A Gentleman's Honor

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 hadn’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.

He noticed Geoffrey standing by the side of the room, not exactly scowling, yet clearly not happy. A quick glance about the floor located Adriana waltzing in the arms of a somewhat older man.

“The gentleman waltzing with your sister—who is he?”

Alicia had been studying his face; she answered evenly, “Sir Freddie Caudel.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you know him?”

One distraction was as good as another. Resigning himself to yet another night of escalating frustration, he glanced down at her. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Very old family. Why? Is he interested in your sister?”

Alicia nodded. “How interested, I’m not sure, and I doubt his interest, at whatever level, will be reciprocated, nevertheless…”

His lips quirked; he glanced again at Geoffrey. “Another iron in the fire?”

Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Precisely.” One with which she might prod things along.

“I take it the footman met with your approval?”

“Maggs?” Bearing a written introduction, the man had presented himself at the back door in Waverton Street. She met Torrington’s gaze, let a moment pass; Maggs, as he had to be aware, was the most unprepossessing specimen. His features were irregular, his face appeared pushed in, yet he seemed possessed of an easy disposition and had already, in just a few hours, gained acceptance from Cook, Fitchett, and, most importantly, Jenkins. For which she was grateful. “I daresay he’ll suit well enough. As I pointed out, we really have little use for a footman.”

“Nevertheless.” Torrington’s black eyes quizzed her.

“Just so that I can rest easy.”

She suppressed a humph.

The waltz ended. Without instruction, Torrington led her back to her position not far from Adriana’s court. He remained by her side, chatting inconsequentially on this and that, the customary exchanges of tonnish life. Others joined them, remained for a time, then moved on; she tried not to dwell on the fact that she preferred having him near, that his easy, in many ways undemanding presence made her evening distinctly more enjoyable.

More relaxing on one level, more unnerving on another.

It was the minor moments that tripped her up, that set her nerves jangling. That brought what was between them flooding back into her mind, blocking out all else, even Adriana.

Like the moment when having remained by her side, her cavalier through the rest of the evening, Torrington parted from them in the Cranbournes’ front hall. They were among a small crowd of departing guests; to gain her attention, he touched her shoulder.

His fingertips brushed lightly. Despite being decently sheathed in ruby silk, her skin reacted. Goosebumps rose and spread in a wave; her nipples tightened.

Her eyes flew to his, wide, aware; he read them, his lips thinned, and she knew he knew, too.

Then he met her gaze fully. The expression in his eyes nearly slew her; the heat was so open, so intense, it was a wonder it didn’t melt her bones.

His lashes swept down; he grasped her hand and very correctly took his leave of her.

She mumbled some response, then watched his back as he walked away through the crowd; only when he disappeared through the front door did she manage to breathe again. Manage to give her attention to the footman waiting to be told which carriage to summon. Thankfully, Adriana hadn’t noticed; her sister seemed as distracted as she.

The journey back through the night-shrouded streets provided a welcome respite, a quiet moment all but alone when she could gather her wits, review what had happened, all she’d felt, how she’d reacted, without worrying about her betraying blush.

Finally to make some attempt at defining where she stood. And whither she was heading.

The first seemed all too clear; she stood teetering on the horns of a dilemma. As for the second, the possibilities were varied but uniformly unsettling.

Her dilemma was clear enough. She had to play the part of a tonnish widow, an experienced lady aware of, indeed personally acquainted with, all aspects of intimacy. The question now facing her was simple: how far should she go in preserving her charade?

To her perturbation, the answer was not at all simple.

Dedication to their cause argued the answer should be as far as she needed to go to see Adriana through her Season and secure their family’s relief. But that immediately raised another highly pertinent question: how far could she go without Torrington realizing?

He was not just experienced; he was an expert. She’d been scrambling to keep up with him thus far; at some point she would falter, and he’d realize….

The social strictures at least were clear. Regardless of her charade, she wasn’t a widow, but a virtuous spinster—she shouldn’t permit him even the liberties he’d already taken. Unfortunately, her inner voice was quick to argue, to speak in support of those wishes and needs she was only just realizing she possessed; where, that inner voice asked, was the harm?

She’d accepted over a year ago that she’d missed her chance at marriage; she was twenty-four—not unmarriageable by ton standards, yet in reality the likelihood had faded. Once Adriana was established, she, Alicia, would disappear from society; she’d imagined she’d retire to the country to watch over the boys, to keep home for them whether with Adriana and her husband or otherwise.

That plan still stood; nothing had happened to alter her path. Any liaison with Torrington would be, as such things generally were, temporary, fleeting. A liaison with him might, however, be her only chance to experience all she was presently pretending to know.

He was the only gentleman who had ever engaged her on that level; even now, she wasn’t sure how he’d done it, how it had happened. Yet it had; the possibility now existed where it hadn’t before. If she wanted to know more, wanted to experience all that could be between a man and a woman, all she had to do was let Torrington teach her.

The carriage rocked along, heading into Mayfair, pausing here and there as other carriages crowded the streets. She barely noticed the delays, indeed was grateful for the opportunity to let her mind range ahead, examining, imagining.

If she did indulge in a liaison with Torrington…

He would realize she was a virgin, would guess she’d never been married. However, she doubted he would expose her to the ton; there was no reason he should, not once she’d explained.

There was, however, another danger. One her instincts, uneducated though they were, had detected. Just how real that danger was she couldn’t be certain, yet Tony— Torrington—was a nobleman to his toes. Arrogant, yes, with a definite streak of ruthlessness behind his charming facade, and…she searched for the word to describe what she sensed when he looked at her, held her, kissed her, caressed her.

Possessive.

If she gave herself to him, trusted him that far, would he agree to let her go?

She wasn’t foolish enough to overlook the point; if she became his mistress, allowed him to become privy to her secret, he’d be in a position much as Ruskin had been, able to dictate her behavior. She recognized the possibility, viewed it clearly, yet she couldn’t, despite all, see it happening. Adriana had mentioned Geoffrey’s assessment of Torrington; it concurred with her own reading of the man. He was simply not the sort to hold a woman against her will. Regardless of all else, he was an honorable man.

If she did become his mistress, for whatever length of time, he would, in the end, let her go.

All of which left her precisely where she’d started, facing the question of what she should do and no nearer to finding an answer.

The only alternative to making a decision was to stave it off. Somehow to hold him off, to avoid the culmination he was clearly steering them toward. If she could hold to a line just short of surrender, then the instant Adriana was established, disappear…

With a creak, the carriage turned into Waverton Street. Adriana stirred, stretched. Alicia straightened, and gathered her shawl and reticule. The carriage halted; looking out, she saw the light burning above their door.

Thought of her brothers innocently asleep in their beds.

Resist Torrington. The problem with that strategy was that in order to implement it, she’d have to fight not only him, an experienced campaigner, but her own, largely unknown, desires.

She let the footman hand her down, then led the way up the steps. Their reckless but straightforward plan had developed serious complications.

The next morning, Tony headed for the Bastion Club. On foot. He needed the exercise.

Needed the physical activity to ease the building frustration of a type he’d rarely had to endure. Indeed, he couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman so much, and not having her. Worse, in this instance, he recognized the need to go slowly, carefully; his relationship with Alicia was forever, not for a few weeks or a few months. It would be the most important relationship of his life; it demanded and deserved a degree of care, of respect, of attention.

He’d noticed her occasional hesitations, the sudden tensing, almost a skittishness that sometimes gripped her. He’d always succeeded in soothing it, in getting her to set it aside and relax, to trust him. To open her eyes, see and accept all that could be and would be between them.

Although he hadn’t foreseen it, her reserve didn’t surprise him; she might be a widow, but that wouldn’t change the underlying truth of her nature—she was a virtuous lady, and as such would not easily be seduced. And in her case, there was yet more—a complicating factor. She was responsible for her family, and she took that responsibility seriously.

He hadn’t imagined that in gaining his bride, he’d have to compete with her family for her attention. While the fact was a difficulty, and clearly would continue to raise hurdles, he didn’t, as it happened, disapprove.

He enjoyed her family—enjoyed spending time with her brothers, even enjoyed watching Adriana make her choice, especially given Geoffrey was involved. But more, he found the circumstance of her family reassuring.

As an only child, he’d never experienced the relationships Alicia and her siblings took for granted. The warmth, the closeness that was simply there, the support it never occurred to them to question… all that was not only attractive, but spoke strongly of Alicia’s ability to create for him, with him, the sort of home and family he wanted. And needed. How much he hadn’t realized until he’d met her and her brood.

Regardless of his frustration, he wouldn’t have her change, didn’t wish she was otherwise. He valued her for what she was, as she was, and was fully prepared to accommodate that, to woo her as she needed to be wooed.

And pray he didn’t do himself an injury in the meantime.

With a wrench, he hauled his mind away from that moment in the Cranbournes’ front hall. Just thinking of that made him ache. Determinedly, he focused on the meeting he was heading for, with Gervase Tregarth and Jack Warnefleet.

They were waiting in the club’s meeting room, comfortably slouched about the mahogany table. Christian Allardyce was also there; when he raised his brows, Tony waved him to stay. “You’ve already heard part of this affair—the more help the better.”

Christian grinned. “And Dalziel is involved.”

“Indeed.” Tony sat and quickly, concisely, told them all he’d learned of Ruskin, his death, and his dealings with A. C. “This is a list of the ships mentioned in Ruskin’s notes, and the associated dates, and these”—he handed over a second sheet—“are the dates on which Ruskin received large cash donations to his gambling fund.”

Gervase studied the list of ships and dates, then compared them with the dates of the payments. Shifting to sit beside him, Jack perused the lists, too.

Christian, beside Tony, looked across the table at them. “I take it the payments in some way coincide with the shipping dates?”

Checking back and forth, Gervase nodded. “About a week in between, but not for every ship listed.”

Tony sat back. “It appears Ruskin provided the information, it was used or in some way confirmed, and then he received payment.”

“Whoever A. C. is, he ran a tight operation. No payment unless…”Jack stopped, looked up.

Grimly, Tony nodded. “Presumably no payment unless the information was useful.”

“Which,” Christian murmured, “suggests it was used for something.”

“And if it was,” Gervase was still studying the lists, “it wasn’t for anything good.”

“That,” Tony agreed, “is the inescapable conclusion. What we need to determine is exactly how it was used.”

Gervase nodded. “And trace it back to whoever that use benefited.”

“Precisely.” Tony paused, then asked, “Can you help?”

Gervase looked up, grinned. “I was intending to slip home for a few days. I can easily ask around in Plymouth, and along the coast there.” He met Tony’s gaze. “But you’ve more extensive contacts in the Isles and on the French side, and to the southeast on this side, I’d imagine.”

“Yes, but my problem—our problem at present—is that that information”—Tony nodded at the lists in Gervase’s hands—“is all we have. I compiled the list of ships from scattered jottings, more like reminders. Presumably the information Ruskin passed contained more detail.”

“But what detail we don’t know?” Jack asked.

“Exactly. Via the Revenue and Admiralty dispatches that passed through his hands, Ruskin had what amounted to each ship’s sailing orders, at least for their approach to our shores.” Tony looked at Gervase. “If you can find any hint of what was going on—how the information was used—I can put out feelers more widely. But given the nature of my contacts, if I ask general questions, rather than specific ones, I won’t get any answers. Worse, I might alert whoever it is that’s behind this.”

They all understood how the informant system worked; he didn’t need to explain further.

“Can I keep these?” Gervase held up the lists.

Tony nodded. “Those are copies.”

Folding the lists, Gervase slipped them into his pocket.

“I’ll ask around and see if I can find any whisper of any action involving these ships on or about those dates. If I find anything, I’ll bring it back immediately.”

“Once we have a clue what we’re dealing with, I’ll follow up more widely.”

Jack frowned. “Have you thought of inquiring via the shipping lines? If these ships are merchantmen…”

“I’ve a friend who’ll be in town in a day or so—he has a similar background to ours. He’s been out of the service for some years, but knows the game well. He also owns Hendon Shipping, one of the largest of the local lines. He has the contacts and will know how to make such inquiries without raising a dust.”

Jack nodded. “So—what did you want me to pursue?”

“Ruskin himself, and how A. C. knew him. Ruskin lived at Bledington when he was in the country. Not often, admittedly, but it’s an area we shouldn’t overlook. Given you’re the closest of us countywise, your inquisitive presence is least likely to attract attention. Our ultimate aim is to identify A. C. It’s possible he’s someone who lives out that way, and that’s how he knew Ruskin, and most importantly where Ruskin worked.”

“Right.” Jack’s gaze had grown distant. “I’ll check into Ruskin’s background and see if I can turn up anyone with the initials A. C. connected in however vague a fashion with our boy.”

“While you’re up there…” Tony hesitated, then went on, “You might check on a Mrs. Carrington and her family, the Pevenseys. Their connection with Ruskin appears to be via Chipping Norton. It seems Mrs. Carrington and the Pevenseys didn’t know Ruskin, but he knew them.”

“Carrington.” Christian murmured. “That’s a C.”

“Indeed. More confusing, she’s Alicia Carrington, so she is A. C., but she married Carrington about two years ago, so wasn’t A. C. four years ago, when Ruskin first started receiving large sums from A. C. More to the point, her husband, deceased for two years, was Alfred Carrington. Although he can’t be the A. C. involved either, given the way names run in families there may be a connection with Ruskin of which Mrs. Carrington is unaware.”

“Oh, yes.” Jack nodded; for one instant, the dangerous man behind his hail-fellow-well-met cheerily handsome facade showed through. “Second cousin, third cousin, whatever. I’ll check.”

They all exchanged glances, then, as one, pushed back their chairs. They stood, stretched, resettled their coats; as they turned to the door, Christian murmured, “That shipping business sounds decidedly nasty.” He caught Tony’s eye, then glanced at the others. They were all thinking the same thing—that someone had been using the war for their own ends.

“We definitely need to learn what the information was used for, and how,” Gervase said.

“And, most importantly”—Tony followed Christian from the room—“by whom.” That, indeed, was their primary interest.

Tony returned to Upper Brook Street and spent the next few hours attending to numerous matters of business. Under his father’s hand, the Blake estates had grown considerably; he was determined that during his tenure, the family’s fortunes would continue to expand.

The activity naturally brought to mind the family—the people—that fortune was intended to support. When the clock struck two, he set aside his papers and strolled around to Green Park.

David, Harry, and Matthew were delighted to see him. Alicia was rather more circumspect; she greeted him with a polite smile and suspicious eyes. The wind was brisk, perfect for kites; together with the boys, he spent a thoroughly satisfactory hour making theirs soar higher than anyone else’s.

“It’ll get trapped in the trees,” Alicia grimly prophesied.

“Nonsense.” Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. Fought down the urge to see how she would respond if he kissed her there, in the middle of the park with all the nursemaids and Maggs looking on. He forced himself to turn and look at the boys. All three were hanging on to the kite strings, shrieking and whooping as the kite, courtesy of his maneuvering now high above the treetops, swooped and tugged in the wind. “I assure you I manage the reins better than that.”

An instant’s pause ensued, then she replied, “You might. They won’t.”

She was right, but before the kite could come to grief in the leafless branches, he stepped in and took control again, and gradually brought the flapping creation with its long tail safely back to earth.

The boys were ecstatic, their eyes shining, cheeks rosy, glowing with happiness. Walking to join the group, Alicia studied the man about whom her brothers danced; no matter her suspicions, she could not doubt that he, too, had enjoyed the play. His black eyes gleamed as he shared the moment with her brothers; his lips were curved, the normally austere lines of his face relaxed.

As usual, he was dressed with consummate elegance in a perfectly cut dark blue coat over a white shirt, his long legs encased in tight buckskin breeches that disappeared into glossy black Hessians. The wind ruffled the black locks of his hair as he helped her brothers gather the long tail of the kite.

He was sophisticated, worldly, a gentleman of the ton, yet at moments like this she could almost believe she could see the boy he must have been, the boyishly open soul still lurking behind his adult glamor.

When she stopped beside the group, he looked up and grinned, still very much the boy. She smiled spontaneously in return. “Tea?”

The boys instantly raised a chorus of entreaty, but he didn’t take his gaze from her; his grin eased into a smile of quite devastating charm. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

With the boys about them and Maggs following with the kite in his arms, they headed back to Waverton Street.

Teatime was the usual relaxed and comfortable interlude. Maggs brought in the tray. The boys peppered Tony with questions on their latest interest—horses, curricles, and phaetons, and racing the same, while devouring their usual quota of crumpets and jam.

Alicia exchanged a smiling glance with Adriana and sat back, content to let Tony—Torrington!—manage as he would; although his knowledge of such male subjects was patently wide, she now trusted him to know what was appropriate to tell her brothers, and what was not.

It wasn’t them he was intent on seducing; he was more than wise enough to know he’d have more chance with her—

She broke off that thought and looked at Adriana. Busy as usual with sketches of gowns, hats, and accessories, her sister seemed quieter than usual. She seemed to be thinking, mulling—over what Alicia could easily guess.

She leaned closer; under cover of a rowdy conversation about swan-necked phaetons and their propensity to overturn, she murmured, “Mr. King sent a reply. He’ll gather his information and dine with us the day after tomorrow.”

Adriana looked up, held her gaze for a moment, then, lips firming, nodded. “Good.” After a moment, she added, “If there’s any difficulty…I need to know now.”

Alicia patted her hand, then drew back.

Although courtesy of her brothers’ eager opinions Tony hadn’t heard what was said, he noted the sisters’ exchange and made a mental note to ascertain just how serious Geoffrey was. The last thing he wanted was for Alicia to become anxious over her sister’s budding romance. He wanted her attention, as much of it as he could get, for himself.

Maggs reappeared to remove the tea tray, bending a glance on Tony that he read with ease: nothing to report. At Alicia’s command, the boys stood and took their leave, resigned to returning to their lessons. As they trooped to the door, Tony looked at Adriana.

She met his gaze, then fleetingly, conspiratorially smiled. Gathering her papers and sketchbook, she stood; directing an airy, “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” to Alicia, she followed her brothers out of the door, shutting it behind her.

The instant the door closed, Tony rose and sank onto the chaise where Adriana had been. Alongside Alicia.

She directed a wide-eyed look his way. “Ah—have you learned anything more about Ruskin, about what he was up to?”

Habit prompted him to answer with a simple “No,” and then distract her from the subject, but his decision not to conceal such matters from her weighed against such a tack. “Nothing specific—as I said, I’ve various inquiries under way.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out the originals of the lists he’d made of ships’ names, dates, and Ruskin’s payments. “This”—stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he settled back. Straightening the lists, he held them up before him—“are all we have to work with at present.”

She hesitated, but had to lean closer to look.

Her shoulder brushing his arm, Alicia read the entries; she was determined to keep their conversation focused on the safe and highly pertinent subject of his investigation. Relatively safe; clearly, he was not above using every opportunity that came his way to ruffle her senses, even this. His writing was neat, precise, but quite small; she had to press closer still to make out the dates—her senses flared with awareness, of him, of his strength, of the promise of sensual delight her wanton wits now associated with him.

She waved at the lists. “These dates. They seem to be related in some way—not exactly, but…”

He nodded. “We think—”

Without further prompting, he explained what the lists were, what he believed they meant. To her surprise, he even told her what his assumptions regarding the lists’ significance were, what he hoped to learn from the shipping companies, the ports, and the mariners, and how that might indicate further avenues to explore …it was intriguing.

She found herself enthused with a zeal to in some way assist in working out the puzzle of what Ruskin’s information was used for, and why. She’d intended to do something—pushing the investigation to a rapid conclusion would remove the most compelling excuse Torrington had to call on her, to be close to her.

About to ask how she could help, she stopped; why ask? Reaching for the lists, she drew them from his fingers. “May I make copies of these?”

His brows rose, but he nodded. “If you like.”

Tony watched as she stood and crossed to the escritoire standing against the wall between the windows. She sat, drew out a sheet of paper, then settled to copy his lists. A slanting beam of sunlight struck coppery red glints from her dark hair. In the evenings, she wore it coiled high; during the day, the heavy loops were neatly constrained at her nape, the dark silk lustrous against her pale skin.

A fleeting notion of releasing that restrained abundance, of spreading it in a sheening mahogany veil over her bare shoulders, a distracting screen about her charms, filled him. Caught him. Momentarily held him.

She glanced at him, alerted, suspicious, but not knowing why.

He frowned, surreptitiously shifted. “What do you intend to do with those?”

Laying aside her pen, she blotted the lists, then rose and turned to him. “I don’t know. If I have them, then when I think of something…” She shrugged. His originals in her hand, she walked back to the chaise.

His frown wasn’t feigned. “If you do think of anything, or learn anything, promise me you’ll tell me immediately.”

Alicia halted before him, met his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “I promise.” What else was she to do with anything she learned?

She held out the lists. For one moment, his gaze didn’t leave her face, then it slowly lowered, eventually fastening on the sheets in her hand.

He reached out—reached farther than the sheets and grasped her wrist. Long fingers locking, he tugged.

Before she could catch her breath, she was on his lap, in his arms. In a flurry of skirt and petticoats, she tried to right herself, tried to push back.

She heard a deep chuckle, felt it reverberate through her palms, braced on his chest. “We have a few moments…” His tone was pure temptation.

Resist, resist, resist.

She drew breath, looked up. And his lips came down on hers.

He captured them, captured her mouth, bewitched her senses. She was kissing him back, flagrantly participating in the exchange before her wits caught up with her actions. He shifted; she felt him pluck his lists from her nerveless fingers, fold them, and tuck them into his pocket.

Then his arms rose and closed about her, his head angled, and he parted her lips wider, his tongue evocatively thrusting deep, then settling to a typical, devastatingly intimate game. Of exploration, of enticement.

Soon her mind was whirling, senses locked with his as together they fed their mutual hunger, created and assuaged a mutual desire. Fingers tangled in his hair, she clung, savored, appeased, and demanded.

How long they indulged in the heated sensations she had no idea, but her wits returned with a jolt when she felt his hands between them, opening the buttons down the front of her walking dress.

It took a huge effort but she broke from the kiss; he was distracted, so let her go. On a gasp, she looked down, then glanced wildly around. “Ah…”

“Don’t worry.” From under his heavy lids, his black eyes caught hers. He searched, read, then his lips twisted wryly. “Your brothers are safe upstairs, so is your sister. Jenkins is with your brothers, and the rest are in the kitchens. No one is going to come through the door, not in the next half hour.”

Half hour? What might he do in half an hour?

“That’s—” She had to stop and moisten her lips, had to whip her wits into order. She was supposed to resist, or at least… she looked down, saw his fingers dark against the skin he was swiftly uncovering, couldn’t quite suppress a tense, expectant shiver. “This is… really too… that is…”

Good Lord! Her words died along with her wits when he slipped a hand between the gaping halves of her bodice, with a flick of his fingers dispensed with her chemise, and boldly set his hand to her skin.

The touch was a sensual shock, not muted in the least by the fact she’d expected it, knew what his hand felt like there, cupping her breast, taking its weight, fingers gently kneading, then artfully teasing the already tightly ruched peak. Her lids drifted down, eyes closing as the sensations swept her—then she remembered and jerked her eyes open. Half-open. Enough to look into his face.

He was watching her. “Stop fighting it—just enjoy.”

His hand moved on her, her wits started to slide…

“No! That is…” She drew a determined breath, only to discover she couldn’t; her lungs had locked. Her nerves had tensed, not in rejection but in pleasured delight. The urge to press her breast into his warm hand was compelling, almost overwhelming. She held it at bay.

Fingers sinking into his shoulders, lids closing, she managed to shake her head. “I—you… this. We can’t—”

She broke off with a sound very close to a moan.

His hand shifted, fingers closing more definitely about the aching peak he’d so effectively tortured, with expert ministrations soothed the pain, but that somehow only escalated the ache.

“I told you not to worry.”

His words, deep and gravelly, reached through the fog of her whirling senses. “If you need to go slowly, we will. We have no need to rush.”

On the words, his hand left her, fingers trailing upward, then she felt him ease her gown over the peak of her left shoulder. Baring her breast. His hand returned to its seductive play; she knew he was watching as he caressed her swollen flesh. As he knowingly tightened every nerve she possessed.

“We can take the long road.” His voice had deepened, darkened, weaving a sorcerous spell. “And spend as much time as we wish enjoying every sight, every experience along the way.”

Her breasts ached; her whole body seemed to throb.

He leaned nearer; his lips brushed hers. “Is that what you want?”

She nodded. “Yes.” The word was a whisper between their lips.

“So be it,” he whispered back. Then sealed the pact with a kiss.

A kiss that ripped her wits away and sent them spinning. That sent heat and flame pouring through her, down every nerve, down every vein. His hand left her and he gathered her closer; holding her in one arm, he sent his hand exploring again.

Caressing her through her clothes. Not just her breasts, but everywhere. His hand traced her shoulders, her back, her spine, delineated the muscles on either side, then spanned the back of her waist. His palm, hot and hard, passed over her hip, then boldly caressed her bottom. He traced the globes, over and around, all the while holding her to their kiss, to the slow, steady dizzying rhythm of thrust and retreat he’d established.

Her senses spun as he cupped the back of her thigh, then moved down, found her knee, then swept upward. Inward.

She gasped, would have stiffened in his arms, but he didn’t allow it. His other hand shifted, gripping her bottom, holding her still. Then his questing hand splayed over her stomach; he pressed, kneaded, then held her tight, not just in his arms but sensually, too, as he reached lower, traced the tops of her thighs, then stroked, through the fine fabric of her walking dress gently probed the hollow between, caressed the soft curls beneath chemise and gown.

Teased her to life.

Until every nerve in her body was tingling, until heat pulsed just beneath her skin.

Eventually, gradually, he drew back. Eased her back.

Eventually he lifted his head, looked into her face, then brushed her lips once more with his. “If you want it slow, we’ll go slowly. Very, very slowly.”

From beneath her heavy lids, she caught the fire in his eyes.

The reassurance was what she’d wanted.

She wasn’t sure she’d survive.