Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

“Humph!” Kit pulled a face, and linked her arm in Alicia’s. “We’ve been deserted.” Surveying Adriana’s circle, she set her chin. “This is far too tame—come on.” She set off into the crowd, drawing Alicia with her. “Let’s find some useful distraction. I don’t know about you, but without it, I’ll go mad.”

Alicia laughed, and let herself be towed into the melée.

Gaining access to the records they sought wasn’t quite as easy as Tony had painted it, yet soon enough he and Jack were flicking through files in the offices above the coffee house, searching for, then poring over the bills of lading lodged for the other ten ships Ruskin had identified and which were subsequently taken.

While he worked, Tony’s mind revisited their logic, their strategies. “The connection had better not be through Lloyd’s itself.”

“Unlikely,” Jack answered from across the room. “As far as I know, they’ve never handled tea.”

Half an hour later, Tony wondered aloud, “In all of this”—he waved at the cabinets ringing the room—“do you think there’s any chance of identifying ships that docked with cargoes of tea or coffee say in the week before one that was taken?”

Jack looked up, then shook his head. “Needle in a haystack. Virtually every ship that passes through the Port of London will have a waybill in here. That’s often hundreds a day. We’d never be able to check enough to identify the ship we want.”

He resumed his searching. “Mind you, we will be able to confirm the link once we know the merchant and his shipping line.”

Tony nodded, and continued flipping through files.

It took them two hours to locate and examine the ten waybills. Then they quietly put the room to rights, eradicating any sign of their visit, and silently retreated from the room and the building.

By the time Tony reached Upper Brook Street, Mayfair was silent, the streets dark with shadows. Miranda, Adriana, and Alicia would have returned home long ago. They should all be asleep in their beds.

Closing the front door, he shot the well-oiled bolts, then crossed the hall. There was no lamp or candle left burning; Hungerford knew him better than that. Quite aside from his excellent night vision, he knew this house like the back of his hand, knew every creak in the stairs, every board that might groan.

At the top of the stairs, he turned away from the gallery leading to the east wing where Miranda, her daughters, and Adriana had their rooms, and headed for the room Alicia had been given, three doors from the master suite. Hand on the doorknob, he paused, struck by a sudden thought.

How had Mrs. Swithins known…?

The answer was obvious. He really was that transparent.

Grimacing, he turned the knob.

Alicia was in bed, but not asleep. Cocooned beneath the luxurious embroidered silk coverlet, silk sheets sliding seductively over her skin, she’d been waiting for the past hour, waiting to at least hear Tony’s footsteps, passing her door…or not, as the case might be.

Unable to sleep, made edgy by her own expectation— that he would come to her, that she wanted him to, even needed him to—an expectation she found somewhat damning—she was after all in his house, an old aristocratic mansion, yet while that fact might inhibit her, she doubted it would influence him—she had forcibly turned her mind to reviewing the day. A long day in which much had happened, and much had changed.

So easily.

That more than anything else, the ease with which the changes had been wrought, the ease with which she’d simply flowed into the position he’d created for her, niggled. In some odd way seemed to mock her. Everything had fallen into place so smoothly, she was still struggling to come to grips with the ramifications. As if he’d once more swept her off her feet, and her head had yet to stop whirling.

Not, for her, an uncommon feeling where he was concerned.

It wasn’t that she wished things were otherwise; she couldn’t convincingly argue against the move, not even to herself. But the uncertainty, the lack of clarity regarding her position here—the lack of sureness made it impossible to feel confident, at ease…

She never heard his footsteps; only a faint draft alerted her to the opening door. He was no more than a dark shadow slipping through; she recognized him instantly.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness; watching him cross the wide room toward her, she searched his face, all she could see of him, but could detect not even a limp. Kit’s worry had infected her, yet here he was unscathed, moving with his usual fluid grace toward the bed.

He stopped by a chair and sat, reaching down to pull off his boots. She sat up, wriggling in the sheets onto her side; he heard the shushing and glanced across, smiled a touch wearily.

“Did you find the lists? From the other ships?”

He nodded. Setting his boots aside, he stood, stretched.

“We found all ten—your theory was right. It’s tea and coffee that’s the link.”

He lowered his arms, weary tension falling from him.

She watched him undress—coat, cravat, waistcoat, and shirt hit the chair. Realizing her mouth was dry, she swallowed, forced her gaze to his face. “So now we have to look for the merchant.”

He nodded, looking down, bending down as he stripped off his trousers. “With all of us involved, that won’t take long.” Straightening, he grimaced. “Maybe a week.” He flung the trousers at the chair, then turned to the bed.

Her pulse leapt. “So we’re one step away from identifying A. C?”

“One step.” Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. Dropping them, he turned to her. Framed her face with his hands and kissed her.

Deeply, thoroughly, druggingly… until she was swept away, her mind whirling on a sensual tide.

Leaving one hand cupping her jaw, with the other Tony reached down and tugged the sheet from between them, then settled his body against hers. Letting the sheets fall, he plundered her soft mouth while with his palm he traced the long, smooth curve from her shoulder, over the supple planes of her back to the swell of her bottom, molding her to him, easing her beneath him, spurred by the realization that her skin was already warm, by the immediate leap of her pulse to the caress, the dewed flush that spread over the silken skin of her bottom, the evidence of her arousal he discovered when he pressed his hand down between them, slid his fingers between her thighs, and found her.

Ready, waiting, urgent for him.

He pressed her back into the bed, parted her thighs with his and filled her, surged slowly into her, taking his time, glorying in the ease with which he could forge in, in the way she tilted her hips and took him deep, to the fluid harmony with which they then moved, sliding into the dance their bodies now knew so well.

A different dance to any he’d enjoyed with any other woman.

Mouths melded, tongues tangling, hot yet languid, their bodies moved, merged, flexed to a rhythm that held a deeper tune, a more powerful cadence.

A heady, dizzying delight, a pleasure that soared higher and reached deeper, that slid past their slick skins, through muscle and bone, past straining sinews and tightening nerves to their cores. To touch, sink into, and hold something there.

Something precious, fragile, yet strong enough to fuse their hearts.

He sensed it before they’d even started to scale the peak. Their bodies held, thrummed with, a driving urgency, yet they had the strength to dally—neither was in any rush, delighting instead in every small touch, each delicate caress.

Slowly, powerfully, he rode her, feeling her body surrender and take him in, feeling the heat of her draw him deeper, tempting him further into her fire. He went, but kept the reins firmly in his hands, as always orchestrating the moment; after all these years, pleasuring women was all but second nature.