he asked, “Tell me how this all came about—you, your sister, your plan.”
It wasn’t a command, but a request, one she saw no reason to refuse; better he know all than half the story. She settled against him, felt his arms close tighter. “It started when Papa died.”
She told him everything, even explaining her connection with Mr. King. Although he said not a word, she could tell he didn’t approve, yet still he accepted, and made no protest. She was surprised when he questioned her about their gowns, and gave mute thanks not everyone was so acute.
When she in turn questioned why he’d investigated her supposed husband, he explained his thoughts of some other Carrington being involved. The comment led them deeper into the possibilities surrounding Ruskin; they discussed, tossed thoughts back and forth, argued likelihoods—the sort of exchange she’d never indulged in with anyone else.
Gradually, the silences lengthened. Blissfully warm, totally comfortable, she lay in his arms and listened to his heart beat steadily beneath her cheek. The covers lay over them; she still lay half-atop him, stretched alongside, her legs tangled with his, her hand spread over his chest. One muscled arm was wrapped around her, his hand heavy over her waist.
She should, she felt sure, feel some degree of fluster, of maidenly, feminine embarrassment over their naked state, let alone all that had led to it. Instead, the intimacy was addictive, a strange sense of closeness, of inexpressible comfort, of a simple rightness she was loath to shake.
He glanced down at her, then she felt his lips brush her hair.
“Go to sleep.”
The whisper floated down to her. Turning her head, she looked up, met his eyes. Then she lifted her head, and touched her lips to his. He met them, returned her kiss, but gently. Briefly. Softly sighing, she drew back. Settling more definitely on his chest, spreading her hand over his side, she relaxed, and closed her eyes.
He merged with her dreams in the darkness before dawn. For long moments as he caressed her, sending sensation after sensation spiraling through her, each exquisite touch driving her higher into the clouds, she wasn’t certain where her dreams ended and reality began.
Then he moved over her, spread her thighs wide, and slowly filled her.
She woke as he thrust deep and embedded himself within her, to the sensation of him hard and strong and rigid within her, of her body clamping tightly, joyously, about him, her arms reaching out to embrace him—and knew her life would never return to what it had been.
That was her first and last lucid thought; the instant he started to move within her, her wits deserted her, submerged beneath her clamorous senses, greedy for him, for what was to come.
He stayed close this time, his body moving over hers, murmuring gruff encouragement as she shifted beneath him, tilting her hips, adjusting to the rhythm and the depth of his penetration.
Her body seemed to know what to do; she let herself flow with the tide, gave herself up to the powerful surging rhythm, let it sweep her away into a whirlpool of shattering sensation. He kept them there, held them there, each rocking thrust swirling the vortex higher, tighter. Their lips found each other’s without conscious direction, and then they were there again, in the heart of the flames, the center of the furnace.
The heat cindered all barriers, locked them together, desire flowing molten through them, between them. For one glorious instant, she lost touch with the world, couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, knew only that they were together, one in thought, in mind, in deed.
Their lips clung, their hands grasped, slipped, gripped; their bodies strove to reach the elusive peak, just beyond their reach.
Then they broke through the clouds and the sunburst took them. The glory fractured, shattered, and poured through them. Rained down on them. Drove them at the last, gasping and shuddering, onto some far-distant shore.
They lay tangled, entwined, struggling for breath, the last shards of ecstasy still shivering through them. Heated, swollen, their lips touched, brushed, then parted. In the instant before she surrendered to beckoning oblivion, one simple truth floated through her mind.
Each time he came to her, each time they joined, left her one step further from the woman she had been.
Tony woke as dawn began to streak the sky. Satiation lay heavy upon him; he didn’t want to move.
Eyes closed, he lay still, savoring the sensation of Alicia’s soft curves pressed to his side; he consciously considered leaping a few steps and simply staying where he was.
Reluctantly, he accepted that might be going too far, too fast. Although where they were headed was perfectly clear, taking women for granted was never wise.
Stifling a sigh, he disengaged, trying not to disturb her. She murmured sleepily and clutched at his chest, but then slid back into slumb
er. Gently lifting her hand from him, he slid out of the bed. She snuggled down in the warm depression where he’d lain. The sight of her burrowed there made him smile.
Quickly, he dressed, dropped a light, fleeting kiss on her forehead, then slipped out of her room, and out of the house.
“Are you all right, Miss Alicia?”
Alicia woke with a start, realized it was Fitchett who had spoken. “Ah…yes.” A lie, but she could hardly explain. “I, ah, overslept.”
Struggling to sit up, her gaze fell on the rumpled disaster of her bed. Thank heavens Fitchett was outside the door.
“Aye, well, we was wondering, seeing as you hadn’t rung. I’ll bring up your water if you’re ready for it.”
Alicia glanced at the window. A shaft of bright sunlight lanced into the room. Dear God, what was the time? “Yes, thank you. I’m getting up now.”
Fitchett lumbered off. Dragooning her wits and her still too-lax muscles into action, Alicia flung back the covers and got out of bed.
By the time Fitchett arrived with her water, she’d stripped the bed; there’d been no possibility of putting things right enough to pass muster. When Fitchett stared at the pile of bedclothes, she airily waved. “I decided to change the sheets. It’s only a day or so early.”
To her relief, Fitchett merely humphed.
She washed and dressed quickly, then hurried downstairs to discover bedlam reigning at the breakfast table. Adriana had done her best, but she lacked Alicia’s authority; called to order, the boys assumed their most angelic expressions and innocently resumed a more civilized rapport.
“I slept in,” she replied to Adriana’s questioning look. It wasn’t a good excuse—she never slept in—but it was all she could think of. Reaching for the teapot, she poured herself a cup. She sipped, relaxed, then realized how hungry she was. Ravenous, in fact.
Jenkins came in, and they discussed the boys’ lessons for the coming week while she polished off a mound of kedgeree.
When Jenkins departed, the boys in tow, Adriana frowned at her. “Well, you’re obviously not ailing— there’s nothing wrong with your appetite.”
She waved the piece of toast she’d started nibbling and reached for her cup. “I just slept longer than usual.”
Adriana pushed back her chair and rose. “You must have been dreaming.”
Recollection flashed across Alicia’s mind; she nearly choked on her tea.
“Are we still going to Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse today?”
She nodded. “Yes—we must if we’re to make those new gowns.” Setting down her cup, she picked up her toast. “In twenty minutes—I have to check with Cook before we go.”
The rest of the day passed in the usual busy fashion; she hadn’t before noticed how little personal time she had, private time alone in which to think. If she and Adriana weren’t out, attending some function or event, then some member of the household would want to speak with her, or her brothers needed supervising, or…
She needed to think—she knew she did, knew she ought to stop and consider, and get her mind in order for when next she met Tony. She’d taken a major step, turned a hugely significant corner—one she definitely shouldn’t have turned, perhaps, but she’d willingly taken that road; it was clearly imperative she stop and take stock.
All that seemed obvious, yet when she finally found herself alone in her room, bathing, then dressing for the evening, she discovered her mind had a will of its own.
When it came to all that had passed in the night, and in the small hours of the morning, while she could recall and relive every moment, every detail, her mind flatly refused to go any further. It was as if some dominant part of her brain had decided those events were in some way sacrosant, that they stood as they were and needed no further examination. No dissection, no analysis, no clarification. They simply were.
It was, indeed, as if she’d stood at a crossroads, and now she’d gone around the corner, she couldn’t see where she’d been. Which left her facing forward along a road she’d never imagined traveling.
Putting the last touches to her coiffure, she paused and studied herself in the mirror. She still looked the same, yet…was it something in her eyes, or maybe in her posture, the way she stood, that assured her, at least, that she was no longer the same woman?
She had changed, and she didn’t regret it. There was little in this world for which she’d trade so much as a minute of the time she’d spent in Tony’s arms.
Indeed, there was no point looking back. She was his mistress now.
And if she didn’t know what that new status would bring, or how to cope, she’d just have to learn.
She looked into her eyes for a moment longer, then let her gaze run down the sleek lines of the deep purple silk gown Adriana had designed and she and Fitchett had created. The heart-shaped neckline showcased her breasts without being obvious; the cut below the high waist made the most of her slim hips and long legs, while the small off-the-shoulder sleeves left the graceful curves of her shoulders quite bare.
Turning, she picked up her shawl and reticule, then headed for the door. Luckily, she learned quickly.
The cacophonous sound of the ton in full flight rose to greet Tony as he paused at the top of the steps leading down into Lady Hamilton’s ballroom. Her ladyship’s rout was one of the events traditionally held in the week before the Season began; society’s elite were almost to a man foregathered in town—everyone who was anyone would be present.
Looking down on the sea of bright gowns, of sheening curls, of jewels winking in the light thrown by the chandeliers, he scanned the throng, relieved when he located Alicia standing by the side of the room, Adriana’s court, some steps in front of her, partially screening her. Relief died, however, when closer inspection revealed that three of the gentlemen between Alicia and Adriana were not conversing with Adriana.
Jaw setting, he strolled with feigned nonchalance down the steps; cutting through the crowd, he made his way directly to Alicia’s side.
She welcomed him with a smile that went some way toward easing his temper. “Good evening, my lord.”
He took the hand she offered, raised it brazenly to his lips, simultaneously stepping close. “Good evening, my dear.”
Her green-gold eyes widened a fraction. His easy, languid smile took on an edge as, setting her hand in the crook of his arm, he took up a stance—a clearly possessive stance—by her side.
With every evidence of well-bred boredom, he glanced at the gentlemen who had been speaking with her. “Morecombe. Everton.” He exchanged the usual nods. The last man he didn’t know.
“Allow me to present Lord Charteris.”
The tall, fair-haired dandy bowed. “Torrington.”
Tony returned the bow with an elegant nod.
Straightening, Charteris puffed out his narrow chest. “I was just describing to Mrs. Carrington the latest offering at the Theatre Royal.”
Tony allowed Charteris, who appeared to fancy himself a peacock of sorts, to entertain them with his anecdote; he judged the man safe enough. Morecombe was another matter; although married, he was a gazetted womanizer, a rake and profligate gambler. As for Everton, he was the sort no gentleman would trust with his sister. Not even with his maiden aunt.
Both clearly had their eyes on Alicia.
Behind his polite mask, he took note of the undercurrents in the small group; focused on the men, it was some minutes before he noticed the swift glances Alicia surreptitiously cast him. Only then realized she was, if not precisely skittish, then at least uncertain.
It took a minute more before he realized her uncertainty was occasioned not by any of the three gentlemen before her, but by him.
He waited only until the notes of a waltz filled the room. Glancing at her, he covered her hand on his sleeve. “My dance, I believe?”
His tone made it clear there was no doubt about the fact; as he hadn’t previously spoken, it should be patently clear that her hand being his to claim was an arr
angement of some standing.
Fleetingly meeting his eyes, she acquiesced with a gracious inclination of her head.
The glances he noticed Morecombe and Everton exchange as, with a polite nod, he led her away gave him some satisfaction. With any luck, they would move on to likelier prey before the waltz ended.
Reaching the dance floor, he drew Alicia into his arms, started them revolving, then turned his full attention on her. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow. “What is it?”
Alicia looked into his eyes; she felt her lips firm, but managed not to glare. I haven’t been a nobleman’s mistress before hardly seemed worth stating. And now she was in his arms, sensing again the familiar reactions—the physical leap of her senses soothed by the feeling of comfort and safety—her earlier worries over how she should react—how he would behave and how he would expect her to respond to him—no longer seemed relevant. “Have you made any progress with your investigations?”
That, at least, was something she could ask.
“Yes.” For a moment, he looked down at her as if waiting for her to say something else, then he looked up for the turn, and went on, “I heard from Jack Hendon this morning—he’s confirmed all that your brothers learned.” Glancing down, he met her gaze. “Incidentally, he was impressed—you might tell them.”
“They don’t need any encouragement.”
His lips twitched. “Perhaps not.” He looked up again, drawing her fractionally closer as they came out of the turn and headed up the long room. “Jack’s pursuing the matter, trying to find a pattern to the ships that were taken versus those that were not. With luck, that might shine some light on who benefited from the losses.”
He met her gaze. “I haven’t yet heard back from the friend scouting down in Devon—he has contacts with smugglers and wreckers along that coast. As for myself, now I’ve got something specific to ask, I’ll start putting out feelers among my own contacts.”
He’d kept his voice low; she did the same. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving London?”