A Gentleman's Honor (17 page)

He stopped, unsure how to proceed. How to ask what he had to. He glanced at her; she was studying him, not suspiciously but directly. “I was passing along Waverton Street earlier this evening and saw Mr. King leaving your house.”

Her gaze didn’t waver; she continued to regard him attentively.

“I mentioned meeting Mr. King in the course of my investigations. Is he…an acquaintance?”

Without hesitation, she nodded, then looked out at the room. “Yes—he’s just that, an acquaintance.”

Alicia let a moment elapse, then, her gaze still on the crowd, asked, “Do you want to know why he called?”

She heard a hiss, an exhalation through his teeth.

“Yes.”

She’d assumed he would hear of King’s visit; she’d rehearsed her explanation. “We made his acquaintance some months ago through matters arising from my late husband’s estate. Mr. King knew of our wish to establish Adriana creditably.” She glanced up, and found Tony watching her closely. “He offered to give us the benefit of his knowledge regarding the financial status of any gentleman Adriana was seriously considering.”

The look in his eyes was priceless; he was astounded, could barely believe his ears… she sensed it the moment he did.

His gaze sharpened. “What did Mr. King say about Geoffrey?”

She grimaced, let her uncertainty show. “That he’s perfectly sound. He’s never had dealings with any moneylenders, but they would be happy to have him on their books. His credit is excellent, his estates are in exemplary order. Financially, he passed with flying colors.”

“So why aren’t you thrilled?” Two matrons took up position on the other side of one set of palms. Grasping Alicia’s elbow, Tony guided her out of their nook. A waltz was just starting; the dance floor seemed the next safest place.

He drew her into his arms, looked down at her face as he started them revolving, noted the frown in her eyes. “It’s obvious your sister favors Geoffrey, and he’s intent on her. You’ve received reports from all and sundry that his character and situation are beyond reproach. Why, therefore, your hesitation?”

They revolved twice before she met his eyes. Her gaze was level and serious. “Money, title, and estate are all well and good, and character to date as well. But who can foresee the future?” She blew out a breath and looked away. “If I could be certain he’s all Adriana
deserves
, I’d feel happier.”

Tony steered her around the tight turn at the end of the room; she remained relaxed in his arms, warm, at ease, yet as so often was the case, focused on her family, in this case, Adriana. He studied her face as they precessed up the room; he could read her abstraction clearly.

What a lady deserved.

He’d never heard that advanced as a criterion for marriage, yet for the sort of marriage Alicia wished for her sister it was perhaps more pertinent, more relevant. And she was right; such a stipulation was much harder to guarantee—that a gentleman could and would provide what a lady deserved.

The waltz ended, but her concept remained, inhabiting his mind, directing his thoughts as they strolled through the glittering throng. Lady Magnuson was old but wealthy and well connected; all those of the haut ton already in town were certain to attend, to look in for at least an hour and show their faces. Many stopped them, most trying their hand at divining just what their relationship was; neither he nor Alicia gave them any joy. Which only fed the whispers.

He glanced at her. She was frowning, trying to catch a glimpse of her sister’s court. Lifting his head, he looked over the crowd. “Adriana appears hale and whole.” He glanced at Alicia. “She’s managing perfectly well.”

She frowned at him. “I should return to her—”

“No, you shouldn’t.” He anchored her hand more firmly on his sleeve. “She’s too sensible to go out of the ballroom without your permission, and with both Geoffrey and Sir Freddie standing guard, no bounder will have any chance of whisking her off undetected.”

“Yes, but—” She broke off as he whisked her into a dimly lit corridor. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.” That was the worst of having spent the last decade elsewhere. Taking her hand in his, he strolled on. “I don’t know this house.”

His hearing was acute; he passed door after door, hearing muffled giggles or grunts from the rooms within.

She tried to slow, but he kept her with him. She tugged at his hand. “We can’t just—”

“Of course we can.” He stopped outside a door, listened, then hearing nothing opened it silently. Caught a glimpse of a white rump plunging, and swiftly closed it.

“Just not there.”

He heard the growing frustration in his voice; from the odd glance she threw him, she heard it, too.

They turned a corner; it was instantly apparent they’d reached a wing that was no longer in use. No lights glowed; there was dust on the sidetable farther along. He stepped to the side and opened a door, cautiously. Looking in, he breathed again. “Perfect.”

He drew her over the threshold and closed the door, with one finger snibbed the lock. Busy looking around, she didn’t hear.

“What a lovely room.”

He released her and she headed for the windows; uncurtained, they looked out over a stone-flagged courtyard with a long pond in its center, a fountain, still and silent, rising from the black water. Lily pads were unfurling, spreading across the obsidian surface. Moonlight, stark and ghostly white, poured softly over all, casting black shadows in the lee of the creeper-covered walls, edging each new ivy leaf in silver.

She glanced at him as he joined her. “I wonder why the room’s unused.”

“The Magnusons were a large family, but there’s only Lady Magnuson left now. Her daughters are married and gone.” He hesitated, then added, “Both her sons died at Waterloo.”

She looked around the room, at the furniture swathed in holland covers. “It seems…sad.”

After a moment, she glanced up at him.

What a lady deserves
.

How unpredictable, how ephemeral, how precious life was.

Slowly, he bent his head and kissed her, despite all gave her the chance to deny him if she chose. She didn’t. She lifted her face, met his lips with hers. They touched, caressed, firmed. She raised a hand and gently, tentatively, laid her fingers along his cheek.

He slid an arm around her, smoothly yet more slowly than usual; it seemed important to savor each moment, to draw each instant, each movement, each acceptance, each commitment out. To fully know and appreciate every subtle nuance as they came together, as without words, he steered her to the next step.

Heat blossomed, spread beneath their skins, pooled low, then coalesced. Tightened. Throbbed.

Alicia opened her senses, tried for the first time to deliberately explore the effect of each touch, each caress. Whenever she tried to cling to control, she was swept away, so instead she went forward of her own accord, eyes open, senses aware, ready to learn, to see, to know. To, perhaps, understand what this was, what fed the power he could so easily conjure between them.

And learn to manage it herself.

As he did.

The kiss lengthened, deepened, yet not once did his control even quiver. He knew what he was doing, scripted and directed their play… this time she participated without hestitation, eagerly, determinedly following his lead. Waiting to see where it led.

She was trapped in his arms, locked against him, flagrantly molded to him when he finally raised his head. He looked down at her face. She could feel their mutual need, a well-stoked furnace seething between them.

He eased his hold on her, held her until she was steady on her feet. His eyes were dark as they held hers, yet she could feel the heat in his gaze.

“Open your bodice for me.”

The words were gravelly, deep, and dark. She held his gaze for an instant, then calmly looked down. Lifting her hands, she slipped the tiny pearl buttons free.

She felt him exhale. His arms fell from her. He looked around, then stepped back and lifted the holland cover from a large shape, revealing a big, well-padded armchair. It was set facing the windows so any occupant could enjoy the view.

Dropping the dust sheet to the floor, he looked at her. Met her gaze as she slipped the last button free.

He reached for her, still moving with that measured grace that only heightened her expectations, that gave time for anticipation to well before she felt the next touch as he drew her to stand before him.

She watched him watching her as his hands rose and closed on her shoulders. He pushed the gown down, inch by inch steadily slipped the sleeves down. Without waiting for any instruction, she lifted her arms from the narrow sleeves, then, emboldened, draped them about his shoulders and stepped closer.

Saw the dark flare in his eyes as she did. Felt his hands tense on the folds of silk at her waist, then, holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hands down, tracing the curve of her hips, sliding her gown over them until, with a soft swoosh, it fell to the floor.

She caught her breath, felt the air on her skin, felt panic rise—

He circled her waist, drew her against him, flush against his hard body, and kissed her. Not ravenously but forcefully, then he lifted his head. “Slowly. One step more.” He lifted his lids, met her gaze. “Trust me. It’ll be as you wish.” His gaze dropped to her lips; he lowered his head. “And all you deserve.”

The promise feathered over her lips. Then he kissed her.

She stood locked against him in a dark, deserted room clad only in her chemise and her even finer silk stockings. If she wished, she could retreat—she knew it—yet as he kissed her she could feel the strength of his control, could feel the tight rein he kept on his passions.

Therein lay safety.

Nothing ventured, nothing learned. And she had to learn more. At least his next step, so she could predict the one after.

Tightening her arms about his neck, she kissed him back.

H
ER CHEMISE REACHED TO MIDNIGHT; IN THE POOR
light, he wouldn’t be able to see through it. Her stockings covered her legs, the garters hidden beneath the chemise’s hem. She was clad, albeit thinly; wrapped in his arms, his lips on hers, his tongue tangling with hers, she certainly wasn’t cold.

Committed to playing her part, she set aside all maidenly reserve and gave herself up to it—to his embrace, to the slow-burning embers that glowed between them. No flames yet; he kept them dampened, but she knew the potential was there. It was a measure of his control that he could so easily hold the conflagration at bay, at a safe distance so she could feel the warmth, experience the pleasure, but not be burned by it. Not be consumed.

He held to his slow, measured, almost languid pace. The intimacy deepened; the urgency did not.

His control—the trust she placed in him—was what allowed her to stand within his arms and with simple passion kiss him back. He took her invitation as offered, savored her mouth, her lips; she in turn savored his pleasure.

When he straightened, eased his hold on her, sat in the armchair and urged her onto his lap, her confidence, her need to know, and her trust in him held firm, allowing her to sit across his hard thighs, to let him lift her, arrange her as he would. Then he drew her to him, locking her again in the circle of his arms, and kissed her. She responded willingly, eagerly, waiting to learn.

They were taking the long road; there had to be more steps before they approached the ultimate intimacy. She’d done her homework as well as she could, yet although she’d found two texts purporting to describe the physical aspects of intimacy as indulged in by blue-blooded rakes, said texts were so riddled with euphemisms she’d ended more confused than instructed.

The manuals had, however, demonstrated that the spectrum of activity was wide, that if an experienced gentleman were so inclined, there were indeed a large number of steps between a first kiss and consummation.

From what she’d understood, his attentions to her breasts, even his stroking of her curls, were relatively early in the sequence. Tonight, he wished to take one step further; she wanted to know what that step was. With luck, it would allow her to gauge just how far along their long road they were and how fast they were progressing.

How much more time in his arms she had.

That knowledge—that her time with him was limited— dragged at her mind; he seemed to sense it. He lifted his head. Close, their breaths mingling in the darkness, from beneath his heavy lids, he caught her gaze. After a moment, he murmured, “You’re not frightened, are you?”

She thought, then shook her head. “No.” She hesitated, then boldly raised her hand, traced a fingertip down his lean cheek. “Just… unsure.” As far as she could, she’d be honest with him.

His lips curved, but didn’t soften. The lines of his face seemed harsher, harder. Swiftly turning his head, he trapped her fingertip between his teeth. Bit gently. Then he drew it into his mouth, sucked… she blinked, then shuddered lightly.

He released her finger. His grin was so fleeting she nearly missed it. His arms tightened; he drew her back down, bent over her, paused to whisper in his dark sorceror’s voice, “Slow. As you wish. All you deserve.”

Then he kissed her.

Tony pressed deep, let the kiss, not just a meeting of lips but a melding of mouths, sink into realms they’d not previously explored. Let the drugging, absorbing effect take full hold… until they were captive, both trapped, held but not tightly within the web of their mutual desire. A desire that glowed, warm, alive, real, not yet red hot but a thing of flame.

She was with him, as committed as he to their road; he read it in her lips, through the way she met each increasingly explicit exchange, in the way her body, lithe and supple, lay lightly tensed, poised and willing in his arms.

Regardless, he held back, held his own desires in a grip of iron and focused solely on hers. On awakening them, coaxing them, stirring them—step by step, as he’d promised—into full-blown life.

She hadn’t been down this road before; to one of his experience that was clear. Her husband…was dead, of no importance now. He set himself to search out and eradicate any lingering difficulties, any unnecessary hesitations. Any instinctive drawing back. He was committed to teaching her what could be—what should be and would be between them. All the glory he was capable of summoning and laying at her feet.

Her chemise had no straps; a drawstring secured it above her breasts. He caressed, taunted, teased her breasts through the fine layer of silk, then tweaked the tie undone and slipped his hand beneath.

Closed it about one firm mound, and felt something in her, and in him, ease in sensual relief. He drew back from the kiss, lifted his head to look down as he played. As he filled his senses and hers with simple delight, with uncomplicated pleasure.

She—they—had been this far before; despite her harried breathing, despite her racing pulse, she didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. He could feel her gaze on his face, watching him savor her, watching him fall more deeply under her spell.

He glanced at her, caught the gleam of her eyes from under her weighted lids. His answering smile was tight, dangerous. Shifting his hold, he lifted her, raising her breasts, her spine bowing over his arm as he bent his head to do homage.

In that, he held nothing back. Deliberately sent fire racing through her veins, set desire chasing hard on its heels. Her fingers found his hair, tangled, clung, then clenched as he feasted. He took all he wished, all she wordlessly offered, gave her in return all the delight, all the tight, thrilling, illicitly intense pleasure his expertise could evoke.

Alicia gasped. Her body seemed no longer hers. He suckled more deeply. Taut in his arms, a soft moan escaped her, then the suction eased, and fire flared anew; hot and scalding, it raced through her to flow into the furnace building deep within her.

Her breasts were on fire, but it was the increasingly insistent, increasingly powerful demands of her body that gripped her, shook her. Unknown, as-yet-incomprehensible demands that threatened to overwhelm her, to sweep aside what wits she’d managed to cling to. She struggled against the tide; she wanted to know more, to learn what this and their next step would be. They’d gone no further than before—yet. He hadn’t even touched her curls—yet.

This time, she knew, and waited—for that knowing touch, that oh-so-illicit caress. Her whole body was taut, quivering in anticipation. Of that, of what would follow the delight, the almost excruciating pleasure he, with clear intent, lavished upon her.

His mouth was scalding as he tasted her sensitized skin. Her nipples ached with a deep-seated pain that was intensely sweet. Then he placed his hand, large and heavy, over her waist; through the silk, she felt its heat and hardness, felt her muscles leap.

He raised his head. Looked down at her breasts. Even in the dimness, she could see the possessiveness limning his features.

His gaze rose. Black, hot, it searched her face, read her features, then his eyes returned to hers. He held her gaze, held her awareness.

His hand drifted lower.

The silk softly shushed, the last barrier between his hand and her flesh. Flesh that now pulsed hotly, nerves that slowly, slowly tightened with expectation.

Almost negligently, he caressed her stomach, then his hand drifted to the curve of her hip, then followed the line of one thigh.

Tony watched her, watched her senses follow his hand, his fingers. He did nothing to break the spell, held aside his own clamorous instincts and forced himself to keep to the same slow steady pace that had, from the moment they’d entered the room, contributed to the magic.

Orchestrated it, built it.

He needed that magic. He didn’t just want to introduce her to passion, to take her and make her his. He wanted— needed—to expand her horizons, to bring her to know, to experience, and ultimately to want to explore the outer reaches of desire with him. To achieve that he needed to show her, to make her see and appreciate that there was a great deal more beyond the simple act.

So he held back his frustration, without compunction sacrified it to their greater good, closed his mind against the drumming insistence of even deeper instincts, those that had reacted to the thought of other men—other rakes—coveting her as he did, those instincts that still, beneath all else, prowled, prodded to possessive life by the nebulous threat of her involvement with Ruskin.

He pushed them all aside, and concentrated on her. On the tale told by her rapid breathing, the way her nerves leapt as he stroked down her thigh. The armchair was commodious; her legs were a heated weight across his lap. Against one firm thigh, he was hard as rock, rigid and aching, but relief was not in the cards, not tonight. He’d survive, but he was determined in recompense to advance their one small step.

Still holding her gaze, he closed his fingers about one knee and lifted it, shifted it, parting her thighs. She permitted it, but tensed; her breathing tightened. Intent, he kept her with him and stroked his fingers, his palm, up the sensitive inner face of her thigh.

All the way to where her tight curls brushed his fingertips. He smoothed them aside, in the same movement boldly cupped her. Set his hand to her softness and covered it. Claimed it.

She caught her breath, stopped breathing entirely. His gaze locked with hers, he held still, then, adhering to that same slow steady beat, he eased his palm back, and with his thumb and one finger began to explore her.

Alicia quivered, and followed his every move. She couldn’t do otherwise; he had her locked to him in some heightened state where she was shockingly aware of their flagrantly sexual play, where they were in some way connected so she both felt the sensations of his touch and simultaneously experienced something of his reaction.

Of what he felt as he learned her, caressed and boldly explored the soft, swollen folds between her thighs. She’d never known that part of her body to feel so hot, so wet, so achingly wanting. Pulsing, almost throbbing; her hips stirred, of their own volition lifted to his caress as if seeking more.

A glimmer of satisfaction flashed across his hard face. That he understood her body better than she did she didn’t doubt; his caresses changed, became subtly more deliberate, more potent.

More satisfying to both of them.

He was showing her, teaching her. She remembered his words as his thumb swirled knowingly about the tight pearl of sensation he’d found, that exquisitively sensitive spot that seemed pleasurably connected to every nerve she possessed. He swirled again and her whole body reacted; she arched lightly, heard herself gasp, let her lids fall.

“Stay with me.”

The deep words were an outright command. She forced her lids up, met his gaze. Tried to read it and failed. “Why?”

To her surprise, the single word was all sultry temptation. Not like her at all, or so she had thought, yet it was. Emboldened, she shifted her hands, until then slack on his shoulders, let her fingers stroke his nape.

In response, his fingers stroked, but more slowly, as if savoring the wetness they’d drawn forth.

“Because I want you to know this, and I want to know you—all of you. All that you feel, all that you enjoy.”

On the words, as if to demonstrate, his wicked fingers shifted, parting her folds, this time gently probing.

The action captured her attention. Completely. She moistened her lips; her gaze once again locked with his, she felt him ease one blunt fingertip between the slick folds.

Her body reacted, flushed, heated. She dragged in a tight breath. “One step.”

He held her gaze, his eyes black, intent. “Just one step.”

Slowly, he slid his finger into her.

Into the heated softness of her body, into the scalding furnace of her desire. Mentally gritting his teeth, Tony held tight to his reins and watched her outward attention splinter. Watched her focus inward, on the steady penetration of his finger into her tight sheath.

Her breathing was labored; she struggled to do as he’d asked and cling to the contact, to keep her eyes open, locked albeit unseeing on his.

Still keeping to their slow, steady rhythm, he reached as far as he could, gently pressed, then equally slowly reversed, until his fingertip reached the tight constriction that guarded her entrance. Then he reversed direction, deliberately pressing in, stroking the soft tissues, teasing the nerves and muscles beneath.

She lay in his arms, not passive but accepting, following, letting him learn her body even more intimately. Aware, as her widening eyes testified, of the building beat in her own body, of the heat, the burgeoning need.

Relentlessly, he built the rhythm until, with a small cry, she lifted against his hand. He pressed deeper, faster, clung to their visual contact as she climbed the peak, as her nails sank into his shoulders, her body bowing as the tension tightened. Heightened.

Then broke.

She came apart in his arms. The shocked awareness on her face, the stunned expression that was washed away as rapture took her, was a revelation—she’d never known the pleasure before.

As her lids drifted down, fierce satisfaction broke over him. His innate possessiveness roared, pleased beyond measure that it had been he who had brought her her first taste of sexual bliss.

He kept his hand between her thighs, one finger buried deep within her, savoring her contractions, the telltale ripples as her muscles relaxed into satiation. All her tension melted; as it did, he slid another finger in alongside the first, gently worked both deep. Stroked as she floated; she was so tight… Alfred Carrington had clearly been inadequate in more ways than one. When their time finally came, she’d need help stretching to accommodate him. Perhaps it was as well their time was not yet. Would likely be some while yet.

Eventually withdrawing his fingers from her softness, smoothing her chemise down, he settled back in the chair. And tried to ignore the musky scent that teased his senses, compounded by the warm weight of well-pleasured woman in his arms. Not an easy task.