Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (24 page)

“Take it off,” she ordered him imperiously, tapping at his shirt.

He lifted to do so, pulling the shirt over his head, and then he lay sprawled against the mound of pillows, all naked chest. She sat back on his legs to look her fill, and if she did so to store the image in a corner of her mind, she tried not to think about it too much. His head was cocked back, his shaggy brown hair falling in tangled waves to his shoulders and, oh, his shoulders! If she had the money, she’d commission a sculpture of him nude and never regret the expenditure. His shoulders were mounded with muscle, wide and strong, with upper arms she doubted she could span with both hands. His dark nipples were peaked in a chest the color of sunlight, the dark hairs between making a lovely masculine contrast. Why painters never showed male hair she could not fathom. Wasn’t that part of what made a man? Hair upon the body? In any case she loved his.

She stroked a single finger through his chest hairs and when he made to move shook her head firmly. “Don’t. I’m not finished.”

His eyes narrowed, but he only said, “As you will.”

She bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling and traced through the divided muscles of his belly to his navel. She circled that lightly, watching as his belly contracted in reaction. Farther down she followed the trail of dark hair that led to his groin. His penis lay slightly to the side, pulsing. His foreskin had pulled back, revealing his glistening head. She stared frankly, for if he found her lovely, she found him devastating.

She ducked and took him into her mouth, warm and bitter, without waiting to think or ask if it was permissible. She wanted him—all of him.

He jackknifed at her sudden movement, and she saw, out of the corners of her eyes, his hands hovering, fingers spread, on either side of her head, as if he didn’t know quite what to do.

Well, neither did she—she’d never done this before—but she wasn’t going to let inexperience keep her from this moment.

She sucked lightly at the head, tasting bitter salt, holding him to her mouth with both hands. She ran her tongue slowly around the silky head and then along the edge of his taut foreskin.

He moaned above, though she doubted this was helping him much. After all, it was nothing like the motion he made inside her.

That led to another thought and she gave him an open-mouthed kiss before looking up. “What do you do when you’re alone?”

He blinked sleepily, eyes widening. “What?”

He must know exactly what she meant. A corner of her mouth kicked up. Had she shocked him? “Show me, please.”

She sat back, releasing her hold on him. She watched as he grasped himself with his right hand, pausing.

She bent and kissed him again, the moisture at the tip slipping over her lips. She looked up into his eyes from her position and whispered, “Please?”

His nostrils flared and he nodded, stroking his closed fist up, and then palming the head to spread the seeping moisture around. He stroked down, much faster and
stronger than she would’ve done herself, and she watched in absolute fascination. How often did he do this? And what did he think about when he did?

She looked up to see that he’d flung his arm across his eyes like a debauched faun, the muscle of his upper arm bunched, the tufts of underarm hair strangely erotic. She leaned forward, licking his chest as his fist bumped against her belly and he started.

“Don’t stop,” she husked, scooting closer, and closer still until his hand was rubbing against her with every stroke, his knuckles brushing through her lips. She ground her pelvis down on his hand as she drew aside the arm covering his eyes and took his face in her hands, kissing him deeply.

He placed his hand on her bottom, urging her closer as he aimed himself, and with one thrust entered her. She leaned forward so that the angle pressed the apex of her slit against his pelvic bone. Then she began to ride him, fast and hard, grinding against him with every downstroke, using him to pleasure herself. She was trembling, her body melting with the heat and desire they made between them, and she watched him as she rode his cock. He swallowed, his eyes on her, his upper lip curled.

Until she saw stars and she had to close her own eyes. She swiveled against him, finding that spot—that perfect spot of friction and heat—and sobbed aloud as she came, her body liquid with melting desire.

He took her hips and thrust forcefully up into her as she curled down into him, holding on as he slammed repeatedly into her, finding his own release. Finding his own point of desire.

And afterward, as she lay exhausted against him, tracing a finger through his sweat-dampened hair, she wondered if there was a way back to her old life after this.

Or if he’d led her into a maze in which she’d be lost forever.

Apollo crept down the corridor toward his uncle’s study.

Well. As much as a man his size
could
creep.

It was past midnight and as far as he could tell all the guests were asleep, including Lily. He’d had to leave her sweet warmth to go investigating, and he hoped it wouldn’t take long.

He wanted to return to her.

The door to his uncle’s study was unlocked, thank God, and he ducked inside as quietly as he could. It wasn’t a very big room. A single bookshelf appeared to hold ledgers, with a table and chair in front of it, while a desk and chair stood at one end near a fireplace.

Apollo crossed to the desk and set the candle he’d
brought on a corner. The top of the desk held only a jar of quills and an inkpot on a blotter. He went around the desk and sat in the chair to try the middle of the three drawers that ran across the front of the desk. It was unlocked and he drew it easily open to find a thin pile of papers, a pencil, and a penknife. Nothing else.

Frowning, he tried the left-hand drawer and found it entirely empty. Obviously his uncle wasn’t much of a man of business—which might be the reason he was so deeply in debt. The right-hand drawer, unlike the other two, was locked.

Apollo had his head bent, examining the lock as well as he could in the dim light, when a voice interrupted.

“What are you doing at my desk, sirrah?”

Apollo nearly hit his head on the desk. He looked up and found his uncle frowning at him. He opened his mouth to lie… and found he was simply too tired to do so.

He sat back in his uncle’s chair, making it squeak with his weight. “I’m looking for evidence that you murdered three men in order to steal my inheritance and title.”

The older man’s mouth dropped open. “You… what?”

Apollo sighed. “I’m your nephew, Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne.” He bowed mockingly. “At your service, naturally.”

“Kilbourne…” William Greaves backed up, nearly dropping his candle. “You’re mad.”

“No,” Apollo said patiently, if a little grimly, “I’m really not, and you of all people should know it.”

“Why’re you here?” William asked, apparently not following the conversation at all.

Apollo started to rise, but the other man gave a little
shriek and held out both hands. “Stay where you are! Don’t come near!”

“Uncle,” Apollo said quietly.

“No!” The other man dashed from the room, moving quite swiftly considering his age.

Apollo’s brows rose.

“Help! Help! Murder!” screamed his uncle, his voice diminishing as he ran away.

Well, that settled that.

Apollo picked up the candle and strode out of the room. He met a single footman as he made his way to Lily’s room, but he simply nodded and kept walking. Below, he could hear the household rousing as his uncle called the alarm.

Miraculously, she was still sleeping when he entered her bedroom.

He sighed, taking one last look at her peacefully slumbering form, and then reached down and shook her shoulder hard. “Lily.”

“What?” she asked sleepily. She sat up as she heard the commotion. “Apollo!”

“Shh.” He sat on the side of the bed. “I love you.”

Her eyes went wide. “I…”

“There isn’t time,” he said calmly. “My uncle has discovered me and will come with all his footmen to detain me soon. I have to flee.”

She blinked and took a deep breath. “Of course.”

“Meet me tomorrow night,” he said, looking into her eyes to make sure she didn’t mistake him. “In the garden by the pond where you saw me bathing. Do you remember?”

“I… yes.” Even now he was charmed by the blush that pinkened her cheeks.

“About six of the clock, I think. If there’s any trouble, send word to Makepeace,” he said, rising. There were footsteps approaching. He turned and kissed her fast and hard. “I love you. Never forget that.”

Then he rushed the door.

There were two footmen plus the middle-aged butler. Apollo shoved the butler out of his way, and would’ve done the same to the footmen had not one swung at him. Apollo knocked aside the man’s blow and drove the point of his elbow into the man’s belly, doubling him over. The remaining footman backed up a step, obviously torn between duty and the desire to keep his ribs intact. Apollo feinted with his right and when the man flinched back, gave him an additional push to make him fall. Then he was running down the hall past half-dressed ladies and gentlemen who didn’t do very much to stop him.

Wheeling around the corner, he half slid down the main staircase, past a startled Mr. Warner, obviously returning from a room
not
his own—most interesting—and then he was out the front doors and running.

Running into the black night.

He could hear the shouts behind him, and then hoofbeats gaining on him fast. He whirled at the last minute, hands up, ready to dodge the horse.

Only to find the Duke of Montgomery pulling a great black beast to a half-rearing halt.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the duke snapped, for once discomposed. He thrust out a hand. “Get on!”

H
E
’
D SAID THAT
he loved her.

Lily stared at the doorway, not sure she should believe what had just happened.

He loved her.

What did that mean to him? Was he going to offer to keep her? Or was it something he said to every woman he bedded?

But no. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she disregarded it. Apollo was a good man. If he said he loved her—loved
her
—then he did.

She sat in the bed, entirely nude, the coverlet pulled over her breasts, and felt a strange, tenuous feeling: happiness. Ridiculous. She didn’t even know if he’d escaped—and she had more than enough proof from Richard and Kitty’s marriage that aristocracy and actresses couldn’t mix. But…

He would escape. He was strong and determined and he was Apollo. He’d battled past the footmen and butler and the other gentlemen guests were certainly no match for him. He’d escape and she’d meet him in the garden tomorrow, and…

And what?

Perhaps they could find a way. He wasn’t the usual aristocrat, after all, and… and she loved him.

She shivered, thinking about it, such a risk, not only for herself, but also for Indio and Maude. Could she risk their happiness as well?

“He has good taste at least.”

She started at the strange voice and saw George Greaves stroll into the room as if he were entering an afternoon tea party.

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“As well you should, you little whore,” he said without any heat at all. He closed the door behind him.

Lily fisted her hands, prepared to jump out of the bed and run—nude, if she had to. “Get out of my room.”

“
My
room, actually—or my father’s, which amounts to the same thing,” George said, taking a chair and placing it so he faced the bed. “You, Miss Goodfellow, have abused my father’s hospitality.”

“In what way?”

He crossed his legs and she noticed that he was completely dressed in breeches, waistcoat, coat, and immaculately tied neckcloth. What had he been doing as his guests slept? “You’ve been conspiring with my cousin, it seems, against my family.”

“Not conspiring,” she said, hoping against hope that this might be explained away. “He didn’t murder those men. He just wants to prove it.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asked with clear contempt. “As I said,
conspiring
with my cousin,
Lord
Kilbourne, perhaps to kill us all in our beds.”

“
What?
” She stared at the man. Did George Greaves truly believe that Apollo had come here to murder everyone in their beds? He must realize how ridiculous that sounded.

“He’s a madman—everyone knows it and I’m tired of him dragging down the family name.” He looked at her with a reddened face, his eyes bulging.

Oh, dear.
Perhaps George was the real madman in the family. Lily put on her most fluffy-headed female face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand all these matters and it’s not quite nice for you to be in here when I haven’t even my chemise on. If you’ll just go—”

“My
father
should’ve been the viscount, not my mad uncle or his bloodthirsty son,” George said, and Lily wondered if he’d even heard her. “Ridiculous that the family line has sunk into the mire of insanity and mental disease. I’m going to put a stop to this outrage once and for all.”

Lily blinked and then shook her head, taking a deep breath. Fluffy-headedness hadn’t worked. Perhaps bluntness would. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” George said precisely, “your connection to my cousin has provided me with an opportunity to end all this. You’re going to help me right the wrong. Kilbourne has escaped into the night, I have no idea where, but I’m sure
you
do.”

“I don’t,” she said immediately. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. He’s probably decided to flee England.”

His smile wasn’t amused at all. “No, I doubt that very much. And it would be a very great pity if you don’t know where he’s headed, because if you don’t then I have no further use for you—or your supposed son.”

“What…” She swallowed, her throat thickening. “What do you mean?”

“I believe you call him Indio? A boy of about seven with one blue eye and one green.”

“How do you know about Indio?” she breathed, bewildered.

For a moment George’s eyes flickered to the side before he glared at her. “Eyes just like my good friend Lord Ross.”

She simply stared at him. She ought to get up, dress, and leave the room. Walk out of here and forget everything he’d insinuated. But there was Indio.

Indio.

“Have you met his wife?” he asked softly. “Daughter of a rather wealthy marquis. Ross was ecstatic to’ve caught such a wife. Mind, a large portion of her dowry is tied to her eldest son’s inheriting his name. He won’t be very pleased to find that his perfect little lordling has been
displaced by a child got on an
actress
. God only knows what Ross would do if he found that his eldest son still lives. Really, I wouldn’t give tuppence for the boy’s life.”

She sat in silence, her world crashing down around her ears, because there wasn’t any choice, any hope for her and Apollo. Probably there never had been any hope. It’d been the dream of a silly girl, easily burned away with the rising of the sun.

He’d said he loved her.
Something in her clenched, sharp and painful, as if she’d been cut deep inside and the blood were slowly leaking out where no one could see.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

She was a mother and Indio was her son.

She lifted her chin and looked George Greaves dead in the eye, and she was oddly proud that there was no tremor in her voice when she said, “What do you want me to do?”