Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (22 page)

“Apollo,” she moaned, grasping his hair. “Please.”

He licked up over her breasts, finding the rise of her shoulder and biting there.

Her fingers moved in a shaking flurry between them and he realized she was scrabbling at his falls, but before he could help her, she had them open.

Had them open and had him in her hand.

He froze, groaning, trembling at her touch. Her cool fingers circled him confidently, stroking up once before caressing his head, exploring where he wept liquid tears.

She pulled one hand away and he saw, in the moonlight, as she drew a single wet finger to her lips and sucked.

That was too much.

He had her turned before she could make another move. He ripped off his coat and threw it down before one of the benches edging the pool.

“Kneel,” he said, and his voice was a guttural rasp that made him wince.

She obeyed, though, as if sacrificing herself to some ancient monster. “Like this?” And the look she gave him over her shoulder was enough to make him swallow hard.

“Exactly like that,” he said, kneeling behind her. He pulled up her skirts reverently, as though he unveiled a work of art, seeing first the gleam of her white stockings in the moonlight, then the silver of her thighs.

Then the rounded mounds of her arse. Her delightfully carnal arse, curved and sweet, that secret darkness between. If he died right now, he’d dream for all eternity of Lily’s arse and be happy.

He laid her skirts over her back and ran his fingertips over her buttocks, watching as she shivered.

“Spread your legs for me,” he ordered.

She shifted, revealing more of herself, though the darkness kept her tantalizingly modest.

He ran his finger down the dip between her cheeks, slowly, until he encountered her moisture.

“Apollo,” she whispered, wiggling just a little.

“Do you like that?” His words were nearly slurred as if he were drunk on her feminine scent.

“You know I do,” she said, bending farther. She put her head in her arms on the stone bench, jutting out her hips farther, as if she were presenting herself, a mare to be mounted.

God, he wanted her.

He took his cock in hand and crawled closer, close enough that he could run his cockhead through her weeping slit.

She moaned and arched her back, forcing herself against him.

He couldn’t think. Could only feel—and want. He shoved his prick into position, placing his palm on the small of her back to hold her still. He didn’t want to hurt her—and if he moved too fast he was liable to spill.

He eased into her tight, hot passage, throwing his head back, staring blindly at the starlit cosmos. She was so wet for him, so slick and beautiful, that tears gathered at the corners of his eyes even as he thrust and thrust again. He pushed into that sweet tunnel, uniting them, making them one, until his flesh and her flesh merged.

And then he separated them again, drawing entirely out, just so he could feel again the wonderful pleasure of joining.

She whimpered, her face against her arms, and he bent over her, his woman, his Lily, surrounding, protecting, claiming her as his. “What do you want, love?”

“Th… that.”

He licked the bared nape of her neck. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” she whispered. “I want your cock in me. I want you to fill me and stuff me full until I can’t talk or remember my own name.”

He lost all control at her words. He reared, withdrawing and slamming back into her, the man entirely subsumed in the animal. All he was, all he could feel was his cock conquering her pussy, making her his mate for now, forever.

He bowed over her and bit into the back of her neck, holding her hips still so that he could plow into her over and over again until he felt her shudder under him, contracting around him. She moaned, low and lost, as she came, and he knelt up then, never stopping, never slowing, pounding as she trembled beneath him until he threw back his head and roared his own release into the night.

The stars whirled above them as he slowly sank back over her, panting, wondering if he’d ever again regain his humanity.

Or if he’d lost it forever to this woman.

Lily woke late the next morning with a feeling of both elation and dread. Elation because she would see Apollo again. She knew now that their liaison would by necessity be short. Soon she’d have to go back to her own life and he to his—wherever that was. Aristocrats and average persons could not permanently join—at least not happily. Their worlds were too different, the imbalance of power between highborn and low simply too great. Even if he cared for her in some way, Apollo would have to wed a lady of his own rank one day. Lily hadn’t the heart to be a mistress. But knowing that their time together was finite made it all the sweeter. She vowed to enjoy every minute left to her.

But her anticipation at seeing Apollo again was tempered by a feeling of dread. At a house party there was no way she could avoid Richard forever.

She pushed the second thought aside, however, and made sure to walk down to luncheon with Moll.

All the guests were gathered there, it seemed, for it was quite late—nearly one of the clock—and well past the time a working person might break his fast. Of course working people didn’t stay awake dancing past dawn, either.

Three large tables had been set up to accommodate so many at once and footmen were moving swiftly, bringing coffeepots and plates of cold meats, coddled eggs, and rolls. Lily saw Apollo almost at once and shared a secret smile with him. Then she glanced around and found Richard, sitting next to a pleasant-looking woman who had to be his wife.

Lily felt nothing but pity for her.

She ducked her head and marched determinedly with Moll toward a table holding John, the Warners, and, unfortunately, her brother. But it was on the opposite side of the room from Richard and that, at least, made it the best choice. When she glanced up again, Apollo was frowning thoughtfully at him.

Damn. The man was much too perceptive.

“Miss Bennet,” lovely Mr. Warner exclaimed as they approached. He rose at once, followed more slowly by Edwin and John. “And Miss Goodfellow. What a splendid accomplishment your production was last night. Mrs. Warner and I enjoyed ourselves enormously. And you must be very proud of your brother, for I understand he is the playwright.” He turned and beamed at Edwin, who, for once, seemed a bit taken aback by the approbation.

“Indeed,” John said. “Mr. Stump is well known in the theater community for the intelligence and wit of his plays. I’ve acted in two myself.”

“How wonderful,” exclaimed little Mrs. Warner. “You are very talented, Mr. Stump. I vow I would not be able to write a single line, let alone five entire acts.”

Lily met her brother’s eyes and saw a shadow of guilt there. She really ought to be used to seeing him lauded for her own work. Still, it hurt, just the tiniest bit, like a pinched heart.

An odd look came over Edwin’s narrow face and suddenly he threw wide his arms. “Gentlepeople! Might I have your ears!”

The other guests turned, faces startled or expectant according to their personalities.

Edwin was in his element with an audience. He bowed and strutted to the middle of the room. “I have received many accolades for the play you enjoyed last night, but now I must reveal to you the real talent, the real playwright of
A Wastrel Reform’d
.” Edwin paused for a pregnant second and then turned and bowed to Lily. “My own sister, Miss Robin Goodfellow!”

Even knowing what he might say, Lily was caught by surprise. For a moment she simply stared, wide-eyed, at her brother. Then, grinning, he took her hand and drew her to the center of the room.

The guests rose, clapping, and she could do nothing but curtsy and curtsy again. In the back of the room a footman tapped on Mr. William Greaves’s shoulder and leaned close to whisper something in his ear before Mr. Greaves turned and left the room.

Amid the uproar, Lily looked at her brother. “Why?”

He shrugged, his look rueful. She wondered if he’d already begun to regret his decision to reveal the authorship of her plays. “It was time,” he murmured, close to her ear because the applause was continuing. “And, no matter my own self-interest and pettiness, I do love you, Sister.”

Tears sparkled in her eyes and she threw her arms around her brother. Over his shoulder she could see Apollo, standing and clapping with the other guests, his eyes full of pride.

A
POLLO WATCHED
L
ILY
blush and smile as she was finally acknowledged for the words she’d written. He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, to congratulate her himself, but they hadn’t progressed to a point where he could claim her in public—yet. So instead he used the distraction to slip from the room.

Outside the breakfast room, footmen scurried back and forth, paying him no mind. He strode down the hall and ducked around the corner. His uncle’s study was at the back of the house on this floor, in an area normally reserved for the family.

He was nearly at the door when he was hailed from behind.

“Mr. Smith.”

He turned to find his uncle staring at him in puzzlement. “Might I help you, Mr. Smith? I fear there is nothing of interest down this way, merely my own study.”

“I apologize,” Apollo said easily. “I must’ve gotten turned around.”

“Quite.” The older man’s gaze sharpened on him and he cocked his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Smith. Have we perchance met before?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Apollo replied, holding his uncle’s gaze. It was the truth, after all: he had no memory of his father’s family’s ever visiting when he was young, save for the one time his grandfather had come to announce Apollo’s enrollment in Harrow.

“Strange,” the older man murmured as they turned back toward the front of the house and the rest of the party. “But I find that something about you is reminiscent of…” He trailed away, shaking his head. “I feel that I’ve seen you before.”

He slowed as they came to the end of the corridor, and although Apollo wanted to rush away, he made himself slow as well.

“My father,” the older man said suddenly, “the earl, is a big man. I used to be quite afeard of him as boy. Broad shoulders like a bull, huge hands.” He seemed lost in a not entirely happy memory. “My brother and I did not inherit his frame—much to my father’s chagrin—but I’m told my nephew is at least as large as my father. And, of course, my son George bears him some resemblance.”

He looked at Apollo and there was a sort of frightened question in his eyes.

“Mr. Greaves.”

Both men looked up at the low voice. A servant stood at the other end of the hall, backlit by the window there.

“Ah, Vance,” the older man said. “There you are.” He turned back to Apollo. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Smith?”

“Of course,” Apollo murmured. He watched as his uncle walked to the manservant.

“I hope you have the matter well in hand?” William Greaves asked.

“Just as you ordered, sir, but if I may…” Vance leaned
toward his master, murmuring something in his ear. As he did so, he turned his head just enough for his face to be revealed. Vance had a port-wine stain over much of his left cheek and chin.

Apollo stepped back, merging into the shadows of the corridor, his heart beating fast. He’d seen that face.

Four years ago in a tavern in Whitechapel.

He waited as the two men disappeared into Greaves’s study before slipping back to the breakfast room. It was simply too much of a coincidence for his uncle to have in his employ a man who’d been in the tavern that night. Was he an assassin? Had his uncle sent Vance that night to do such ugly work?

When he reentered the breakfast room, the guests were still dining. Quietly he slipped back into his seat beside the Duke of Montgomery.

“Did you learn anything?” His Grace asked casually as he buttered a piece of toast.

“In the necessary?” Apollo knit his brows as if confused.

“Come now,” the duke said. “Don’t prevaricate with a master like myself.”

He crunched into his toast.

Apollo sighed. He didn’t trust Montgomery, but at the moment the man was his only ally. “William Greaves’s valet was there at the tavern—the night before the murders.”

Montgomery paused mid-crunch. “You’re sure?”

Apollo gave him a look. “The man has a conspicuous port-wine stain on his face.”

“Ah.” The duke swallowed. “Then it seems to me that we ought to find out how long the man has been in William Greaves’s employ.”

“How—?”

But before Apollo could finish his question the duke had leaned forward over the table. “I say, George, how long has your father had that valet of his?”

“Three years,” George Greaves replied slowly, looking between the duke and Apollo.

Apollo swore to himself and hunched over his plate of eggs.

The duke, naturally, wasn’t perturbed at all. “Strange. Saw a man with a birthmark just like his in Cyprus two years ago.”

Cyprus?
Apollo glanced up casually to see if George Greaves had bought this ridiculous story.

Judging by his suspicious look, he had not.

Apollo sighed as the other guests chattered around them. “What the hell was that?” he hissed at Montgomery.

“A question.” The duke reached for another piece of toast.

“Did you mean to alert him to our investigation on purpose?” Apollo growled.

“Yes and no.” Montgomery shrugged. “I’m bored. Nothing’s happening. Sometimes it’s best to send the fox into the chicken house to see if a snake slithers out.”

Apollo glared. “You know nothing at all about chickens.”

“Don’t I?” Montgomery smiled winsomely as he slathered butter on his new piece of toast. “If you think that, then perhaps you really ought not to be taking my advice on poultry, hmm?”

Well, and that was the question, wasn’t it?
Apollo thought as he took a bitter sip of coffee. Should he be trusting the duke with anything at all?

He glanced again at his cousin, blithely drinking his tea. George had said that Vance hadn’t been in William’s employ four years ago. But that didn’t mean William couldn’t have known Vance at the time of the murders. And, of course, George might’ve simply lied. Perhaps father and son had acted together. After all, it was to George’s benefit as well should Apollo be hanged.

Apollo shook his head, taking a bite of coddled eggs. If only he had concrete evidence against his uncle.

That decided him.

He had to take another chance at his uncle’s study—tonight.

A
POLLO WAS IN
her rooms again when Lily returned that night. She should have been outraged at his presumption, but all she felt was happiness tinged with sadness.

She doubted that they’d last much beyond this house party. He’d find the murderer and justice and return to his life, she was sure of it. Apollo had a sort of calm resolve that she’d seen before in men who got what they wanted. He was born to be an earl and he would be someday.

An actress had no place in such a life.

As the days of the party passed, so too did their time together.

“You look pensive,” he said quietly, holding his hand out from where he lay on the bed. He wore only his shirt and breeches.

She went to him without protest. Why pretend when they really had so little time left together?

He gathered her against him, her back to his front, and began plucking the pins from her coiffure. “Have I told you how much I admire your hair?”

“It’s just plain brown,” she murmured.

“Plain, lovely brown,” he replied, raising a lock he’d freed to his face.

“Are you smelling my hair?” she asked in amusement.

“Yes.”

“Silly man,” she said lightly.

“Smitten man,” he corrected, spreading her hair over her shoulders. “I’ve been watching you today.”

“In between escorting Miss Royle about the garden?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“Yes. I’d rather it’d been you, but that wouldn’t’ve been prudent.” He frowned down at the strands of her hair caught between his fingers. “Or, perhaps, safe.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

“My uncle commented that I looked like my grandfather today, and then later Montgomery said some rather unwise words to my cousin.”

She turned all the way so she could see his face clearly. There was a small dent between his brows. “They’ve discovered who you are?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. My uncle suspects, I think, but only that. As for my cousin…” He trailed away, shaking his head. “That I simply don’t know.”

“You need to be careful,” she said, placing her hand on his chest. “Your uncle killed before to prevent you gaining your title. There’s nothing to stop him doing so again.”

“I can take care of myself,” he said, smiling indulgently down at her.