His Sinful Secret (15 page)

Of enjoyment.

How the devil someone so innocent and untried could make a sound like that and send heat spiking through his blood he wasn’t sure, but she did. There was also the shadow of her long lashes on her cheeks, the tinting of arousal in her face, and the heave of her luscious breasts against his chest.

With long, slow strokes he started to move in and out, his cock withdrawing and plunging deep as he strove to take them both to the summit. She caught the motion easily, her hips undulating into every surge, a moan escaping her lips as her eyes drifted shut. Such unrestrained enjoyment fueled his own pleasure. In the past, his lovers had always been experienced women who knew what they wanted and understood the subtle games between the opposite sexes. This was different. Her sensuality was his alone and Michael found he was possessive of it.

The feeling was unique.

He watched her as her climax rose, responded to the shuddering in her body, saw the deepened color in her face. He leaned forward and brushed her mouth with his as she tightened her clasp on his biceps to a fevered degree. “Let it happen,” he urged.

“I . . . I . . .”

Whatever she was going to say was lost as she uttered a low, keening cry and stiffened. It was like the flood-gates opening for his straining body, and he went still a moment later, milked by her inner tremors, his seed spilling in a tempestuous release that tore the breath from his lungs.

It took conscious effort not to collapse on top of her, and he rolled, his face buried in the silken mass of her disheveled hair, his ragged respiration loud in the otherwise quiet room. Their limbs were entwined, the embrace still intimate, and as they both gradually relaxed, somehow it became
more
intimate.

How the hell is that possible?
Michael pondered the question, unmoving, liking the warm, soft feel of her length against him, with him, part of him. How could pleasure take on a whole new meaning with a woman he’d never wanted in the first place, not to mention someone so untutored he was her only lover?

Julianne stirred. She turned her head enough to look at him and a tremulous smile curved that soft, sweet mouth. “I take it you are recovered?”

Was it a sexual innuendo? He doubted it and hoped not. A second performance was still at least a little while away. He couldn’t help a muffled laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

“From your injury.”

That damned inconvenient knife wound. Since she really hadn’t asked about it except that first night, he’d hoped she wouldn’t mention it again. Michael looked into her eyes and smiled. “I’m fine, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I can’t ever tell anything about you.”

A flicker of warning went through him despite his physical contentment. He levered up on one elbow and his hand lifted and brushed a stray silken curl off her smooth shoulder. “I am not sure how to respond to that,” he answered truthfully. “I’m afraid I am a private man, Julianne. It is something you are just going to have to adjust to. Changing one’s nature isn’t an easy thing to do.”

She gazed back, and he reflected that while she might find him guarded—and he was, deliberately so—she was quite the opposite. Her beautiful eyes held a wistful quality that told him a great deal. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised someone as young as Julianne would want a more romantic, attentive husband, but he neither had the time nor the inclination to become more involved than he had to be.

In truth, he was protecting her by keeping his distance.

“I am not asking you to change, my lord. I wouldn’t presume. But I think it would be nice if we shared more than a bed each night.”

Juggling the necessary obligations that came with his title, the estates he now owned, investments,
and
his duties to the Crown left very little time to dance attendance on his new wife. Michael said, “I am a busy man.”

“If you knew me a little better, you might like me.” Her smile trembled just a little. “I’m told I am tolerable company by my friends.”

That was undoubtedly true. She was unspoiled for someone born to privilege and wealth, especially since she was also beautiful. For that he was grateful. But she was proving to be a little too perceptive despite her youth. “I’m your husband, not your friend.”

At once he knew he’d made a mistake.

“I . . . see. I fear we have very different views on what a marriage should be, my lord. I admit I am surprised. Your parents obviously love each other very much.”

Michael weighed his answer, for the flash of hurt that crossed her lovely face made him experience an unwanted pang of remorse. He murmured, “They are the exception and not the rule among aristocratic alliances, my dear. You surely know that.”

“I think rules are merely guidelines and some are made to be broken.” She lay there, framed in the mass of her shining hair, the gauntlet thrown, but it was one he could not pick up.

An unwilling smile rose at the defiant tilt of her chin, but he couldn’t explain to her his motivations. His cynical thoughts on the subject of love would also disillusion her, so what choice did he have but to deflect the conversation to something else? Or maybe it was best to end it altogether. “Your hair is such an unusual color,” he murmured, lifting a handful and rubbing it between his fingers. “I confess I am not poetic, but it reminds me of rich sable, not quite brown, not quite black, and with a subtle ruby hint.” He let go and dropped his hand, lightly skimming down to circle one perfect, pink nipple with a questing fingertip. “At night, my time is yours. Shall we use it wisely?”

“In other words, the discussion is over?” She phrased it delicately, but there was an overtone of resentment in her voice.

Yes, Julianne was definitely too insightful for his peace of mind. He lowered his mouth and licked the luscious underside of one enchanting breast. “I’m afraid we are going to be otherwise occupied.”

L
awrence tipped back in his chair and regarded Antonia with jaded contemplation. Today she played the demure widow in a simple green gown, her dark hair looped into a chignon at her slender nape, no jewelry or other ornamentation. The expression on her face was schooled to indifference, but he wasn’t fooled. Slowly, he asked, “You are certain you wish to do this?”

“Of course I do. If I didn’t, why would I suggest it?” There was an edge to her tone.

He recognized it. It usually meant she was restless and needed action of some kind. Too much time on her hands and she brooded over the past, so maybe it was for the best that she take on the task. “It’s a rather bold move, my lady. He may not like it.”

They sat in Lord Taylor’s study, the room still redolent with the background aroma of aging tobacco smoke and brandy, the desktop holding documents and correspondence of the most banal quality: invitations to balls and dinners, the newspaper, cards from callers, personal letters. In the locked drawers, though, two of which had secret backs he had personally had installed, there were messages and contraband code guides that would be disastrous if they fell into the wrong hands.

The repercussions of war, he’d discovered, were never quite over.

Antonia practically jumped to her feet and prowled across the room. She paused by one of the bookcases, ran a finger along the spine of a leather-bound book, and then turned. In the afternoon light she looked lush and her olive skin held a glow despite her conservative mode of dress and hairstyle. “Michael is preoccupied, or he might have come up with this on his own.”

It was impossible for Lawrence to cover his snort of derision. “I doubt somehow he wants you near his little bride, and though he’s no saint, he would never ask it of his former mistress to protect his wife. I know him well enough to say that with certainty.”

“I was his lover, not his mistress.”

He inclined his head, uncertain why the difference was important to her, but when it came to Longhaven, she was touchy. “As you wish.”

She went on stubbornly. “Two attempts have been made on his life. Now he has a weak spot in
her
to lure him into danger. Roget is no fool. Once he learns of the marriage—and I am sure he already knows with his far-reaching resources—it is a natural step to aim in that direction. A man trailing around behind her would be noticed and spark alarm. Someone like me, a social equal, a friend of her husband’s, will seem natural enough. I will strike up more of an acquaintance. Besides, we go to many of the same functions already. I’ll keep an eye out for any sign of a threat.”

“Johnson has noticed nothing so far. No one following the marquess, no others watching that ostentatious pile of rock he lives in, no suspicious additions to the household. It could be the two attacks were really random attempts to rob him. After all, he was in dangerous places both times, and while he may think he can disguise his nobility, he carries himself a certain way.” Lawrence watched her agitated pacing and added, “Born into a family such as his, what else can you expect?”

“
I
was born into such a family,” Antonia said with audible, acid pain. “It is no guarantee of happiness and privilege. It did not help us when the French overran our home and slaughtered everyone they encountered. Don’t preach to me about status and wealth. It can be snatched away at a moment’s notice.”

She reminded him always of a wounded bird. In Antonia’s case, not some pretty songbird, but a bird of prey. Angry, dangerous, flapping her wings as she desperately tried to take flight again, her talons extended.

He wanted so much to be the one to set her free.

The idea to insinuate herself into the life of the Marchioness of Longhaven didn’t come so much from protective instincts as it did from a desire to know everything possible about the woman who now shared the life of the man Antonia believed she loved. Lawrence knew this because he knew
her
. She needed to size up the competition, and yet she had already lost the battle.

It wouldn’t do to reason with her and point out the cold, unpalatable truth. She needed to come to the conclusion—and accept it—herself.

“I wasn’t preaching,” Lawrence said as he crossed his booted feet in a deceptively lazy movement. “I don’t believe in it, and you are too stubborn to listen, so what is the use? What makes you think Longhaven isn’t having her guarded anyway?”

“He probably is. Fitzhugh is efficient and dangerous in his own right, but he can’t be there at the society events like I can. He wouldn’t fit in.” Antonia gestured with her hand in a careless brush. “Roget is not as intelligent as Michael, but he is infinitely more ruthless. She probably can’t be protected enough.”

That might be true, if it
was
Roget targeting the marquess. If there was even a threat at all. Not that Longhaven didn’t efficiently direct an intelligence ring for King George, and was thus important enough the enemy no doubt wanted him dead, but he was far less vulnerable in London than he had been back in Spain. On his home soil Michael Hepburn wielded more power than ever. He could take care of his wife.

“Since you are determined to do this anyway, I won’t argue, though I do debate the comment over Roget’s intelligence. So far the usually competent Longhaven hasn’t been able to find him, though he’s done his damndest. What do you propose to do about the marchioness?”

“I’ll start tonight. The Redmonds are giving a ball this evening. I am sure she will be there.”

“So will he,” Lawrence pointed out with unerring practicality. “How do you think Longhaven will feel about you cozying up to his bride when he didn’t instruct you to do any such thing?”

“I don’t know,” she replied in a slow purr, “but we’ll find out. Won’t we?”

An amused part of him was sorry for Lord Longhaven. When Antonia made up her mind, she was relentless.

Like in her quest for the infamous spy, Roget, whom she hated with a depth that rivaled the deepest trough in the ocean. If only he, the man sitting with her now, could bring forth such volatile emotion.

“This isn’t the way to capture his attention, my love,” he told her. “The marquess wants you to follow orders, not intrude on his life.”

Antonia stared at him, back to the paneled wall, her dark eyes suspiciously luminous. Under the bodice of her gown, her tempting breasts heaved as she took a deep breath. “When does it matter what
I
want, Lawrence? When?”

The bitter despair in the last word was like a knife in his heart.

He had no answer except that it mattered all the time—to him. Life had dealt her a very harsh hand, but then again, he hadn’t gotten off lightly either. They were forged together in a unique way, if she would only allow herself to see it. Longhaven never had needed her like she yearned for a man to want her, like
he
wanted her. Lawrence acquiesced gently, “It seems like a sound plan, actually. With Johnson following the marquess and you watching over his marchioness, perhaps we will get a hint of danger if there is one.”

“Roget hates him.”

Lawrence sometimes hated him too, but then again, that was on a personal level and was based on jealousy more than anything. Longhaven himself he admired in many ways, but he naturally loathed what he represented to Antonia. “So he should hate him. They were archenemies, were they not? Fighting not just a war, but a battle of wits. No one likes to lose, especially a man like Roget. Longhaven did his best to eliminate him.”

Antonia suddenly wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she were cold. “We were so sure he was dead.”

“Maybe he is,” Lawrence pointed out. To him, Roget
was
dead. The war in Spain was over. Why did this have to linger on? “Someone else could be using his signature. We know nothing for certain. Longhaven is no doubt using every resource now that you turned over the note. If it is Roget, the marquess will deal with it.”

“He can no longer give matters like this his full attention.” Antonia said stubbornly. “He has to play the role of heir to a dukedom, and now he has a wife to placate also. If he is spread too thin, he might trip up. I want to help.”