A Gentleman's Honor

TWELVE

AFTER THAT COMMENT… ALICIA SPENT THE ENTIRE journey home in a fever of speculation. The waltz had left her nerves, her senses, primed and flickering; rocking over the cobbles in the dark with Tony beside her, his hard thigh riding alongside hers, did nothing to calm them.

Last night—or had it been this morning? Whichever, there was no doubt in her mind that there were no further halts along their road. Yet she hadn’t until now seriously considered, hadn’t asked herself the fateful question.

If it came to that, would she?

If the moment arose and she had the chance, would she take it? Or try to the last to avoid it?

A small voice whispered…how did one avoid the inevitable?

By the time they reached Waverton Street, and he handed her down, she felt as tense as a bowstring. Adriana followed her up the steps. Tony brought up the rear. Maggs opened the door and held it wide; Alicia stepped back and let Adriana precede her. Tony, she noticed, cast comprehensive glances up and down the street as he climbed to the door.

She entered; he followed.

Adriana, no doubt thinking thoughts of Geoffrey Manningham, drifted upstairs without so much as a good night. Uncertain if she should be grateful or irritated, Alicia nodded to Maggs. “Thank you. You may retire. I’ll see his lordship out.”

Maggs bowed and lumbered away.

She watched the green baize door swing shut behind him.

Leaving her alone with the man who would be her lover.

Slowly, she turned… and found herself alone.

Tony had gone. The drawing-room door stood open.

Frowning, she went to the threshold; a dark shadow in the unlighted room, he was standing before the long windows. Puzzled, she went in. “What are you doing?”

“Checking these locks.”

The windows gave onto the narrow area separating the house from the street. “Jenkins checks the locks every night, and I suspect Maggs does, too.”

“Very likely.”

Halting in the middle of the floor, she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Do you approve?”

“No.” Tony turned from the windows, through the dimness studied her. “But they’ll do.” For now.

Until he could think of some way to improve the defenses he felt compelled to erect about her. He needed to know she was safe. He wanted her his. In the circumstances, satisfaction would—indeed needed to—come in that order.

The reality had come crashing down on him as he’d sat beside her in the carriage and sensed the flickering and skittering of her nerves, her growing agitation. After all she’d been through in the last two days, what woman wouldn’t be on edge?

This was not the time to press his suit, regardless of the strength of their passions. Aside from all else, he hadn’t forgotten her earlier mistake over him expecting her to be grateful. Hadn’t forgotten Ruskin’s diabolical scheme—“gratitude” demanded as payment for protection.

Now he was her protector, in more ways, more arenas, more effectively established than Ruskin had ever stood to be.

No. He wanted her safe, wanted her to know she was safe, and had no need to thank him further. No need to come to him out of gratitude.

He didn’t want her in that way, didn’t want her to come to him with any complicating emotions between them. He wanted much more from her.

When she came to him, it had to be because she wanted to, because she wanted him as he wanted her.

That simple—that powerful.

To gain all he wanted, to achieve all his goals, that point was critical. He didn’t question why that was so, but knew absolutely that it was.

She was watching him, puzzled, increasingly tense.

He crossed the room to her. She watched him approach, but didn’t move. Either toward him, or away.

Halting in front of her, through the shadows he looked down on her upturned face. Slowly raising both hands, he feathered his fingers along her delicate jaw, then cupped her face, framed it as he tipped it up, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.

She opened to him readily; she kissed him back, not urging him on, yet not denying their mutual hunger. Her hands rose, her soft palms lightly clasping the backs of his, a subtle, accepting, very feminine caress.

For long moments, they stood in the cool dark, their bodies inches apart and, mouths melding, giving and taking, drank each other in.

The distant chiming of a clock broke the silence, reminding him of time passing. Reluctantly, he drew back; equally reluctantly, or so it seemed, she let him.

Lifting his head, he looked into her face, into the soft pools of her eyes. He couldn’t read their expression, but he didn’t need visual cues to know that she was as aware as he, as achingly, tormentingly conscious of the sensual whirlpool that was swirling about them, of the sheer strength of the attraction that had grown into so much more between them.

He lowered his hands, had to clear his throat to find his voice. “I’ll leave you then.” Despite his determination, there was the tiniest hint of a question in the words.

She drew a deep breath, breasts rising, and nodded. “Yes. And… thank you for all you’ve done.”

No words could have better convinced him he should go. He turned to the door. She followed. He stood back to let her step over the threshold; as she did, a heavy knock fell on the front door.

They both froze, then he reached forward and moved her to the side. “Let me see who it is.”

She made no demur but stood quietly where he’d set her while he crossed the hall and opened the door.

One of his footmen looked up at him. The man smiled in relief. “My lord.” He bowed and offered a letter. “This came from the Bastion Club with instructions it be delivered to your hand as soon as possible.”

Tony took the missive. “Thank you, Cox.” A quick glance at the seal informed him it was from Jack Warnefleet. “Good work. I’ll take care of this. You may go.”

Cox bowed and retreated. His footsteps faded along the street as Tony shut the door.

“What is it? News?” Alicia came to his side.

“Very likely.” Breaking the seal, Tony spread the single sheet. Took in the single sentence with a glance.

“What? Who is it from?”

“Jack Warnefleet. He’s been digging into Ruskin’s county connections.” Folding the note, Tony slipped it into his pocket. “He’s returned with some news he thinks I should hear immediately.”

Jack had written that he’d uncovered something significant and suggested Tony meet him at the Bastion Club “pdq.” Pretty damn quick. Between such as they, that meant with all speed—urgent.

The possibility that they’d finally got some handle on A. C. sent anticipation, a keen sense of the hunt, rising through him. “He’s at the club—I’ll go there now.”

He glanced at Alicia. His welling excitement had communicated itself to her; eyes wide, she reached for the doorknob. “You will tell me if you learn anything major, won’t you? Like who A. C. is?”

Already speculating on what avenues the new information might open up, he nodded as she opened the door. “Yes, of course.”

The words were vague, the nod absentminded; Alicia stifled an oath. She caught his arm and tugged until he looked at her, actually focused on her. “Promise me you’ll come and tell me the instant you learn anything significant.”

She held his gaze, prepared to be belligerent if he turned evasive.

Instead, he looked into her eyes, then smiled. “I promise.”

He ducked his head, kissed her swiftly, then slipped out of the door she was holding half-open. “Lock it— shoot the bolts. Now.”

Grimacing at him, she shut the door, dutifully reached up, and shot the bolt above her head, then bent and slid home the other near the floor. Straightening, she listened. An instant later, she heard his footsteps descending the steps, then he strode away down the street.

Half an hour later, in the shrouded darkness of her bed, she sat up, pummeled her pillow, then flung herself down on it again.

She hadn’t wanted to take the final step.

She reminded herself of that fact in inwardly strident tones—to no avail. They didn’t impinge on her restless moodiness in the slightest, didn’t alleviate the deflated feeling dragging at her—as if she’d been on the brink of receiving some wonderful gift, but it had been delayed at the last moment.

The feeling was nonsensical. Illogical. But very real.

She’d spent the entire evening on tenterhooks, increasingly sharp ones, worrying over what would unfold between them next, worrying that she knew all too well, that Tony would press ahead, engineer the moment, and…

That she felt so ungrateful for his forebearance was damning indeed.

He’d clearly decided to hold back; she should grasp the time he’d granted her to concentrate on those things that were most important—Adriana and their plan and the boys. Closing her eyes, settling her head on the down-filled pillow, she willed herself to keep her mind on such matters, on the things that had always dominated her life.

Determinedly, she relaxed.

Within seconds her mind had roamed, to a pair of hot black eyes, to the feel of his lips, firm and pliant on hers, to the sensations of his hands stroking, caressing, to the intimate probing of his tongue…

Sleep crept into her mind and swept her into her dreams.

She woke sometime later to a preemptory knock on her bedchamber door. She couldn’t imagine… she stared through the shadows at the door.

It opened. Tony walked—stalked—in. He scanned the room and located her in the bed; even through the dark his gaze pinned her. Then he turned and quietly closed the door.

She struggled up onto her elbows, struggled to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and make her mind work. What? Why? Had something serious occurred?

Tony’s calmly deliberate movements made that last seem unlikely. He’d crossed the room. Without meeting her eyes, he turned and sat on the end of her bed. It bowed beneath his weight.

She stared at his back, then wriggled and sat up, hugging the coverlet to her breasts. She’d caught only a glimpse of his face, but her eyes were adjusted to the darkness; it had seemed somewhat harder than usual, the harsh features sharply delineated, the angular planes set like granite.

He didn’t turn around, but bent forward.

She frowned. “What’s going on?”

Her whisper floated out through the room.

He didn’t immediately answer; instead, she heard a thud.

Realized with a sudden clenching of nerves that he’d pulled off one shoe.

He shifted and reached for the other. “You made me promise to come and tell you the instant I learned anything significant.”

Those had been her exact words. She shifted, wondering…“Yes? So what—” A sudden thought took precedence over everything else. She stared at the back of his head. “How did you get in?”

His second shoe hit the floor. “I slipped the lock on the drawing-room window. But you needn’t worry.” He stood and faced the bed. “I locked it again.”

That wasn’t what was worrying her.

Eyes widening, mouth drying, she watched as he shrugged out of his coat, glanced around, then flung it over her dressing table stool. Then his fingers rose to his cravat, smoothly tugging the ends free.

“Ah…” Good heavens! She had to…had to…she swallowed. “Did you learn something from your friend?”

She had to distract him.

“From Jack?” His tone was flat, his accents clipped. “Yes. As it happened, I learned quite a lot.”

He had the cravat undone; dragging it free, he flung it on his coat, then his fingers went to the buttons of his shirt.

It was getting harder and harder to think, to swallow, even to breathe. Had the moment really come? Just like that, without warning?

Panic inched higher and higher.

She clutched the edge of the coverlet. “So…what did you learn?” She tried to recall what had passed between them earlier—had she inadvertently issued some sexual invitation?

“Jack investigated Ruskin’s background. In Bledington.” Tony followed the line of buttons down, then glanced at her, yanked the tails from his waistband and stripped off the shirt. His eyes had adjusted; he could see how wide hers were. Wondered, cynically, intently, just how far she’d go before she broke.

He tossed the shirt aside, set his hands to his waistband, his fingers on the buttons of the flap. “Ruskin’s estate amounts to little more than a few fields—he inherited his liking for gambling from his father. The income he enjoyed could not in any way derive from his ancestral acres.” He slipped the buttons free. “If anything, the upkeep of the house in which his mother and sister live was a drain on his purse.”

She didn’t shift, made absolutely no sound as he removed his trousers and sent them to join the rest of his clothes. His determination hardened; it was an effort to keep his emotions—the mix of incredulity, anger, and hurt, and so much more he didn’t want to examine—from his face.

Clothed only in shadows, he turned to the bed. Silent-footed, he prowled down its side; it was a large, canopied affair. He was aroused but, apparently stunned, she was following his face; she’d yet to look down.

She moistened her already parted lips. “Ah…so… what does that…” She made a valiant and quite visible attempt to focus her mind. “I mean, why is that important?”

“It’s not.” He heard the harshness in his tone. Watching her closely, primed to smother a shriek, he reached for the covers. “But there were other facts Jack discovered that were far more startling.”

Her knuckles turned white as he grasped the covers, but when, jaw setting, he lifted them, her grip eased; the silky quilt slid through her fingers as he raised the sheets.

“Oh. I see…”

She was looking straight at him, but he would have sworn she wasn’t seeing him. Her tone seemed distant, as if she was thinking of other things.

His temper, held in tight check until then, flared. He slid onto the bed, dropped the covers, and turned to her.

His plan—what plan he had—was to force her into admitting the truth, the truth Jack had uncovered. The truth she’d so artfully kept from him, her protector and would-be husband. He’d intended to shock her, to use that truth itself to chastise her, to embarrass her into admitting all; he’d imagined she’d succumb to virginal fluster long before now.

Still convinced she would, that at any second she’d panic, call a halt, and admit all, he reached for her. Closing his hands about her slender shoulders, feeling the fine silk of her nightgown slide over the soft skin beneath, he drew her to him.

Slowly, steadily, totally deliberately.

He looked into her face.

No hint of fear, of panic—of anything remotely resembling the frantic, embarrassed fluster he expected— showed in her features.

Quite the opposite. She was finally looking at him, studying his eyes, his face; her expression seemed almost serene, almost glowing.

Her eyes searched; her hands slid up to frame his face, then slid farther, her arms twining about his neck.

Abruptly losing patience, he pulled her to him.

Fully against him, body to body with only a fine layer of silk between.

He hadn’t counted on the shock affecting him.

For one instant, the world about them rocked, quaked, then settled not quite as it had been before. His lungs seized; every muscle tensed; every nerve came alive.

Impulses—powerful, primitive, and sure—rose and rushed through him; his head spun.

He heard her breath catch. He looked into her eyes. Saw something like wonder in her expression.

Their gazes touched, held.

For three long heartbeats, time stood still.

Between them, heat welled. Flames ignited, greedily grew.

Her gaze dropped to his lips.

Beyond his control, his dropped to hers.

Who made the first move he didn’t know. She lifted her head as he bent his. Their lips met.

And the fires leapt, then raged.

She pressed against him and he was lost. She opened her mouth to him, and he drowned in her bounty.

He sank against her, into her. In no way passive, she met him, her body firm and supple against his, her hands in his hair, her tongue dueling with his, inciting, inviting.

Wanting.

His control was gone before he even saw the threat. Vaporized by a need the like of which he’d never known. She was with him in want, in desire, in passion; her flagrant encouragement left no room for doubt.

Instinct claimed him, primal and unfettered. Unchained after being so long denied. He had to have her, all of her, had to have her beneath him, claimed and incontrovertibly his. It wasn’t lust that drove him, but something deeper, more powerful, something that dwelled in his heart and his soul and paid scant attention to the dictates of his brain.

Within a minute, the kiss turned ravenous; his hands hardened, fingers kneading possessively.

Alicia sensed the change in him and exulted. Her own needs unleashed for the first time in her life, she wanted all he did, wanted to experience all he and she together could be.

She’d made her decision. Or had had it made for her; she wasn’t sure, but either way she felt certain, confident beyond doubt, that this was meant to be.

The moment he’d turned to her, naked, aroused, yet somehow to her senses still unthreatening, she’d known. To her eyes, he was beautiful, incomparably male yet totally safe; never would she find another man she could trust as she trusted him—never with another would she feel the same certainty that she could go forward without fear, that she could surrender to him yet not lose herself.

That his victory would also be hers. That in his arms she would always be safe. Protected. Cared for.

Worshipped.

Despite the urgency that coursed through him, that hardened his body and shredded the veil of elegance that usually disguised his strength, that last was still apparent. His every touch was blatantly sexual, not rough but driven, forceful, demanding, even predatory, yet still each caress had only one aim, to awaken her senses and heighten their delight.

Pleasure was his currency, first and last.

She accepted it, and made it hers.

She sent her hands roaming, fingers flexing over his bare shoulders, glorying in the sculpted strength tensing beneath her fingertips, in the heavy resilence of his flesh, so unlike her own. He had her locked to him, lips devouring as his hands evocatively kneaded her bottom, his erection a hot heavy ridge impressed against her belly. She couldn’t push back enough to press her hands between them; denied the chance of exploring his chest, she ran one hand down his back, reaching boldly for his waist, his hip, the subtle flare of his buttock. That was all she could reach, yet she sensed his pleasure in her touch; his lips clung to hers, distracted, then his attention returned to her in full measure, hotter, harder, more urgent.

Encouraged, determined, she pushed back, and he let her, shifting over her so his weight pinned her to the bed. His legs tangling with hers, he released her bottom; his hands rose to her breasts.

Their kiss continued unabated, mouths melding in a feast of mutual need, their hunger steadily growing, the heat between them swelling, escalating, this time out of control. Neither sought to rein it in; neither even considered it. By mutual accord, they let it rage, and rage it did.

He’d touched all of her before, had had her naked beneath his hands before, yet this was different. Her senses splintered, avidly trying to take in every new sensation. From the crisp, crinkly rasp of his hair-dusted legs against the fine skin of hers, to the unexpected weight of him above her, to the promise in the hard hot length now pressed to her hip, all was new, fascinating and enthralling.

As was the compulsion within her, building and swelling with every beat of her heart, with every knowing sweep of his hard hands. Without pause, he pushed her on and she went gladly, matching him, meeting him, even, when she sensed him struggling to regain control, goading him.

Her hands had been resting on his shoulders; she swept them down, pressing her palms to his hot flesh, fingers searching, exploring, as wantonly sensual as he in learning him, in tracing the muscle bands, letting her fingers tangle in the mat of hair across them, finding a flat nipple beneath the pelt and tweaking it to a tight bud.

His hips shifted against her. Emboldened, she sent her hands lower, caressing the taut, ribbed muscles of his abdomen, then reaching lower yet.

Until she found him, hot, heavy, velvet over steel.

He’d taken his weight on his arms, allowing her her way. She took full advantage and traced, caressed, then took him between her palms almost reverently, amazed, enthralled by the feel of him, the weight, the length and thickness, the baby-fine skin so obviously shatteringly sensitive. She could feel his reaction to her every touch, feel the flickering of his locked muscles, the heat that flowed through their kiss, welling and swelling with every sweep of her fingertips, every gentle squeeze.

Abruptly he broke from the kiss, and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. The sudden change in position momentarily distracted her; while she was reassessing, her attention deflected by the feel of his body now beneath hers, he reached down.

He caught her nightgown, gathered the skirts until he held them bunched at her thighs.

What he intended burst into her mind. She looked down, met his black eyes.

And suddenly they were themselves again, sane, rational—yet no longer who they had been. They’d moved on, traveled the very last stage of their road, and arrived at their destination.

It was different from what she’d imagined.

He said nothing, simply waited, his need in his eyes, in his body taut and tense beneath her.

Within her, she felt her own need swell, recognized it as similar yet subtly different from his. Knew in her soul that their needs were complementary—they would be assuaged by the one act, sated and fulfilled in the same moment.

Their gazes remained locked, their lips mere inches apart, their breaths, panting and ragged, softly filling the silence between them.

She found it was impossible to smile. Instead, she shifted; fingers tangling in the silk, she twitched it. Upward.

He didn’t wait for more, but drew the gown up, past her hips, past her waist, tugging it up over her breasts, waiting while she disentangled her arms before dragging it free and flinging it away.

And she was naked in his arms.

He reached for her; giving her no time to think, to dwell on the intimacy, the vulnerability, he drew her lips down, took them, took her mouth, and dragged her back into the flames, into the furnace of their mutual need.

His hands were everywhere, claiming anew, drowning her in glorious sensation.

The flames roared; heat engulfed them.

She was suddenly sure her skin was on fire; as for him, he burned. His hands felt like brands, spreading liquid flame as he caressed, boldly possessed. Then he rolled again and pinned her beneath him.

He spread her thighs and settled between; braced on one arm, he hovered above her, his lips feeding from hers, his hips holding her down as with his other hand he reached between them, and found her.

She was swollen, wet and wanting, all but aching with the need to feel him within her. She knew it, didn’t try to deny it, hide from it.

His fingers briefly played, then penetrated her. Once, twice, delved deep, then withdrew.

He shifted, his hips pressing between hers, then she felt the broad head of his erection part her swollen flesh, sliding easily between the folds to press in.

He stopped. Bracing both arms he lifted above her, simultaneously breaking their kiss.

With an effort, she managed to lift her lids; panting, barely sentient, she raised her eyes to his.

He trapped her gaze. Held it.

Desire wrapped them in a cocoon of flames; her body felt molten, yet achingly empty. The need to have him fill that emptiness thrummed, a steady, compulsive beat in her blood. Eyes locked with his, her every sense was focused on where they would join, on the soft swollen flesh between her thighs, on the hard heavy rod of his erection.

He pressed in. He kept his eyes on hers, holding her with him as slowly, steadily, he thrust in, and filled her. Not in a rush, but inch by slow inch. She felt her body give, stretch, felt every inch of his thickness as he pressed deeper, as her body struggled to adjust to the invasion.

The difficult moment came, as she’d known it would. She tried to cling to calm, tried to find some ease by breathing yet more rapidly, but the pressure and the pain steadily built, built… she would have shut her eyes, turned her head away, but his black gaze held her trapped.

Held her through it all, steady as a rock, a primitive promise beckoning as fraction by fraction he pressed her farther…

Her body tensed, arching under his, and still he held her with his eyes. And sank deeper.

The pressure gave.

In one sharp flash of pain it was gone, leaving her gasping, breasts rising and falling, yet still locked in his black gaze.

She sensed rather than saw his satisfaction. He halted, held still for some moments as she struggled to recover, to assimilate the change; he watched her, waiting. He seemed to know the exact moment the burning sensation faded, and the vise about her lungs eased and fear left her; he resumed his invasion, still slow, yet more assured.

Tony watched her, held her eyes, drank in every nuance of her response as he claimed her, filled her, and made her his. He’d surrendered to instinct long ago, in that first heated moment when his need had broadsided him. Subsequently, no thought had been required. He knew what he wanted, what he needed. Ruthlessly he took it—and her.

And part of that taking was this, this slow, excruciatingly complete first invasion. A branding, a declaration, an acceptance.

A sharing.

He’d needed to know, to be with her, to appreciate what she felt, know how she reacted. He’d always noted the responses of the women he bedded, yet this time he was not simply cataloging, gauging a reaction in order to capitalize on it. This time, he was immersed in the moment, experiencing both her pain and that glorious rush of release, of sexual interlocking, with her.

Experiencing, through it all, a deeper sense of connection, a deeper meaning beneath the sensations, beneath the physical pleasure.

He continued to press in; her body continued to give, to enclose him, until finally he was fully seated within her. Still holding her gaze, he withdrew halfway, then pressed in again, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Seeing none, feeling her body ease beneath him, her scalding sheath clasping tightly about him, he bent his head.

She raised hers, offered her lips.

He took them, claimed them. Without further direction, let his body do as it wished, as it had to do, and claim her.

The tiny fragment of his mind that remained lucid fully expected a fast and furious engagement. Instead, he rode her slowly; even now, even freed from all restraint, his body remained attuned to hers, gauging without conscious direction, responding to each quickening clasp of her sheath, to each restless shifting of her thighs, ultimately to the tentative rocking of her hips as she learned to match him and meet him.

Their progression was slow, measured, deliberate— and all-consuming. As she took him in, and his body followed hers, it occurred to him to wonder who had claimed whom. Who was leading, who was in charge…

Not him, and it couldn’t be her.

Never had he been so totally absorbed, so totally submerged in the moment, so totally aware. Not just of the woman beneath him, but of his own body, his own pleasure. Hers heightened his; like a series of mirrors, reflecting back over and again, each tiny gasp, each soft moan, every sudden tensing of her fingers on his skin, washed over him and welled, swelled the exquisite tightness in his groin, fueled the tension driving him.

She’d tugged him down so his body met hers; her breasts were trapped beneath the heavy muscles of his chest, the rough hair abrading their sensitive skin, her nipples tight crests, their arousing pressure shifting with every deep thrust. Their skins were aflame, sheened, slick; her hands roamed his back, sweeping over the long planes, increasingly urgent. Their stomachs met, his hips locked in the cradle of hers, her thighs widespread, knees clasping his flanks, calves tangling with his.

Their mouths had fused, lips still greedily clinging, a connection that completed some circuit, that kept them immersed, locked in the compulsion that drove them, wholly given over to it.

Surrender came with a sudden quickening, first of her body, then of his. He was so deeply buried inside her, she took him with her; release swept them both in a long, glorious golden wave. Locked together, they rode it, let it take them and fling them high into the heavens, into the realms of pleasured bliss.

He emptied himself into her, felt her womb contract powerfully, holding him, accepting, taking.

The wave receded.

They drifted slowly to earth, their bodies eased, all tension gone, boneless in the aftermath. Their lips parted; breaths mingling, they clung, eyes still closed, savoring the closeness.

He felt her arms steal around him, then rest, lax. With the last of his strength, he slumped to the side, trying not to crush her as oblivion, deeper than he’d ever known it, caught him and drew him down.