A Gentleman's Honor

THIRTEEN

REMARKABLE.

It had been that and more; an hour later, Tony still couldn’t rationalize how very different the interlude had been, that she, a rank novice, had been the one woman in all his years to shatter his control, capture him utterly, forcing him to rely wholly on instinct, thus taking him to…wherever they had been.

A plane on which the pleasure defied all description, in which the physical had been a golden echo of something else.

An unworldly, unearthly, otherworldly place.

In all his years, through all his experience, he’d never even imagined such an exchange could be, or that such a place existed.

On rousing, he’d disengaged and lifted from her. Lying on his back, he’d gathered her to him; unresisting, she’d let him settle her against him, within the circle of his arms, her head on his shoulder.

The covers lay warm about them. Night lay like a blanket over the house; the moonlight had strengthened. He glanced at her face; she still seemed sunk in pleasured oblivion. Lifting his hand, he tentatively touched her hair. When she didn’t stir, he set his palm to the silky tresses, smoothing them, drinking in the feel of their warm softness.

Lying back, he looked up at the canopy; slowly stroking, he tried to think.

The gentle, rhythmic comforting caress gradually drew Alicia back into the world. Warmth held her; pleasure still lay heavy in her veins. A sense of safety she’d never before known, so deep, so solid its existence was beyond question, wrapped her about, supporting, reassuring.

She sighed, and her wits returned.

And she remembered. Everything. All of it.

Every moment that had passed since he’d drawn her into his arms, every touch, every blissful second.

His arms remained around her, steel bands cradling her, gently enough, yet still overtly possessive.

The stroking slowed; his hand stilled. He knew she was awake.

Opening her eyes, she shifted her head and looked up. Met his gaze. Excruciatingly aware that she lay naked in his arms, that he was naked, too. Aware that their limbs were tangled, that they lay slumped together in a warm cocoon of rumpled sheets.

His black eyes held hers; it was impossible to read anything from them or his face. “When did you intend to tell me?” His tone was even, uninflected.

She searched his face, remembered…refocused on his eyes. “You knew.”

He’d known she was—had been—a virgin; he’d watched for every second as he’d taken her virginity, as she’d willingly yielded it to him.

He looked down, at her hand spread on his bare chest. He took it in his; his long fingers toyed with hers. “There wasn’t any trace of any Carrington anywhere near Chipping Norton. No entry in the parish records. No one of that name known at any of the stables or inns. Yet many knew the Misses Pevensey—both Misses Pevensey.”

He glanced up; his eyes were sharp as they found hers. “I would have stopped if you’d wanted me to.”

A statement, but there was a question buried in it. She held his gaze steadily. “I know.”

She let the two words stand alone, a simple acknowledgment of the decision she’d made. She’d gone to him willingly; she wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.

What was done was done; she was his mistress now.

She frowned. “How did you learn…?” The truth struck her, left her horrified. “Your friend?”

Incipient panic flared in her eyes; Tony closed his hand over hers. “There’s no need to worry.” He hesitated, then explained, “Jack Warnefleet—Lord Warnefleet—investigated Ruskin for me. He also asked after your supposed husband, Alfred Carrington. Another A. C.”

Understanding lit her eyes; he added, “We can rely on Jack’s absolute discretion.”

She studied his face, his eyes; a long moment passed, then she asked, “That was the urgent information he sent you the note about last night?”

He felt his jaw set. “He knew I’d want to know.”

She blinked, then her lashes veiled her eyes. “I couldn’t tell you.” A heartbeat passed, then she added, “I couldn’t risk it.”

There was no hint of excuse in her tone; she was stating a fact, at least as she’d seen it.

He drew in a breath, lifted his gaze to look, unseeing, across the room. Given all he now knew of her, of the plan she and, he assumed, Adriana had concocted, of her commitment to her sister and even more to her brothers, he couldn’t fault her; any hint that she wasn’t the widow the ton thought her would, even now, result in complete and unmitigated disaster. Any chance of Adriana making a good match would disappear. They’d be social pariahs, expelled from society, forced to retreat to their cottage in the country to scrape a precarious existence for themselves and their brothers.

Trusting him with the truth…

He suddenly realized she had. She just hadn’t told him in words.

His silence had bothered her; she tried to edge away. Even before he’d thought, his arms were tightening, holding her to him. “No—I know.” She stilled; he drew in another breath, glanced down at her bent head. “I understand.”

When she didn’t look up, he bent close, placed a kiss on her crown, hesitated, then gently nudged her head.

Alicia looked up, into black eyes that promised far more than understanding. Safety, protection from both the finite and the nebulous dangers of the world, but more precious, at least to her, was the strange and novel relief of having someone with whom she could share her thoughts, her concerns, her schemes. Someone who did indeed understand.

His eyes searched hers; as if to confirm her reading, he asked, “Tell me how this all came about—you, your sister, your plan.”

It wasn’t a command, but a request, one she saw no reason to refuse; better he know all than half the story. She settled against him, felt his arms close tighter. “It started when Papa died.”

She told him everything, even explaining her connection with Mr. King. Although he said not a word, she could tell he didn’t approve, yet still he accepted, and made no protest. She was surprised when he questioned her about their gowns, and gave mute thanks not everyone was so acute.

When she in turn questioned why he’d investigated her supposed husband, he explained his thoughts of some other Carrington being involved. The comment led them deeper into the possibilities surrounding Ruskin; they discussed, tossed thoughts back and forth, argued likelihoods—the sort of exchange she’d never indulged in with anyone else.

Gradually, the silences lengthened. Blissfully warm, totally comfortable, she lay in his arms and listened to his heart beat steadily beneath her cheek. The covers lay over them; she still lay half-atop him, stretched alongside, her legs tangled with his, her hand spread over his chest. One muscled arm was wrapped around her, his hand heavy over her waist.

She should, she felt sure, feel some degree of fluster, of maidenly, feminine embarrassment over their naked state, let alone all that had led to it. Instead, the intimacy was addictive, a strange sense of closeness, of inexpressible comfort, of a simple rightness she was loath to shake.

He glanced down at her, then she felt his lips brush her hair.

“Go to sleep.”

The whisper floated down to her. Turning her head, she looked up, met his eyes. Then she lifted her head, and touched her lips to his. He met them, returned her kiss, but gently. Briefly. Softly sighing, she drew back. Settling more definitely on his chest, spreading her hand over his side, she relaxed, and closed her eyes.

He merged with her dreams in the darkness before dawn. For long moments as he caressed her, sending sensation after sensation spiraling through her, each exquisite touch driving her higher into the clouds, she wasn’t certain where her dreams ended and reality began.

Then he moved over her, spread her thighs wide, and slowly filled her.

She woke as he thrust deep and embedded himself within her, to the sensation of him hard and strong and rigid within her, of her body clamping tightly, joyously, about him, her arms reaching out to embrace him—and knew her life would never return to what it had been.

That was her first and last lucid thought; the instant he started to move within her, her wits deserted her, submerged beneath her clamorous senses, greedy for him, for what was to come.

He stayed close this time, his body moving over hers, murmuring gruff encouragement as she shifted beneath him, tilting her hips, adjusting to the rhythm and the depth of his penetration.

Her body seemed to know what to do; she let herself flow with the tide, gave herself up to the powerful surging rhythm, let it sweep her away into a whirlpool of shattering sensation. He kept them there, held them there, each rocking thrust swirling the vortex higher, tighter. Their lips found each other’s without conscious direction, and then they were there again, in the heart of the flames, the center of the furnace.

The heat cindered all barriers, locked them together, desire flowing molten through them, between them. For one glorious instant, she lost touch with the world, couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, knew only that they were together, one in thought, in mind, in deed.

Their lips clung, their hands grasped, slipped, gripped; their bodies strove to reach the elusive peak, just beyond their reach.

Then they broke through the clouds and the sunburst took them. The glory fractured, shattered, and poured through them. Rained down on them. Drove them at the last, gasping and shuddering, onto some far-distant shore.

They lay tangled, entwined, struggling for breath, the last shards of ecstasy still shivering through them. Heated, swollen, their lips touched, brushed, then parted. In the instant before she surrendered to beckoning oblivion, one simple truth floated through her mind.

Each time he came to her, each time they joined, left her one step further from the woman she had been.

Tony woke as dawn began to streak the sky. Satiation lay heavy upon him; he didn’t want to move.

Eyes closed, he lay still, savoring the sensation of Alicia’s soft curves pressed to his side; he consciously considered leaping a few steps and simply staying where he was.

Reluctantly, he accepted that might be going too far, too fast. Although where they were headed was perfectly clear, taking women for granted was never wise.

Stifling a sigh, he disengaged, trying not to disturb her. She murmured sleepily and clutched at his chest, but then slid back into slumber. Gently lifting her hand from him, he slid out of the bed. She snuggled down in the warm depression where he’d lain. The sight of her burrowed there made him smile.

Quickly, he dressed, dropped a light, fleeting kiss on her forehead, then slipped out of her room, and out of the house.

“Are you all right, Miss Alicia?”

Alicia woke with a start, realized it was Fitchett who had spoken. “Ah…yes.” A lie, but she could hardly explain. “I, ah, overslept.”

Struggling to sit up, her gaze fell on the rumpled disaster of her bed. Thank heavens Fitchett was outside the door.

“Aye, well, we was wondering, seeing as you hadn’t rung. I’ll bring up your water if you’re ready for it.”

Alicia glanced at the window. A shaft of bright sunlight lanced into the room. Dear God, what was the time? “Yes, thank you. I’m getting up now.”

Fitchett lumbered off. Dragooning her wits and her still too-lax muscles into action, Alicia flung back the covers and got out of bed.

By the time Fitchett arrived with her water, she’d stripped the bed; there’d been no possibility of putting things right enough to pass muster. When Fitchett stared at the pile of bedclothes, she airily waved. “I decided to change the sheets. It’s only a day or so early.”

To her relief, Fitchett merely humphed.

She washed and dressed quickly, then hurried downstairs to discover bedlam reigning at the breakfast table. Adriana had done her best, but she lacked Alicia’s authority; called to order, the boys assumed their most angelic expressions and innocently resumed a more civilized rapport.

“I slept in,” she replied to Adriana’s questioning look. It wasn’t a good excuse—she never slept in—but it was all she could think of. Reaching for the teapot, she poured herself a cup. She sipped, relaxed, then realized how hungry she was. Ravenous, in fact.

Jenkins came in, and they discussed the boys’ lessons for the coming week while she polished off a mound of kedgeree.

When Jenkins departed, the boys in tow, Adriana frowned at her. “Well, you’re obviously not ailing— there’s nothing wrong with your appetite.”

She waved the piece of toast she’d started nibbling and reached for her cup. “I just slept longer than usual.”

Adriana pushed back her chair and rose. “You must have been dreaming.”

Recollection flashed across Alicia’s mind; she nearly choked on her tea.

“Are we still going to Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse today?”

She nodded. “Yes—we must if we’re to make those new gowns.” Setting down her cup, she picked up her toast. “In twenty minutes—I have to check with Cook before we go.”

The rest of the day passed in the usual busy fashion; she hadn’t before noticed how little personal time she had, private time alone in which to think. If she and Adriana weren’t out, attending some function or event, then some member of the household would want to speak with her, or her brothers needed supervising, or…

She needed to think—she knew she did, knew she ought to stop and consider, and get her mind in order for when next she met Tony. She’d taken a major step, turned a hugely significant corner—one she definitely shouldn’t have turned, perhaps, but she’d willingly taken that road; it was clearly imperative she stop and take stock.

All that seemed obvious, yet when she finally found herself alone in her room, bathing, then dressing for the evening, she discovered her mind had a will of its own.

When it came to all that had passed in the night, and in the small hours of the morning, while she could recall and relive every moment, every detail, her mind flatly refused to go any further. It was as if some dominant part of her brain had decided those events were in some way sacrosant, that they stood as they were and needed no further examination. No dissection, no analysis, no clarification. They simply were.

It was, indeed, as if she’d stood at a crossroads, and now she’d gone around the corner, she couldn’t see where she’d been. Which left her facing forward along a road she’d never imagined traveling.

Putting the last touches to her coiffure, she paused and studied herself in the mirror. She still looked the same, yet…was it something in her eyes, or maybe in her posture, the way she stood, that assured her, at least, that she was no longer the same woman?

She had changed, and she didn’t regret it. There was little in this world for which she’d trade so much as a minute of the time she’d spent in Tony’s arms.

Indeed, there was no point looking back. She was his mistress now.

And if she didn’t know what that new status would bring, or how to cope, she’d just have to learn.

She looked into her eyes for a moment longer, then let her gaze run down the sleek lines of the deep purple silk gown Adriana had designed and she and Fitchett had created. The heart-shaped neckline showcased her breasts without being obvious; the cut below the high waist made the most of her slim hips and long legs, while the small off-the-shoulder sleeves left the graceful curves of her shoulders quite bare.

Turning, she picked up her shawl and reticule, then headed for the door. Luckily, she learned quickly.

The cacophonous sound of the ton in full flight rose to greet Tony as he paused at the top of the steps leading down into Lady Hamilton’s ballroom. Her ladyship’s rout was one of the events traditionally held in the week before the Season began; society’s elite were almost to a man foregathered in town—everyone who was anyone would be present.

Looking down on the sea of bright gowns, of sheening curls, of jewels winking in the light thrown by the chandeliers, he scanned the throng, relieved when he located Alicia standing by the side of the room, Adriana’s court, some steps in front of her, partially screening her. Relief died, however, when closer inspection revealed that three of the gentlemen between Alicia and Adriana were not conversing with Adriana.

Jaw setting, he strolled with feigned nonchalance down the steps; cutting through the crowd, he made his way directly to Alicia’s side.

She welcomed him with a smile that went some way toward easing his temper. “Good evening, my lord.”

He took the hand she offered, raised it brazenly to his lips, simultaneously stepping close. “Good evening, my dear.”

Her green-gold eyes widened a fraction. His easy, languid smile took on an edge as, setting her hand in the crook of his arm, he took up a stance—a clearly possessive stance—by her side.

With every evidence of well-bred boredom, he glanced at the gentlemen who had been speaking with her. “Morecombe. Everton.” He exchanged the usual nods. The last man he didn’t know.

“Allow me to present Lord Charteris.”

The tall, fair-haired dandy bowed. “Torrington.”

Tony returned the bow with an elegant nod.

Straightening, Charteris puffed out his narrow chest. “I was just describing to Mrs. Carrington the latest offering at the Theatre Royal.”

Tony allowed Charteris, who appeared to fancy himself a peacock of sorts, to entertain them with his anecdote; he judged the man safe enough. Morecombe was another matter; although married, he was a gazetted womanizer, a rake and profligate gambler. As for Everton, he was the sort no gentleman would trust with his sister. Not even with his maiden aunt.

Both clearly had their eyes on Alicia.

Behind his polite mask, he took note of the undercurrents in the small group; focused on the men, it was some minutes before he noticed the swift glances Alicia surreptitiously cast him. Only then realized she was, if not precisely skittish, then at least uncertain.

It took a minute more before he realized her uncertainty was occasioned not by any of the three gentlemen before her, but by him.

He waited only until the notes of a waltz filled the room. Glancing at her, he covered her hand on his sleeve. “My dance, I believe?”

His tone made it clear there was no doubt about the fact; as he hadn’t previously spoken, it should be patently clear that her hand being his to claim was an arrangement of some standing.

Fleetingly meeting his eyes, she acquiesced with a gracious inclination of her head.

The glances he noticed Morecombe and Everton exchange as, with a polite nod, he led her away gave him some satisfaction. With any luck, they would move on to likelier prey before the waltz ended.

Reaching the dance floor, he drew Alicia into his arms, started them revolving, then turned his full attention on her. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow. “What is it?”

Alicia looked into his eyes; she felt her lips firm, but managed not to glare. I haven’t been a nobleman’s mistress before hardly seemed worth stating. And now she was in his arms, sensing again the familiar reactions—the physical leap of her senses soothed by the feeling of comfort and safety—her earlier worries over how she should react—how he would behave and how he would expect her to respond to him—no longer seemed relevant. “Have you made any progress with your investigations?”

That, at least, was something she could ask.

“Yes.” For a moment, he looked down at her as if waiting for her to say something else, then he looked up for the turn, and went on, “I heard from Jack Hendon this morning—he’s confirmed all that your brothers learned.” Glancing down, he met her gaze. “Incidentally, he was impressed—you might tell them.”

“They don’t need any encouragement.”

His lips twitched. “Perhaps not.” He looked up again, drawing her fractionally closer as they came out of the turn and headed up the long room. “Jack’s pursuing the matter, trying to find a pattern to the ships that were taken versus those that were not. With luck, that might shine some light on who benefited from the losses.”

He met her gaze. “I haven’t yet heard back from the friend scouting down in Devon—he has contacts with smugglers and wreckers along that coast. As for myself, now I’ve got something specific to ask, I’ll start putting out feelers among my own contacts.”

He’d kept his voice low; she did the same. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving London?”

The prospect filled her with a curious disquiet. An odd, novel, uncomfortable feeling; she’d never relied on others before—she’d always been self-sufficient. Yet the thought of coping with the unfolding events stemming from Ruskin’s death by herself…

His arm around her tightened, drawing her attention and her gaze back to him.

“No—my contacts are primarily along the southeastern coast, from Southampton to Ramsgate, all within half a day from town. I can cover them in single-day journeys. Aside from all else, I need to be here to assess what the others discover, Jack Hendon from Lloyd’s and the shipping lines, and Gervase Tregarth in Devon.”

She nodded, aware of relief, but they were now too close, her bodice brushing his coat, her silk-sheathed thighs shushing against his…yet with the press of other couples about them, it was unlikely any would notice. And to the ton, she was still a widow after all.

Tony hesitated, debating, then murmured, “Incidentally, I’ve arranged for some men to keep a watch on your house. They’ll be in the street—you won’t know they’re there, but… just in case you have need, there’ll always be someone watching your front door.”

She stared up at him; he could see her thoughts whirling behind the green-gold of her eyes. First Maggs, now…“Why?”

He had his argument ready. “First the rumor, then the Watch. I want to make sure whoever A. C. is, he gets no chance to do anything more to implicate you. Or your family.”

He felt confident those last words would see her accept his arrangements without further question.

She frowned at him, but proved him right. “If you really think there’s a need…”

Whether there was or not, he would feel much happier knowing that when he journeyed out of the capital, more of his trusted minions had her and her brood under their eye. The three men he’d set to keep a constant watch on the Waverton Street house were one hundred percent reliable; nothing suspicious would escape them.

The music slowed, then ended; they whirled to a halt. Reluctantly releasing her, he tucked her hand in his arm and turned her away from Adriana’s court. “I’ll go down to Southampton tomorrow.”

Looking at him, she nodded, then cast a glance back up the room. “We should—”

“Behave as if we’re lovers.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “What?”

He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes at her; he opened them wide instead. “No one will find anything odd in that—it’s what they’re expecting.” Given he’d laid the appropriate groundwork over the past several weeks.

She frowned. “Yes, but—” Again she glanced back toward Adriana.

“Stop worrying about Adriana. Geoffrey’s beside her, and even if he’s distracted, there’s always Sir Freddie.” He paused. “Has he made an offer yet?”

“Sir Freddie? No, thank heavens.” She turned and settled to stroll by his side.

“Why so relieved? I thought you wanted Adriana to be able to choose among many?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I did. But as you very well know, she’s already made her choice, so Sir Freddie making an offer will simply be an unnecessary complication.”

He grinned, making a mental note to prod Geoffrey when next he had a chance. “Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t been inundated with offers.”

“I daresay I would have been if Adriana hadn’t hinted many of them away.” She shot him a severe glance.

“Strange to tell, she seems to feel that avoiding trying Geoffrey’s temper unnecessarily is a sound idea.”

He looked down at her—and hoped she read the message in his eyes; he concurred with her sister’s judgment and sincerely hoped she herself would exercise similar restraint.

The way she looked away, the hoity angle to which she elevated her nose, suggested she understood him well enough. Hiding an inward grimace at his own susceptibility, he steered her to where his godmother waited, surrounded by a number of her extremely interested friends.

Despite their interest and that shown by any number of the ton’s matrons in the relationship between them, the rest of the evening passed well enough. Through a combination of exemplary scouting and good management, he kept Alicia to himself throughout, avoiding the other gentlemen who, prowling through the crowd and attracted by the faintly exotic, definitely sensual picture she presented in her deep purple gown—something he fully intended to enjoy removing later—continually hove on her horizon.

They indulged in another waltz, after which she insisted on returning to check on Adriana and her court. Instead of permitting her to hang back as she usually did, he led her to join the circle of gentlemen and two other enterprising young ladies gathered about Adriana.

Alicia shot him a suspicious glance, which he met with a bland, wholly deceptive smile, but she consented to do as he wished. Thus protected from further incursions— the gentlemen who looked her way were not the sort to dance attendance among the younger crew—they saw out the end of the evening.

As soon as guests started to leave, Alicia turned to him; he got the impression she was tired, then recalled…hiding a smug smile, he gathered Adriana and Geoffrey; together with Sir Freddie, they joined the exodus. In the foyer downstairs, they parted. Sir Freddie bowed easily over Adriana’s hand, bowed courteously to Alicia, nodded to Tony, and lastly Geoffrey, then left. Geoffrey scowled after him, then turned to farewell Adriana and Alicia.

Tony exchanged a nod and a glance. Geoffrey returned both, an acknowledgment that Tony would see both ladies safe home.

When he accompanied them to their carriage, Alicia shot him a wary frown. He ignored it, handed first Adriana, then her up, and followed.

Adriana accepted his presence without the slightest question. Alicia glanced at him, then gave her attention to the facades they rolled past. He leaned back, content to feel her soft warmth beside him, perfectly aware of what was going through her mind.

When the carriage rocked to a halt in Waverton Street, he stepped down, and handed both sisters down. He shut the carriage door; the carriage lurched, then rumbled off. He turned to find Alicia standing on the pavement, eyeing him uncertainly. Suppressing a smile, he took her arm and guided her up the steps. Adriana had already knocked; Maggs opened the door, and she swept in. He steered Alicia in her wake.

“Good night.” Adriana headed for the stairs with barely a backward glance.

Maggs shot the bolts on the front door, then bowed to them both and took himself off.

Alicia watched him go and wished she knew what would happen next. She shouldn’t encourage any illicit interlude; she steeled herself to bid Tony good night. Determinedly ignoring the twitching of her senses, the skittering anticipation afflicting her nerves, she tensed to swing about—

His long fingers slid around her wrist. “Come into the drawing room.”

She turned, tried to read his face, but he was already moving, drawing her with him. He opened the door; leaving it ajar, he led her into the dimness beyond the shaft of light shed by the candle left burning in the hall.

Halting, he faced her, smoothly drew her into his arms—and kissed her.

Stormed her senses.

She was kissing him back, fully participating in an increasingly heated exchange before she caught her mental breath. Even when she did, it was impossible to draw back, to pull away from the engagement and the spiraling escalation of hunger and need it fueled.

Whose hunger, whose need, she couldn’t have said; they were both greedy, ravenous, both wanting.

Her hands were sunk in his hair, holding him to her as their tongues dueled, as their lips feasted. One of his hands had closed about her breast, kneading, leaving it swollen and aching; the other was wrapped about one globe of her bottom, crushing the silk as he held her to him.

He rocked against her, deliberately evocative; heat pulsed within her—she heard a soft moan.

Holding her tight, her body molded to his, he broke from the kiss, raised his head, but not far. With an effort she lifted her heavy lids, and found his black gaze on her eyes.

“There’s no reason to step back.”

She knew he didn’t mean from their kiss.

His gaze fell to her lips, then returned to her eyes.

“And don’t think to deny this.”

She couldn’t; given what was so manifestly flaring between them…he was right—there was no point.

He bent his head again. She was lifting her lips to meet his when she heard his soft murmur, “Or me.”

She set her hand to his cheek as he took her mouth again; he was all heat and fire, tempting and familiar. This, she accepted, was the way it would be; if he wanted her, she was willing.

A minute later, he broke from the kiss to murmur, his voice dark and gravelly, “Upstairs.”

He turned her. His hand remained on her bottom as he guided her into the hall, then up the stairs to her bedchamber; her skin didn’t cool in the least.

Then they were in her room, and he closed the door. She’d halted in the middle of the floor, the candle in her hand. The flame wavered, but was enough to shed a golden pool of light into the general gloom.

He glanced at her, then at her dressing table; he waved. “Put it down there.”

She moved to do so. Leaning over the stool, she set the candlestick down on the polished top, straightened—and saw in the mirror that he’d followed her.

His hands slid around her waist. He shifted her slightly so that she stood directly in front of the three-paneled mirror with its wide central panel flanked by two narrower wings. The rectangular stool stood before her knees. She glanced down at it, then looked up as his hands slid farther and gripped, anchoring her as he stepped closer, trapping her before him.

She caught her breath as, in the shadowy mirror, she watched his dark head bend beside hers; releasing her waist, one hand rose, gliding upward over the purple silk, now deep as the midnight sky, to close possessively over one breast. His other hand splayed down, covering her stomach, pressing in, gently kneading, pressing her hips back against his hard thighs.

Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder at his face; inches away, she saw his teeth gleam in a fleeting smile.

“Bear with me,” he murmured, then his lips touched the corner of hers, then cruised back along her jaw to trace her ear. “I want to see you naked.”

He whispered the words, dark and erotic, into her ear.

It took a moment before she realized what he meant— he wanted to see her naked in the mirror.

Her nerves seized; before she could think of any protest—even decide if she wished to protest—he nudged her head back. She complied without thought; his lips traced downward along the column of her throat, then fastened over the spot where her pulse leapt.

His lips moved on her skin; his hands moved over her silk-clad body, roaming, caressing, then his fingers found her laces.

She closed her eyes, leaned back against him as he loosened her gown, then his hands rose to her shoulders and pressed the soft fabric down.

“Lift your arms.”

Opening her eyes just enough to see beneath her lashes, she watched her reflection in the mirror as she obeyed, sliding her arms free of the tiny sleeves. His palms swept down, over her breasts; the gown slithered down to her waist. His hands followed, pressed the folds past her hips; with a soft swoosh, the dress pooled at her feet.

For an instant, he paused, surveying what he’d uncovered. She caught the gleam of his eyes from beneath his heavy lids, felt his gaze briefly roam. In the flickering candlelight her chemise was opaque, the shadowy valleys and contours it hid mysterious.

He looked down. His hands rose and gripped her waist. “Kneel on the stool.” He lifted her, and she did; with his knees he nudged her ankles wide and stepped between, so his chest was again a warm wall at her back, his erection a promise against the swell of her bottom.

The candlelight reached her, but didn’t light him well; he was a dark presence behind her, his tanned hands contrasting starkly against the whiteness of her skin, the ivory of her chemise. He was a phantom lover, come to claim her, to lavish pleasure on her and take his own.

Her breath caught. He looked up, in the mirror trapped her gaze—as his hands slipped beneath the front hem of her chemise. She steeled herself, anticipating his touch, the fiery delight of his hands on her flesh, skin to bare skin. Instead, he turned his hands, caught the fine fabric and lifted it. Without touching her at all, he raised the diaphanous garment; lungs seizing, she lifted her arms and he drew it off over her head.

She put out a hand to steady herself as the cool air caressed her skin—the only firm purchase she could reach was his thigh behind her. Sinking her fingers into the hard muscle, giddy, she stared at the vision in the mirror—that of a slim, slender woman, her dark hair elegantly high, totally naked but for her silk stockings and the ruched satin garters that held them in place, circling her thighs.

Lifting her gaze to his face, she sensed rather than saw his satisfaction; it was a tangible thing, filling the air, surrounding her. She realized she still had on her ballroom slippers; even as the thought occurred, she saw him glance down, then his fingers caressed each ankle, and he slipped the shoes from her feet and let them fall.

He moved close again, and reached around to her garters. But instead of easing them down, as she’d expected, he ran his fingertips around the upper edge of each. And smiled. “They can stay. For now.”

The timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. It took effort to remain upright, yet pride dictated she keep her spine erect; she could feel the fabric of his coat and trousers gently abrading her bare skin.

His gaze had returned, slowly, to her face. He studied it, then shifted back a fraction, just enough to shrug off his coat. Seconds later, his waistcoat joined it on the floor.

He had to step back to deal with his cravat and shirt; she had to let go of him. She watched as he flung the shirt aside, then looked down, his hands going to his waist. His trousers hit the floor, and he stepped out of them, returning to her, his hands sliding over her hips, over her waist, drawing her back against him, against the heat of his skin, the rock-hard wall of his chest and abdomen, the hard columns of his thighs.

“Lean back. Let me love you.”

The words were an erotic whisper in the darkness.

“Let me see you. Watch you.”

She did as he asked, leaning back against him, eyes almost closed, committed to following his lead, only later, as his hands made free with her body, with her senses, fully understanding what he meant.

At first, his hands simply roved her body, a basic pleasure, heating her skin, teasing her senses to even greater awareness, evoking a deeper, persistent hunger. Flaring need grew as he weighed and caressed her breasts, taunting the tight, aching peaks, then tracing the lines of her body, sculpting the curves with his palms before gliding his fingertips down her thighs, then nudging her knees farther apart.

She watched, immersed in the sensations as he stroked the quivering inner faces of her thighs, then laid his hand over her stomach, the other sliding across her waist, holding her, surrounding her with his strength, giving her a moment to assimilate the heated, raspy reality of his skin, his muscled body pressed to her, locked about her.

In the mirror, she could see his shoulders above hers; his chest was wider than her back, his arms a cage in which she willingly waited.

He murmured something in French—she didn’t catch the words but let her head rest back against his shoulder, watching, watching as he shifted, then the hand at her stomach slid lower, long fingers gliding over, then through the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. He reached farther; the breath strangled in her throat, her lungs seized. The vise about her chest locked tight as he stroked, caressed, then deliberately probed.

Farther, then yet farther, until his hand was pressed between her thighs, until her body was awash with flame. Her hands fastened on the arm locked about her waist, fingers sinking into the hard muscle as she watched him watching her—watched his hand, so much darker than her skin, rhythmically lavish fiery delight upon her senses.

She gasped, felt her body tighten, arching, reaching for the beckoning peak. He didn’t stop but steadily pushed her on, on, on—until she fractured.

Her soft cry hung in the air; he wrapped her in his arms, in his strength, held her safe as she slowly drifted back from the crest.

She turned her head, glanced at him. He met her gaze, but briefly. His lips curving in what wasn’t quite a smile, he glanced down at her body, soft, pliant, still locked against the hard aroused length of his. Then he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the point where her neck met her shoulder.

“First course.”

His tone made it clear he intended to feast.

Reaching out, he moved the single candle, still burning bright, across and back on the dressing table, positioning it near the central pane of the mirror, at the very center. Reaching farther, he tugged first one side panel, then the other forward, angling them so they reflected the candlelight back at them. At her—it was her smooth, white skin the light illuminated; in contrast, his darker, tanned, and haired limbs seemed to disperse the light. Yet she could now see him clearly. The new position of the side panels let her see beyond her shoulders.

His hands returned to her body; they circled her breasts, gently kneaded, then slid down, tracing her sides, then he gripped her hips. Bent his head and murmured, his breath a heated promise, “Lean forward—hold on to the edge of the dressing table.”

She did, and felt his hand caress the globes of her bottom. He traced the backs of her thighs, then reached between. Touched, stroked.

On a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes; she had only an instant’s warning—an inkling of what he would do—before he shifted, pressed close, and entered her.

Instinctively she locked her thighs, braced her arms, held still as he sank in, gasped when, with a last thrust, he filled her completely. His hands gripped her hips, anchored her as he withdrew, returned, then settled to a slow, steady plundering.

Her senses shook; her wits had long gone. Her breathing sounded ragged in her ears. Beneath her skin, her pulse throbbed, her body aflame as she rode the increasingly powerful thrusts.

The tempo escalated, degree by degree, until she was barely clinging to sanity, wrapped in heat, driven by desire.

“Watch.”

The command reached through the flames fogging her mind. She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up. Looked.

And saw.

Him, behind her, his face etched with passion, set, his whole being focused completely on her, on the pleasure he found in her heated body. A body aglow with desire, softly sheened, his hands curved over her hips, his fingers locked on her skin.

She moved with him, not by thought but in instinctive concert, taking, giving, wanting more. Glancing to the side, into the side mirror, she watched their hips move, locked together in their sensual dance.

Her lungs seized; she glanced back at his face, saw the gleam of his eyes beneath his lashes as he watched her.

Then he shifted, thrust deeper, harder, higher. She gasped, let her lids fall; he was impossibly high inside her.

Faster, faster—and the flames roared. Took them, consumed them in an orgy of feeling, of sensations too sharp, too bright, too excruciatingly powerful to survive. And they were whirling, trapped in a whirlpool of delight, passion still driving, ecstasy beckoning… until it broke over them, drenched them, washed through them.

Leaving them shuddering, locked tight together, his arms wrapped around her, hers wrapped over them.

The tide faded, and left them.

The bed was close. He lifted her, staggered the few steps, then they collapsed amid the covers. It was a long time before either could summon the will or the strength to move.