A Gentleman''s Honor

  Tony was intrigued by her response, with the ardor he sensed beneath her restrained veneer. As he ministered to her senses, learned the curves of her breasts, their weight, their wonder, he cataloged, analyzed, noted for future reference. She was amazingly responsive; her breasts, now sensitive and swollen, filled his hands. She shifted under them, pressing back against him, sirenlike, openly sensuous.

  Despite her reserve, an understandable defense for an attractive well-born widow, she couldn’t hide her reactions; she understood what lay between them as well as he. The flames that leapt into being at just a touch were more than strong—they were scorching. They could both feel them licking, beckoning, hungry yet held back.

  They couldn’t take things much further yet, but their time would come. On the physical plane, the path ahead was straightforward, but there was much about her he’d yet to learn.

  “Your parents.” Releasing her breasts, he nuzzled her ear, gently blew. “When did they die?”

  Eyes still closed, Alicia dragged in a breath—it felt like her first in ten minutes. Then she felt a tug at her neckline; opening her eyes, she looked down—to see his long fingers easing the top button of her bodice free. “Ah… Mama died almost two years ago.”

  Good Lord! She had to stop this—had to call a halt. If he touched her…

  “And your father? From your brothers, I gather he’s been gone a long time.”

  Her mouth was dry; she nodded. “Years and years.” Gaze fixed on his busy fingers, she licked her lips.

  “And you have no other family? No one close?”

  “Ah…no.” She dragged in a breath. “I really think—”

  “You’re not supposed to think.”

  She blinked, lifted her gaze. “Why not?”

  “Because”—his fingers were inexorably descending, leaving her bodice gaping—“at the moment, you’re supposed to be enjoying, simply feeling. You don’t need to think to do that.”

  He sounded eminently reasonable, even faintly amused; the idea of a missish protest and consequent retreat seemed unwise.

  “Have you always lived near Banbury?”

  “Ah…yes.” Once he’d opened her bodice, what did he plan to do?

  He shifted behind her, easing back; the realization that she wasn’t the only one affected by his play burst across her mind, stealing what few wits she’d managed to reassemble.

  “I assume Carrington hailed from that area, too?”

  The words sounded distant, vague, but whether that was due to the drumming in her ears, the titillating panic locking her lungs, or because he was no more interested in the subject than she was, she wasn’t sure.

  A cool wash of air slipped beneath her gaping bodice; she quelled a shiver. His hands drifted down, then fastened about her waist.

  “Ah…y-yes. He came from there, too.”

  “How old are your brothers?”

  She frowned. “Twelve, ten, and eight.” His hands had settled; she gulped in a breath. “Why are you asking all this?”

  His fingers gripped, then he stepped back, turned her and stepped forward once more, locking her against the windowsill, his hips to hers, his erection rigid against the softness of her stomach.

  He trapped her gaze.

  She couldn’t think—not at all. Could only stare into his black eyes, and wonder if there really were embers glowing in them. The sheer maleness of him engulfed her; his gaze dropped to her lips—she felt them throb.

  His lips quirked, wryly humorous. He released her waist; one hand rose to cup her jaw, angling her face upward as he bent his head. “Because I want to know all about you.”

  His lips closed on hers as his other hand slid boldly beneath her bodice, and closed about her breast.

  She gasped, tensed; only a fine layer of silk lay between her sensitized skin and his burning palm. Her breasts instantly felt heavy, swelling, tightening, aching anew.

  Then he entered her mouth, possessive and demanding, capturing her attention, insistent and commanding; she scrambled to meet him, to remember how, to play the experienced widow she was pretending to be. The hand on her breast shifted, knowingly cupping, then his fingers toyed with the silk, shifting it over the tightly ruched peak, heightening its excruciatingly sensitive state—then he closed his fingers around the pebbled tip, tugged gently, then tightened, tightened…

  She tried to break from the kiss, but he wouldn’t let her; his hand framing her face, he held her captive. Once again lavished delight and sheer sensual pleasure on her through the play of his lips and tongue, and the even more expert play of his fingers.

  He captured her totally. Not just with the heat, with the sudden flare of hot desire, but with something simpler, more fundamental.

  His hunger—and hers.

  He didn’t try to hide his want, his wish to have, to know, to take, to explore, to experience; it was there, laid before her, stated more clearly than in words. A hunger of her own rose in reply, not mere curiosity but something more definite—a need she hadn’t known she had.

  He angled his head, ravaged her mouth, and she consciously met him. Flagrantly urged him on. His fingers closed again and she shuddered, no longer trying to disguise her response. Her hands rose, of their own volition found his shoulders, then pushed on, around, back, then she speared her fingers into his black hair.

  The silken touch of the heavy locks didn’t distract, but only added to the tactile experience; her greedy senses, awakened and starved, welcomed and wallowed. His hand shifted on her breast, blatantly possessive; his fingers tightened again—hers clenched in response.

  He moved closer, into her, deepening the kiss—and suddenly they were somewhere else, in some place they hadn’t been before. Somewhere hotter, more fiery, where their needs escalated and their senses grew ravenous. Clamorous.

  Urgent.

  It was he who broke the kiss, lifted his head and hauled them free of the fire. Drew them back to earth, back to themselves, to their bodies locked close in the parlor.

  To their breaths fast and shallow, to their pulses hammering in their veins. Lids lifting, their gazes locked; in his, the flames still smoldered. Her lips throbbed, appeased yet still hungry.

  His gaze fell to them, then lower. To where his hand lay over her breast. He closed that hand, slowly, deliberately. Desire welled and washed down her spine; something inside her clenched tight.

  His eyes lifted to hers. “Not here, not now.” He bent his head and kissed her, slowly, deeply, intimately, then drew back. “But soon.”

  His hand left her aching flesh, yet he didn’t step back. Instead, his gaze returning to her eyes, trapping her, holding her, he deftly rebuttoned her bodice.

  Her head was whirling, but some part of her no longer cared. That part of her that seemed new, different— changed. Or perhaps revealed, called forth. That part of her that thrilled to that decisive “But soon.”

  She might have thought she was mad, but knew she wasn’t. This was a facet of life she’d yet to experience, yet to explore.

  As a widow, she couldn’t pretend not to understand. The look in his eyes convinced her she’d never succeed in denying what she’d felt, in pretending her hunger didn’t exist. He’d seen it, felt it, understood it—almost certainly better than she did.

  There was nothing she could say—that she could think of that was safe to say—so she merely held his gaze and, her pulse still thundering, waited to follow his lead.

  That seemed an acceptable response. When, stepping back, he quizzed her with his eyes, she merely arched a brow, and saw his lips quirk.

  He took her hand, raised it to his lips. “I’ll leave you. I’m afraid I won’t be attending the Waverleys’ ball tonight.” He turned to the door; she walked beside him. “I need to consult with some others about the investigation.”

  He opened the door; she led him into the front hall.

  “The rumors concerning you and Ruskin should be fading.”

  She glanced at him, saw a frown in h
is eyes. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  Her even reply didn’t reassure him. “Lady Amery will be attending, and Lady Osbaldestone, too, should you need any support.”

  Opening the front door, she held it, and looked at him. “I doubt that will be necessary, but I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Pausing by her side, he looked into her eyes. She got the distinct impression he wanted to say something more, something other, but couldn’t find the words.

  Then he reached out, with the pad of his thumb caressed her lower lip.

  It throbbed.

  Swiftly, he bent his head, pressed a kiss, hard and definite, to the spot, then he straightened. “I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

  With a nod, he went down the steps.

  She stood at the door, watching him walk away, then shut it. She paused, waiting until her nerves steadied and untensed, then, lips firming, she headed for the stairs.

  Alicia tapped on the door of Adriana’s bedchamber, then entered.

  Sprawled on her bed, her sketchbook before her, Adriana looked up, then smiled. Impishly. “Has he gone?”

  “Yes.” Alicia frowned as Adriana bounced into a sitting position. “But you shouldn’t have left us alone.”

  “Why ever not?” Adriana grinned. “He was waiting to be alone with you, wasn’t he?”

  Sitting on the end of the bed, Alicia grimaced. “Probably. Nevertheless, it would be wiser if I didn’t spend time alone with him.”

  “Nonsense! You’re a widow—you’re allowed to be alone with gentlemen.” Adriana’s eyes sparkled. “Especially gentlemen like him.”

  “But I’m not a widow—remember?” Alicia frowned.

  “And gentlemen like him are dangerous.”

  Adriana sobered. “Surely not—not him.” She frowned. “Geoffrey told me Tony—Torrington—was totally trustworthy. An absolutely to-his-bones honorable gentleman.”

  Alicia raised her brows. “That may be so, but he thinks I’m a widow. His attitude to me is based on that.”

  “But…”Adriana’s puzzlement grew; curling her legs, she shifted closer, studying Alicia’s face. “Gentlemen do marry widows, you know.”

  “Perhaps.” Alicia caught her eye. “But how many noblemen marry widows? I don’t think that’s at all common. And you know what the books said—unless of the nobility herself, a widow is often viewed by gentlemen of the haut ton as a perfect candidate for the position of mistress.”

  “Yes…but the books were warning of the general run of gentlemen, the bucks, the bloods, the—”

  “Dangerous blades?” Alicia’s lips twisted; reaching out, she squeezed Adriana’s hand. “You’re not, I hope, going to tell me Tony—Torrington—isn’t dangerous.”

  Adriana pulled a face. “No. But—”

  “No buts.” Alicia spoke firmly, then stood. “In my estimation, it would be unwise for me to be alone with Torrington in future.”

  Adriana’s eyes, fixed on her face, narrowed. “Did he kiss you?’

  Her blush gave her away; she met Adriana’s eyes fleetingly. “Yes.”

  “And?” When she said nothing, Adriana prompted,

  “How was it? How did it feel?”

  The word brought back exactly how it had felt; warmth spread beneath her skin, her nipples tightened. One glance confirmed that Adriana was not going to be deterred. “It was… pleasant. But,” she quickly added, “indulging in such pleasantness is far too risky.”

  She could see more questions forming in Adriana’s inquisitive mind. “Now that’s enough about me.” She reverted to her firmest tone. “I intend to avoid Torrington in future. But what about you? You’re the reason we’re here, after all.”

  Adriana gazed up at her. After a moment, she said, “I like Geoffrey. He’s kind, and funny, and…” She drew breath and continued in a rush, “I think he might be the one.”

  That last was said with an almost stricken look. Alicia sat again. “If you only think he might be, perhaps we should cast around a trifle more until you’re certain. There are three weeks yet before the Season begins, so you’ve plenty of time—there’s no reason to feel you must reach a decision quickly.”

  “Indeed.” Adriana frowned. “I wouldn’t want to make a mistake.”

  The sisters sat side by side, both staring into space, then Alicia stirred. “Perhaps”—she glanced at Adriana—“to help in deciding, it might be time to ask Mr. King to dine.”

  Adriana looked at her, then nodded. “Yes.” Her chin firmed. “Perhaps we should.”

  Alicia held her head high, her parasol deployed at precisely the correct angle as the natty barouche she’d hired from the livery stables rolled smoothly onto the gravel of the avenue through the park.

  The morning was fine; a light breeze drifted through the branches of the trees, just coming into bud. She and Adriana sat in elegant comfort; on the box before them and clinging behind, the coachman and footman were attired in severe black with bright red ribbons circling the crowns of their hats. That last was Adriana’s suggestion, a simple touch to add a hint of exclusivity.

  Such things mattered when going about in the ton.

  “I still can’t get over Lady Jersey being so attentive.” Adriana lifted her face to the breeze; her dark curls danced about her heart-shaped face. “She has such a reputation, but I thought she was quite nice.”

  “Indeed.” Alicia had her own ideas over what had prompted Lady Jersey’s kind words, and those of the other senior hostesses who had found a moment during the Waverleys’ ball to stop beside her to admire Adriana and wish them both well. She strongly suspected Lady Amery and her dear friend Lady Osbaldestone had been busy. And she knew at whose behest.

  “Oh! There’s Lady Cowper.” Adriana returned her ladyship’s wave.

  Alicia leaned forward and directed their coachman to pull up alongside her ladyship’s carriage, halted on the verge.

  Emily, Lady Cowper, was sweet-tempered and good-natured; she had from the first approved of Mrs. Carrington and Miss Pevensey. “I’m so glad to see you both out and about. The sun is so fickle these days one daren’t let an opportunity pass.”

  “Indeed.” Alicia touched fingers; Adriana smiled and bowed. “One can only attend a few balls each night, and there’s so many one simply cannot find in the crowds.”

  Lady Cowper’s eyes gleamed. “Especially when so many need to have their notions set straight. But that small contretemps seems to be sinking quite as quickly as any of us might wish.”

  Alicia shared a satisfied, understanding smile with her ladyship. They chatted about upcoming events for five minutes, then took their leave; the carriage rolled on.

  To Lady Huntingdon, then Lady Marchmont, and finally Lady Elphingstone.

  “That color so becomes you, my dear.” Lady Elphingstone examined Alicia’s maroon twill through her lorgnette, then turned that instrument on Adriana’s gown of palest lemon. “I declare you both are forever at the very pinnacle of modishness—always just so, never a step too far. I only wish my niece would take note.”

  Alicia recognized the hint. “Is your niece in town?”

  Lady Elphingstone nodded. “She’ll be at Lady Cranbourne’s rout tonight. I take it you both will be attending?”

  “Indeed.” Adriana smiled warmly; she knew her role well. “I would be pleased to make your niece’s acquaintance, if that might be possible?”

  Lady Elphingstone beamed. “I’ll be sure to make her known to you.”

  Alicia returned her ladyship’s smile. “We’ll look forward to it.” By such little strategems were valuable alliances formed.

  They parted from Lady Elphingstone. Alicia glanced ahead, then instructed the coachman to return to Waverton Street. Adriana cast her a questioning glance. Settling back, she murmured, “I’ve had enough for today.”

  Adriana accepted the decree with easygoing cheerfulness; Alicia shut her lips on her real reason—she didn’t need to burden Adriana with that.

  She had had enough—enoug
h of deceiving others. But she’d accepted the role she had to play; any guilt associated with it was hers alone to bear.

  As the carriage rolled under the trees, along the drive lined with the conveyances of the fashionable, she and Adriana continued to smile, wave, and exchange nods; the number of ladies with whom they were acquainted had grown dramatically over the past days. Or, more correctly, the number of ladies wishing to make their acquaintance had grown, courtesy of Tony—his lordship—and those he’d asked to look kindly upon them.

  The gates of the park loomed; the carriage swept through, and they were free of the necessity of responding to those about them. Alicia couldn’t help but wonder what their reception would be if the ton knew the truth.

  The prospect increasingly impinged on her mind. Tony—Torrington—had allied himself with them; if her secret became known, he would be involved by implication. Guilt by association, something the ton was quick to indulge in.

  That worry dragged at her; only when they turned into Waverton Street and her mind swung to her brothers and her small household did she realize her worry for Torrington was of the same type, that nagging insistent consideration that she felt for her dependents, all those in her care.

  The carriage rocked to a halt. Inwardly frowning, she let the footman hand her down. She wasn’t wrong in assessing how she felt, yet Tony wasn’t a dependent, nor yet in her care. Why, then, was her feeling so strong—so definite? So real.

  After handing Adriana down, the footman bowed, then left. The carriage rumbled off. Adriana started up the steps. Closing her parasol, Alicia followed more slowly.

  Jenkins would be upstairs with the boys; Adriana opened the door and went in, then turned to take Alicia’s parasol. “I’ll put these in the parlor. I thought of a new design—a variation of that French jacket. I want to sketch it before I forget.” With a swish of her skirts, she headed for the parlor.

  Alicia paused in the hall, watching her sister… just for one instant pausing to give thanks, then she heard a footfall on the stairs.

  She looked up—and her heart leapt.