She caught her breath and let her lids fall as the sensation rolled through her.
His eyes still closed, Sebastian rocked shallowly, savoring the gentle clench of her inner muscles as the scalding slickness of paradise’s vestibule coated the head of his erection.
The position wouldn’t do to breach her, but it had been her choice, her doing, and he saw no reason not to honor that and allow her to grow more accustomed to the sensation of him entering her body.
But the moment couldn’t last long; he couldn’t hold back the raging tide of desperate need that crashed and churned inside him.
When he could withstand it no longer—when his body felt aflame—he rolled her fully onto her back, planted his hands palms down on the sheet on either side of her shoulders, braced his arms, and raised his chest.
The movement pushed him deeper into her scalding sheath.
He withdrew as far as her entrance. She didn’t tense, expecting him to rock in just a little way.
He locked his gaze on her face, shadowed now as the moonlight had faded—and with one sharp, powerful thrust, seated himself fully in her softness.
She arched and cried out, the sound well-nigh breathless. He saw the spasm of pain that crossed her face—the sight scored him like a blade, and he held still. Desperately fought not to move, battled to hold against the instinct to plunder.
He clung to the sight of her face, watched, waited, and sooner than he’d expected, he saw the tension born of pain fade…
Then she opened her eyes.
The gray orbs, brilliant and bright, stared into his eyes.
Then she smiled.
Not tremulously, but intently.
Then she reached up, dragged his head down to hers, brushed a kiss across his lips, and ordered, “Ride.”
She shifted beneath him in blatant invitation.
He’d never before laughed at such a moment in his life, but a bark escaped him even as he did exactly as she wanted.
And at first slowly, but increasingly forcefully, he drove them back into the fire and the flames.
If he’d had any notion she might be a passive lover, she promptly shattered it. Her body rose to his. She quickly caught his rhythm, and then she was riding with him, faster, more urgently, more powerfully, on through their landscape of passion.
Antonia had never dreamt such closeness could be. Had never comprehended what physical intimacy truly entailed. The slide of naked limbs and intimate caresses had been one thing, but the moment when he’d thrust deep and filled her, the sensation of him there, at her core, had branded itself forever on her mind. So alien, so him, so very male. He’d held her trapped, impaled, but he’d hung suspended over her and watched her as if, in that moment, she’d been his entire world.
Now, her heart swelled, and her spirits rejoiced, and they thundered on through a haze of heat and hunger, and passion seared, need soared, and desire thrummed—until ecstasy hove on their horizon.
Her senses had abandoned the world and shrunk to him and her and their joining.
In that moment, nothing else existed but this. Nothing could be so important as this.
This seizing, this claiming, this possession.
His of her, and hers of him.
They were united in that, too. In their commitment, their intention, their unswerving direction.
The tension mounted, stronger, more potent, more intense than before. Now that he’d joined with her, there was an urgency, a building desperation that flayed them and drove them both on, ever on. She clung and sobbed as that unrelenting tension ratcheted thrust by thrust—then abruptly, the world fell away, and she flew.
Her senses imploded in a blaze of white heat and mind-numbing pleasure. Scintillating shards of golden glory flew down her veins and cindered her hold on reality.
For one instant, he held her there, on the cusp of paradise, then on a deep groan, he went rigid in her arms, and she felt the hot spurt of his seed deep within.
Then all tension left him.
As if his arms could no longer hold him, he tumbled down onto her; instinctively, she wrapped her arms around him as far as she could reach and held him.
Pleasure, bone-deep, flooded her, along with a sense of togetherness she hadn’t expected. His weight held her trapped, but she didn’t mind.
She held him close, shut her eyes, and let the oblivion that hovered just out of her senses’ reach rush in and buoy them both on its tide.
* * *
Antonia awoke to find herself lying on her side with Sebastian spooned around her. She vaguely recalled, in the heated depths of the night, that he’d woken, lifted from her, then tugged her sleepy self around so he could cuddle up behind her…
She grinned at the memory.
And the more she recalled, the more success, sweet and very pleasurable, flowed through her veins.
Then she realized she could see—that although the sun was not yet up, pre-dawn light was washing through the window.
She didn’t know the rules of conducting a liaison, but she was fairly certain being discovered with Sebastian in his bed by some footman or maid was likely to cause a scandal.
Sebastian’s arm lay heavy over her waist. Moving slowly, she eased out from under it, reluctantly shifting away from the heat of his body until she could swing her feet to the floor. She pushed up to sit on the side of the bed.
And felt fingers lock like steel about her wrist.
She glanced over her shoulder and met surprisingly intense pale green eyes.
“You do realize,” he rumbled, “that this means we’re getting married?”
Of course. The words leapt to her tongue; she arched her brows haughtily, but at the last minute, held those particular words back.
Instead, she smiled and let her confidence and assurance fully invest the gesture. Twisting her wrist from his grasp, she patted his naked—still quite fabulous and exceedingly distracting—chest. “Let’s leave that discussion for another day.”
That, of course, was a red rag to a bull. He immediately pushed up; leaning on one muscled forearm, he narrowed his eyes on her face. “What discussion? Your boldness in…” He paused.
Rising, she looked at him inquiringly. In seducing him? Would he say it?
His eyes narrowed even further, and his face set. “In coming to my room last night means we’ve leapt over all discussions. There’s no longer anything left to discuss.”
That was what he thought, arrogant nobleman that he was. But telling him that she wanted him to admit what he felt for her—more than anything else so that she would know he knew—wouldn’t get her what she wanted. But given what was at stake, she was willing to be patient. Heaven knew, she’d waited years—more than a decade—to get to this point. What were a few more months if that was what it took to gain everything she’d ever sought in a marriage?
She bent, scooped up her robe, and shook it out. “You’re just put out that I took the initiative and filched those particular reins from your grasp.” She shrugged on the robe. “As I see it, as matters stand, there’s no reason we need to rush into anything—we can safely leave all details until later.”
Tying the sash, she flashed him a calm smile, then headed for the door.
Sebastian shook his head. His wits were still not functioning. She was teasing him—wasn’t she?
But what the hell did she mean by leaving details until later? Details like a wedding?
He glared at her silk-clad back. Then he realized and called, “Wait.”
She swung around and arched a brow.
He kicked off the covers and got out of the bed. “I’ll escort you back to your room.” He reached for his clothes.
And was grateful that she waited without further comment. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of staff rattling coal scuttles downstairs, but none would have yet ventured upstairs to the bedchambers. Given the only others along their corridor were the newly married Featherstonehaughs, Antonia returning to her room unseen should be
straightforward, but still…
Tucking in his shirt, he waved her back and cracked open the door. After confirming the corridor was deserted, he escorted her to her door, waited until she opened it and went in—and with a swift scan over her head, he confirmed there was no one else there.
Who he’d imagined might be waiting, he had no idea—and didn’t want to think too much about the impulse that had prompted him to check.
With a curt nod, he left her; he halted along the corridor and waited until he heard her door shut, then returned to his room.
He stood in the room’s center and stared at the bed while memories of the night poured through his head.
He grunted, then walked to where he’d left his coat, fished in his pocket, drew out his watch, and opened it.
It was just after five o’clock.
He closed the watch, slipped it back into the pocket, and set about stripping again.
Naked, he tumbled onto the bed. The scent of her—of the herbs in her soap and the elemental perfume of well-loved woman—wreathed through his brain.
He tugged up the covers, closed his eyes, and imagined she was still there, beside him.
After their activities of the night—because of those activities—he needed more sleep if he was to have any hope of coping with her and her machinations, let alone locating the damned gunpowder.
* * *
Safe inside her room, Antonia snuggled down in her bed. She might as well get another hour or two’s sleep while creating the impression she’d spent the night there.
Smiling exceedingly smugly, feeling thoroughly pleased with herself and her world, she closed her eyes.
Chapter 11
A horrendous scream rent the morning.
Sebastian sat bolt upright. A second, strangled scream reached him; he flung back the covers, leapt from the bed, and hauled on his trousers.
Shrugging on his shirt, he strode to the door, flung it open, and stalked into the corridor. The scream had faded to sobbing whimpers coming from not that far away—on that floor, in the gallery.
He strode rapidly in that direction, hearing voices in the Featherstonehaughs’ room as he passed. He turned under the archway and paused.
A maid stood backed against the gallery balustrade, her hands to her face, staring in abject horror through the open door to one of the main bedchambers. She was the source of the whimpers and, presumably, the scream.
A chill touched Sebastian’s nape.
He strode forward. Ignoring the maid, who, seeing him approaching, pointed into the room and gibbered, he walked to the open doorway. He halted on the threshold and looked into the room.
As he’d feared, it was Cecilia’s bedroom.
From where he stood, he could see only the end of the large bed.
And her feet—one bare, the other with a feathered high-heeled slipper dangling. The other slipper lay on the rug at the foot of the bed.
The hem of a filmy peignoir lay rucked about Cecilia’s calves.
Away from the bed, closer to the door, a heavy pewter jug lay rolling on one side, the water it had contained pooling on the floorboards.
The sounds of rushing footsteps, of exclamations and questions, fell on Sebastian’s ears, but he blocked out the distraction. He drew in a too-shallow breath, held it, and stepped into the room.
Two paces, and he halted, his gaze riveted by the crumpled doll-like body tossed on the bed.
Cecilia was dead. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling; her fair hair was still up in the elaborate French knot she’d favored the previous evening. She was clad in a silk nightgown and the peignoir, both in shades of pink; neither garment hid the bruises circling her throat like some gruesome necklace.
Sebastian exhaled in a quiet rush. Despite her faults, Cecilia had been a lively woman with whom he’d once shared a bed. She hadn’t been evil, but evil had come looking for her.
Behind him, the maid was now sobbing freely. He felt cold—chilled—and hollow.
Brusque voices drew nearer; some of the other men entered the room. Like him, they halted just inside the door.
A detached part of his brain noted that the bed was still made; Cecilia’s body had been flung on the undisturbed coverlet. There was no sign of a struggle on the counterpane; she’d been dead before she’d been tossed there.
He scanned the room. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere—no rucked rug, nothing disturbed or out of place.
Amid the press of males all uttering horrified exclamations, Sebastian sensed a softer presence slip through the door and draw nearer.
Instinctively, he shifted to block her view, but Antonia gripped his upper arm and held him still. She glanced at the body on the bed, then she looked up at him—briefly studied his face.
Then her fingers slipped into his.
He closed his hand around hers and gripped. Tightly, as if she was his anchor to the world.
Hadley Featherstonehaugh, who had halted, transfixed and aghast, at Sebastian’s side, was the first to voice the obvious question. “What should we do?”
Drawn back to reality by the feel of Antonia’s fingers in his, Sebastian hauled in a deeper, freer breath and stated, “We send for the doctor. And we send word to Sir Humphrey’s house and summon Inspector Crawford.”
* * *
Sebastian stood before the fireplace in the estate office and stared at the flames leaping in the grate. “I didn’t kill her.” His tone was flat, emotionless; he honestly wasn’t sure what he felt.
Crawford humphed. “At least, this time, you weren’t the one who found the body.”
“Could the maid tell you anything?” Antonia asked.
Sebastian glanced at her. She was sitting in one of the chairs before the desk behind which the inspector and Sir Humphrey sat.
The two men had arrived several hours ago. They’d consulted with the doctor, who had been waiting to make his report before continuing with his day. Then magistrate and policeman had been waylaid by several of the guests, with whom they’d briefly spoken. Subsequently, they’d examined the scene and talked with a number of the staff. When, eventually, Crawford and Sir Humphrey had come into the drawing room, where all the guests had gathered after a hurried breakfast, they had made a general statement that they intended to interview everyone again, then they’d asked to speak with Sebastian. He’d pushed away from the mantelpiece against which he’d been leaning and joined the two men, and Antonia had risen and walked with them into the front hall.
When he’d turned to her, intending to insist she remain with the others, she’d been waiting to catch his eye. With a very definite challenge in hers.
Instead of imposing his will, he’d cravenly surrendered; he hadn’t been up to fighting himself as well as her. Neither Sir Humphrey nor the inspector—both of whom had taken in that brief but wordless exchange—had ventured to try to dissuade or deny her.
In reply to her question, Sir Humphrey snorted. “Silly female keeps dissolving into hysterics, but in between, we got out of her that she’d opened the door to take in her mistress’s washing water, saw Lady Ennis as we found her, dropped the jug, screamed, and backed out of the room.” Sir Humphrey raised his gaze to Sebastian. “She said you were the first to arrive.”
Sebastian nodded. “Her first scream woke me. Unsurprisingly, I rushed to see what had happened.”
“Who was the next to arrive?” Crawford asked.
Sebastian frowned. “I’m not sure—I was transfixed by the body—but it might have been Featherstonehaugh.” He drew breath and exhaled. “I heard his voice as I passed their room on the way to the gallery, and Cecilia’s room is closer to the east wing, where our rooms—mine, the Featherstonehaughs’, and Lady Antonia’s—are.”
“When I arrived”—Antonia’s voice was calm and composed—“most of the men were already there. Mr. Parrish and Mr. McGibbin were just going into the room, and Mr. Boyne followed me in. The women were still arriving, but most stayed in the gallery.
”
The inspector grunted. He read through the notes before him, then glanced sidelong at Sir Humphrey.
Antonia watched the magistrate and the inspector exchange a long glance—some wordless communication—then Sir Humphrey grimaced faintly. He shifted, then clasped his hands on the desk and looked at Sebastian—who was, once again, staring at the flames.
Sir Humphrey cleared his throat, then said, “It’s been suggested—not an accusation, mind, but merely a mention—that, on the face of things, you, Lord Earith, might be seen as the most likely suspect for both murders.”
Antonia watched as a curious—quite menacing—stillness stole over Sebastian’s tall frame. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked at Sir Humphrey.
For long enough for Sir Humphrey’s normally ruddy complexion to pale.
Then Sebastian blinked, slowly, his long lashes momentarily screening his piercingly pale green eyes, and in a tone of voice that reminded any who heard it just who and what he was, he quietly asked, “On what grounds?”
The inspector darted a glance Antonia’s way. “The motive appears somewhat hazy.”
“Indeed?” Sebastian’s diction—clipped, hard, and rigidly even—was the equivalent of a screamed warning to any who knew him. He straightened and took two prowling steps to stand behind the vacant chair facing the desk—the better to fix both Sir Humphrey and the inspector with his intimidating gaze.
Antonia knew perfectly well what motive had been mooted, and knew he knew it, too. But he would put Sir Humphrey and the inspector through a metal-spiked wringer before allowing his long-ago liaison with Cecilia to be mentioned in such a context—and they didn’t have time for such distractions. She fixed her gaze on the inspector and, her own voice even but considerably lighter in tone, asked, “Did the doctor give you an estimate of when—what time—Lady Ennis was killed?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian’s eyes widen fractionally, then he turned his intimidating look on her.
She ignored it and kept her gaze on the inspector.