Powder of Sin (7 page)

If he was utterly uninterested in casual liaisons,
he was left with what options? Friendship. With a woman? Why not?
Because of the way she tucked that curl behind her ear? He could
survive the desire her small motions brought.

“Er. Where is Miss Renshaw?”

Despite his intentions to foster mere friendship,
the fact that they were alone together and in the privacy of her
home was so unusual, he could not forget it. Then he noticed her
face wore a grave, unhappy expression.

“Miss Renshaw is indisposed, and I’d rather she
didn’t listen to this conversation anyway.” Her smile didn’t reach
her eyes.

“You do like to keep secrets from the females in
your life. You didn’t want the maid to hear anything either. Miss
Renshaw doesn’t know about the powder?” he asked.

“She does.”

Something in the way she twisted the handkerchief in
her lap and stared out the window made him ask, “What do you
mean?”

“Only that she does know about it.” She gestured to
a tree just outside the house. “Such a pretty evening, isn’t it? I
love the bright color of new leaves. They are such a brilliant
green.”

“Yes, that’s it. Very pretty. Why are you being
evasive?”

She winced. Damn, he shouldn’t have challenged her.
But he wasn’t a gentleman; she must understand that by now.

He slid closer to the edge of his seat and absently
noted the line of her jaw, the graceful, arched upper lip. Perhaps
she’d allow a kiss or two. On her soft cheek. That couldn’t cause
any harm or create expectations. Small touches, a light kiss,
perhaps nothing more than a sweet taste. His body lurched into
eager response at that thought. Hardly surprising, since it had
been so long since he’d touched anyone. An affectionate embrace, he
told himself. The sort friends might exchange.

She continued to stare out the window as she spoke.
“When I say she knows about the powder, I mean she was
unfortunately affected by the chemical. It made her rather
ill.”

“It sounds dangerous.” It hadn’t occurred to him the
powder could be poison. That certainly meant he had to keep it out
of Clermont’s hands. “May I see the substance?”

“I’ve locked it in the bottom drawer of this
desk.”

He leaned forward to give the drawer a tug. It was
indeed locked.

She watched, then said, slightly amused, “I suspect
when you were a child and someone told you not to touch something
because it would burn you, you’d put both hands on it just to be
sure for yourself.”

He couldn’t help smiling, imagining his sister’s
hearty agreement with her. “Miss Ambermere, I wish you’d allow me
to examine this powder.” There would surely be an easy method to
demonstrate its effects were a hoax. Reed cleared his throat. “I
have a history with this sort of work. In London, I was hired to
disprove several mediums.”

“What do you mean?”

“I exposed the charlatans who pretended to speak to
the dead. I understand this is not the same situation, but I
promise I can show you that no true powder of this nature
exists.”

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed for a moment,
as if she regarded some inner, horrifying image. “I’d much rather
you left it alone.” She shook her head and opened her eyes. “Here
is Beels with our tea.”

After she handed him his cup, a maid poked her head
around the doorway. “Miss Renshaw is asking for you again, miss.
Shall I tell her you’ve got a visitor?”

“Oh bother.” She stood and went to the door. “I’ll
return in a minute or two. She is feeling insecure, the poor lady.
I believe she thinks I’m going to toss her out on her ear.”

“Why would she think that?”

But she apparently didn’t hear the question, for she
left without answering.

Soon after she left, Reed gave in to curiosity. He
fished through his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring that held
keys and other useful items. Really, the desk presented no
challenge at all.

Even as he fit the pick into the lock, he wondered
why he was doing it. She’d asked him to leave it alone, and he
wasn’t a thief. This was not the sort of behavior he was used to in
himself, and he wondered if perhaps he’d spent too many hours in
Clermont’s company.

He just wanted to see the powder that had caused her
worry. She seemed such a levelheaded woman. He’d wager that a woman
who had dealt as efficiently with Clermont as Miss Ambermere had
could not be easily rattled. Yet when it came to talking about this
“substance,” she paled, almost got the wide-eyed twitchy look of a
cornered rabbit. He’d do her a favor, relieve her anxiety. And he
looked forward to seeing her grateful smile.

The only thing in the bottom drawer was an object
wrapped in newspaper. As he unwrapped it and stared down at the
little well-polished box, he felt a frisson of unease. He was not a
susceptible man, but perhaps her fear was contagious. Such a small
box couldn’t be dangerous, but it was so…unusual. He stroked the
wood, cool and silky, and the feel of it thrilled his hand. He
pried it open and saw another box inside. Such an urge to bring it
to his face, rest his cheek on that slick surface…

No! He had to fight the bizarre desire. He forced
himself to push the lid down, drop the box, and shove the drawer
closed. His fingers trembled slightly as he relocked the drawer.
Curiosity and longing raged through him. Had the damned thing
called to him to break in? Nonsense. It had been an unfortunate
impulse of a man who’d spent months holding impulsiveness and
animal behavior at bay. The thin screen of civilized behavior was
crumbling.

He’d be damned if Clermont won. He’d pick a woman
for Reed, he’d said. And watch him fuck her. A woman.

Then the image of
her
filled his mind. That
hair, thick and glossy, down and spread by his fingers. Her skin
would be soft and supple, and he’d feel it with every sensitive
nerve, now alert with need. His hands, his tongue, his cock—on
her.

Reed gasped. He rubbed his face, and that didn’t
seem to help. He groped for tea and drank the whole scalding cup
down.

Jesus, even the pain in his mouth seemed to increase
the pleasure—or rather, the longing for pleasure. He didn’t have
many calluses on his fingers now that he had a soft job, and the
warmed, slick porcelain begged him to feel the texture of the
rounded curve of the cup, the complex texture of the handle.

Holy mother of God; the chemical was real. And if he
didn’t do something about his raging erection, he’d never be able
to stand up in front of decent people. That part of him begged for
release. Her. He wanted her. His cock needed her.

He forced himself to think. Combating sensation and
desire so he could think proved almost impossible. He’d bring
himself off. That would be the best answer. Once drained—Oh God;
unless it was with her, it would never be enough. And why couldn’t
he touch her? Their bodies were made for this.

They could touch and taste, and he would at last
bury himself in a warm, silken woman. Slide over her skin, slide
into
her
, deep. So many women every day paraded in front of
him. Naked or in the thinnest of gowns. During his time keeping
watch over Clermont, he’d seen so many breasts, hips, curves, backs
and bottoms and cunts. Once, and only once, at the start of his
job, had he grown so desperate he’d indulged with a woman, and that
was months ago. Alone for months. And now the months of deprivation
hit him hard—and the one woman he wanted most was just rooms
away.

He grew dizzy as he fought back and reminded himself
this hunger was only part of him. He was more than need.

The door opened, and she walked in.

He closed his eyes. He’d cheated—badly—by touching
that box, and perhaps by not believing her story. And now he’d pay
a price by surviving this visit without betraying symptoms. He must
treat her with respect. That did not include ripping off her
clothing, flinging her across the top of the desk, and driving into
her. Or even picturing that possibility. But no, now that picture
of her panting, naked, under him, was lodged in him, brain and
body.

“Are you unwell, Mr. Reed? You look slightly
flushed.”

He’d have to open his eyes and see her in the flesh.
See her skin, her pink and lovely face, neck, and those delicate
hands that had been so surprisingly powerful in his, returning his
grip. Her skin, but not enough of it. Why did women wear so many
layers of useless clothing? “I’m fine,” he croaked. “Erm. Your
companion. She is well?”

Miss Renshaw had been made ill by the box, Miss
Ambermere had said in passing, and now he knew the companion had
touched the box too, perhaps even done more. Dear Lord, he was torn
between pity for her and the desire to collapse with laughter at
the thought of the poor woman, helpless in the grip of unabated
hunger. Unabated, perhaps. The image of her naked, out of control
and in heat with some man intrigued him—the powder had control of
all Reed’s responses. But that image didn’t seem to add to the
bottomless, howling need that flowed through his body.

Miss Ambermere’s voice, low and musical, was what
stoked that need. “I don’t believe you’re listening. I asked if you
thought any of these men were more qualified than the others.”

After a moment, he comprehended the meaning of her
words and looked at the list of scientists rather than at her. The
sight of her seated at the far side of the big desk might prove too
much. The focus of all his body’s cravings so close to him. He
pulled in a deep breath and managed to draw his mind back from the
flood of need. This was important. “I didn’t take the time to study
their qualifications, I’m afraid.”

And then he knew he had to confess—some of the
truth, at any rate. “I didn’t truly understand. I didn’t know…” His
hoarse voice trailed off.

“Ah. Mr. Reed?”

His name in her mouth sent him close to the edge.
He’d give in to the urge to look at her because perhaps she was
calling him, asking him to go to her at last. He fisted his hands
to stop from lunging. “Hmm?” He managed something like a growl.

“You understand now? What has changed?” She gave him
a sharp glare, and unbelievably, she stood and swayed toward him.
Yes, come to me now
, he wanted to shout. He had to take his
lip between his teeth and bite down hard to stop himself from
spreading his arms to invite her embrace. He had to look away.

Skirts rustling, closer, but then she stopped short
of his chair, at the desk.

So near him, her back slightly to him. Those curves.
He could reach out now. Touch her. Seize her. How would it be to
shove up that dress, find that useless bustle, throw it away, and
sink into her from behind. At last. Would her skin be cool against
his heated body? Not cool inside. The heat deep inside her, her
cunny, her cunt, her sweet womanly parts. And the tender flesh of
her inner thighs, invisible under that dratted, thick cloth.

Her curls bounced as she rattled the desk. Yes,
that’s how they’d bounce when he’d thrust—

“The drawer is still locked.” She turned to face
him.

He was having trouble catching his breath, and her
steady gaze, fixed on him, didn’t help. “I don’t understand,” she
said in a faltering voice. Her cheeks reddened as she looked into
his face.

Maybe she caught sight of the fierce, barely
controlled hunger raging in him. More likely she was embarrassed by
what she thought was her own false accusation. Her pink cheeks set
off the brightness of her eyes.

He held back the cry of
let me teach you to
understand.

Instead he dug into his jacket pocket and wordlessly
held out the ring of keys. Their fingers didn’t meet as she took
them, but he swore he could feel the heat of her hand. That first
day they’d touched, a simple, firm handshake had shaken him, all
right. With this woman so near, he could hear the susurration of
her breath, see the texture of her fine skin; his erection grew so
thick and painful, the slightest motion might bring him off. He
knew his linens were damp with the eager cock’s prespending.

She swallowed. He watched the delicate motion of her
throat. Could almost feel the pulse there too. She shook the keys
until they jangled. “You’re telling me you did open the
drawer?”

He nodded.

“Did…? No, no. Did you open the box?”

“A bit. Wanted to do more.” His voice was hoarse.
“But I managed to stop.”

The stiff set of her shoulders relaxed slightly, but
her breasts remained high and lovely. He should not be staring at
her bosom, imagining how it would fill his hands and how the
nipples would feel between his fingers, in his mouth, under his
tongue…

She put the keys on the desk rather than hand them
to him. Good. If her hand came near him, he’d grab it, pull her
down onto his lap, onto his aching cock. His mouth on those breasts
at long—

“Now you believe me. And if you didn’t open the
horrible thing, well, then you’re not going to…ah…you’re not so
badly influenced.” Her breasts rose and fell with her breath. He
inhaled and—God, he could smell her. Sweet Miss Ambermere. Another
discreet sniff, and he drew in the musk of her, the delicious scent
of her skin, hair—and her. He’d put his face in her hair, just at
her temple, in the crook of her neck, at her bosom, between her
legs, and draw in full breaths of her. Sustaining lungs full of her
essence.

He clenched his hands tighter, dug his nails into
his palms.

“Bad enough,” he said. He couldn’t allow himself to
move, not until he had more control.

She went to her chair—thank God out of his
reach—but, blast and damn, far too distant from him. He couldn’t
smell her or see the subtle motions of her body as she breathed or
hear the light rasp of her gown.

But he could see her eyes were bright. With
amusement?