A small trickle of red juice escaped her lush, pink lips. Noble’s tongue swelled up at the sight of it.
“Gark,” he said, unable to tear his eyes from it as it traced a path down toward her chin.
“Pardon?” she asked, reaching for her linen napkin.
“Allow me,” he croaked and lunged awkwardly out of his chair toward her, his own cloth held clenched in his fingers. He glanced at it quickly, calculated the amount of energy it would take to unlock his rigid fingers, and leaned down.
“You have some juice. Just there.” His voice was rustier than iron left in saltwater. “Allow me to attend to it.”
She turned her head slightly, the tempting fruit still held before her lips. Noble inhaled the sweet smell of Gillian mingled with the earthy scent of strawberry just before his tongue touched her skin. He followed the path the juice had made up to its source and paused, looking into her fathomless eyes.
“Bite?” she asked, her voice strange and rough. It reached out and struck a resonance deep within him, like a harp string quivering after it had been plucked.
Gillian’s lips parted. Her tongue pulled part of the strawberry into the sweet darkness of her mouth. Noble was sure he would die if he didn’t taste that piece of fruit. He gripped Gillian’s chair on either side of her and forced her head back as he claimed both her mouth and the strawberry.
He hardened to granite. The juice from the strawberry mingled as their tongues twined around each other, dancing, teasing, sending Noble into a blissful state. Little warning bells began to chime in the back of his head as he slid his tongue along the inside of her silken cheek, tasting strawberry, tasting Gillian, tasting paradise. He started to reach for her, needing to feel himself buried in her warmth, drawing from it, merging himself into it, into the heat that was Gillian. He needed her warmth to feed the light burning so bravely inside him. He needed her at that exact instant.
“’Ere be the kippers ye were wantin’—eh, take ’em back, lads. ’Is lordship isn’t ’ungry for ’em anymore.”
Noble snapped his head back from Gillian just in time to see the insolent grin on Crouch’s face before the door closed. He felt as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice water. He looked down at Gillian, down to where his fingers were white as they clutched the sides of her chair. Her breasts were rising and falling erratically, her eyes misty with passion. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“Good, aren’t they?” Gillian asked hoarsely and plucked the remainder of the strawberry from between his teeth.
***
“What is that you are reading so attentively?” Noble inquired some minutes later, when he had managed to wrest control of his mind away from the demands of his body.
“It’s an absolutely fascinating pamphlet I bought from a man in the square this morning when I was strolling with Piddle and Erp. It’s called Celestial Stimulation of the Organs, and it explains how one might, by using special Oils of Araby and balmy, ethereal essences, restore elasticity and good health to those who are suffering from bad humors.”
Noble, keeping his eyes carefully averted as she reached for another strawberry, asked if she were feeling ill.
“No, but you are.”
He looked up at her statement.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were most restless last night, husband. And this morning, when I asked you why you were looking so peculiar and disgruntled, you said you had a pain in your head. All signs, according to Dr. Graham’s helpful pamphlet, that your organs need attention.”
Noble thought back to the night of torment he had endured, a self-imposed night of torment borne of his desire to show his wife that he was more than just a lustful beast who valued his own urges more than his wife’s need to rest.
“I am quite well, I assure you, madam,” he said, lying through his teeth. He was a lustful beast. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her. That very moment. “My organs have no need of stimulation, celestial or otherwise. I do, however, believe that we did not finish our discussion about the proper way of organizing and structuring your life.”
Gillian looked surprised. “Would that be the lecture you delivered last evening?”
“It would. You looked tired, so I postponed the balance of the discussion until today.”
Gillian sighed. Dabbing at her mouth, she sat back in her chair with her hands folded demurely on her lap. “Very well, Noble, if it will make you happy, you may lecture me now.”
“Thank you. Now, as to—”
“It comes as news to me, of course, to find out my life is unorganized and unstructured.”
“You may be assured it is, my dear. As for last evening’s events—”
“Active, perhaps, or full of those marvelous little surprises that life always seems to offer, yes, I can see that, but unorganized and unstructured?”
“It is. How else do you explain that?” He waved toward her blue hands.
She considered her hands. “Curiosity?”
“Curiosity, lady wife, when held unchecked by common sense and rational thought, is nothing more than chaos. And as we have discussed at length, a chaotic lifestyle is not one that is conducive to a happy home.”
“But, Noble—”
He ignored her protests and spent fifteen minutes explaining again the importance of control and order in one’s life. He paced back and forth before the sideboard, his stride lengthening as he gesticulated when making particular points. He waxed eloquent as he presented both arguments and examples for her edification. He was pleased to see he had her full attention. Her eyes never left him as he offered her rational and valid reasons why she would learn to suit her life to his, and how happy their lives together would be once that seemingly monumental task had been accomplished.
“Now, my dear,” he finished, pulling out his pocket watch and consulting it, “I must keep an appointment, but before I go I will hear your plans for the day.”
“Hmm?” she asked dreamily, her gaze still intent on him.
“Your plans, madam.”
“Have you ever thought of wearing colors, Noble? Perhaps just a colored waistcoat? Not that you don’t look elegantly delicious in black, but I thought perhaps you might like, once in a while, to don a bit of color.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What has my method of dress to do with your plans for the day?”
She widened her eyes in response. “Why, nothing. I just asked a question. Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. My plans for today—well, I believe Charlotte is coming to help me with ideas for the drawing room you said I might redecorate. And we plan on making a call to a…an acquaintance. And then I thought I would take Nick to Regent’s Park to see the zoological gardens. Would you like to accompany us?”
“No, thank you, I have my own schedule to attend to. Very well, my dear, I hope you keep the precepts we have been discussing in mind as you go about your day.”
“Precepts?” She blinked at him.
“Yes, those that we’ve just spent the morning discussing. I will escort you to the Gayfields’ rout tonight if I am able; if not, I will send Harry or Sir Hugh and meet you there later.”
“But Noble, where—”
He was out the door before she could finish asking him about his plans for the day. And what precepts had they just discussed? Perhaps she should have been paying attention to what he was saying rather than woolgathering, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever he started in on his pet lecture, which she seemed to have already heard as many days as she had been married, her mind wandered.
She really would have to watch that habit; it was not a wise one to indulge in around the Lord of Kisses. He had enough ways of distracting her from her goal without her helping him by not paying attention to what he was saying.
***
Noble settled back into an armchair in Boodle’s and waved awa
y the attendant. “Good morning, Harry. You look pleased with yourself. May I assume from that expression that you’ve had some luck?”
“Alas, not the luck you seek, my friend.” Lord Rosse proffered a silver cigar case to the Black Earl. “But something interesting, nonetheless. Did you know that Mariah has disappeared?”
Noble paused for a moment in the act of lighting his cigar. “I had some suspicion she had, since she vacated the premises of the house in Kensington so quickly. Her sister has no idea where she’s gone to ground?”
“None. She’s quite worried about her, as a matter of fact. Ah, Tolly, I thought we’d see you sooner or later. Come and join us.”
Sir Hugh had another chair placed in a manner that would allow him to keep an eye on all who passed, and seated himself with a great show of care for his peach satin waistcoat and taffy-colored coat. “Rosse, Weston. I wondered if you would take advantage of your good fortune, Weston.”
“What good fortune is that?” Noble puffed gently on his cigar and tried not to look bored.
“Why, the sudden reversal of opinion, of course! You and your Amazon are the talk of the ton! Surely even you must have heard the talk, Noble. Everyone is talking about the kiss.”
Noble arched one sable eyebrow. “The kiss? What kiss?”
Rosse smiled as Sir Hugh adjusted his intricately tied cravat an infinitesimal bit to the right. “Must think of letting old Hudson go. He’s not as sharp with the Russian Waterfall as he should be. The kiss, man. The one she gave you in front of everyone at Countess Lieven’s last night!”
Noble gave in to the urge and looked bored. “I find it difficult to believe that my wife demonstrating a spontaneous burst of affection for me can cause such a scandal, Tolly.”
A spasm of distaste passed over the baronet’s face. “That’s where you have come up lucky. Her action, rash and indelicate though it might have been, has deemed her…has deemed you both…the toast of the Season. All the world loves a lover and all that.”
Rosse laughed at the look of chagrin on the earl’s face. “Now there’s a role I never thought you to be in, Noble. The passionate lover, unable to keep from your wife’s arms for the length of an evening.”
A dull red flush washed over Weston’s cheeks.
“It’s appalling!”
Both men looked surprised at the vehemence in Sir Hugh’s voice. “That is…not that you have suddenly become the toast of the ton, but that her…but that your wife…you must admit, Weston,” he stammered, “her behavior is better suited to a Cyprian than a countess.”
Noble’s narrow-eyed gaze flashed silver as it pinned Sir Hugh back in his chair. “You are speaking of my wife, Tolly. I find myself warning you again to temper your speech when speaking of her.”
Sir Hugh spread his hands in a sign of subjugation. “No offense was intended toward your good lady, I assure you, Weston. As one of your oldest friends, I simply want to make sure that she does nothing—inadvertently, of course—that might damage your reputation more than it is. God knows I’ve bent over backward trying to smooth things over for you…”
Noble made a dismissive movement and glanced at the clock residing on a table a few feet away. “Apology accepted. I have an appointment to keep shortly, Tolly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what Harry has to say before I keep it.”
The baronet flushed and shot an unreadable look at him, then settled back in his chair with an expression approaching petulance.
“You were saying, Harry?”
“Ah.” Rosse raised an inquisitory eyebrow. Weston had no difficulty in understanding the movement. “Tolly, I’m sure, can be counted on to keep private all that is said between us.”
Sir Hugh’s round face lost its petulant expression. “Of course, my word and all that. What is the big secret?”
“Harry has done a little investigating into an affair for me. It seems someone wishes me ill, and made an attempt to imprison me the other night.”
Sir Hugh’s jaw dropped. “No! Where? When? What happened? Good God, man, you weren’t hurt, were you?”
Weston explained the situation in a few succinct sentences.
Sir Hugh cleared his throat and put a hand on the older man’s arm. “Anything I can do, Noble. I am completely at your service. And your lady’s, too, of course.”
Noble nodded and turned back to Rosse.
“Well, as I was telling Noble, there’s not much to go on now. His mistress, who wrote the note that was responsible for him being lured to the house, has disappeared. No one knows of her whereabouts, although the servants report she left in a hurry.”
“You’ve spoken with the servants?” Sir Hugh asked.
“Yes, I had some luck there and located the cook. All of the servants were paid two months’ wages and told to leave immediately.”
“That’s very suspicious!” Sir Hugh said.
Noble ignored him. “You found no report of a stranger being seen at the house? No visitors who were beyond Mariah’s normal circle of friends?”
“None. At least, none that I’ve heard from yet. I’m calling on a few men I know to help with the investigation, so perhaps they will be able to uncover something about her visitors.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you’ll have results, Harry. And now I must be off, gentleman. I have an appointment with a Mr. Stafford.”
“Stafford?” Rosse asked, steepling his fingers together under his chin. “Bow Street Runners?”
“Yes. I need an additional pair of eyes.”
“Focused on a certain Scotsman?”
“Among other individuals, yes,” Noble responded and started for the door.
“Weston—hold for a moment, man.” Sir Hugh hurried after the Black Earl. “Allow me to be of assistance as well, Noble. I will do whatever I can to aid you in this. Is there some task I can accomplish for you?”
“Nothing, thank you, Tolly.”
“Nonsense, there must be something.” Sir Hugh put a restraining hand on the earl’s sleeve. Noble, at the door, looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at the gently perspiring baronet. He bit back words of annoyance, reminding himself that Tolly was enthusiastic, if not overly bright. “I appreciate the offer, Tolly,” he said, collecting his hat and stick from the attendant. “I will let you know when I have something for you to do.”
***
Gillian was in the drawing room, holding up a piece of crimson Spitalfields silk against the wall and imagining a gilded ceiling with medallions formed from diamond and octagon shapes.
“What do you think, Nick? The crimson silk, or the bronze green silk? Or something else entirely?” Gillian asked, digging through a stack of wallpaper and fabric samples. “Here, look at this lovely blue. It’s called smalt. Isn’t it rich? Can’t you just imagine this room in smalt, with the woodwork picked out in gilt?”
Nick looked at the fabrics and selected one he liked. “Peach Blossom. Yeees, it’s lovely, but a little…well, pink, don’t you think?”
“What’s pink? Oooh, you have fabric samples? Did the earl give you permission to redecorate, then?” Charlotte bustled in through the door before Tremayne Two could announce her. “Let me see. No, definitely not pale colors, those are passé. You want a strong, vibrant color. I like this crimson.”
Gillian looked at the butler. “Tremayne, will you order the carriage brought round as soon as possible? Lady Charlotte and I have a call to pay.”
“Patent yellow, now there’s an ugly color. Did you hear that the Duke of Wellington has yellow in his drawing room? Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“This sea green would be a good choice for a dining room. What color is your dining room now?”
Nick looked at the sea green and made a face.
“It’s fawn. Oh, Tremayne? Would you have one of the b
oys bring Piddle and Erp around?”
Tremayne gave her a weak smile. Although the dogs’ digestive extravagances had apparently ceased, they were still prone to occasional setbacks, and the staff considered themselves martyrs to her dogs. “Certainly, madam. Er…will the hounds be riding in the same carriage as you, or should I have their carriage brought around as well?”
“Walnut is nice, too. With the fussy bits picked out in cream or stone.”
Nick nodded.
“Well, they can hardly protect me if they are in a separate carriage, Tremayne.”
“Protect you, madam?”
“But I don’t like this at all, this chocolate color. It’s much harsher than walnut. This lilac number two is pretty. What do you think, Nick?”
Nick pointed to the lilac.
“Yes, protect me, Tremayne Two. His lordship made me promise I wouldn’t go out without ample protection, lest his attacker try to kidnap Master Nicholas or myself.”
“No, I’ve changed my mind about the lilac, Nick, despite your preference for it. Picture gallery red number three. That’s a very popular color, I believe. Can’t you see the walls done in picture gallery red number three?”
Nick eyed the walls with a speculative gaze, his lips pursed. He shook his head.
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I hardly feel the hounds are suitable protection.”
“No? I can see it. Well, perhaps picture gallery red number two.”
Gillian’s head began to spin as a result of the cross conversation, but she focused on what was most important. “I don’t agree with you at all, Tremayne. They are ample protection. No one would dare accost either Nick or me when in their presence.”