The Lady Risks All (28 page)
She’d followed him deeper into the room. “About Kirkwell—when do you expect to hear from London?”
“Within the next day or two. Mudd and Rawlins are coordinating the efforts there—they’ll come and report as soon as they learn anything definite.” Cuffs unlaced, he undid his waistcoat, shrugged the garment off, and tossed it on top of his coat.
Reached for her again and she came, placing her palms on his chest and running them upward, over the upper slope of his chest to curve about his shoulders. He bent his head and she stretched up; cupping his nape in a caress he now associated with her, she offered her mouth and he took. Lips merging, tongues stroking, then tangling, in instinctive harmony they started down their now-familiar road into passion’s embrace.
His hands shaped her body, the lush curves of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, reimprinting her on him, him on her, stoking their flames. His fingers found her laces; hers slipped the pin from his cravat, deftly reanchoring the diamond in the folds, then unraveling them.
Their lips didn’t part but supped, then, hungering, he pressed deeper and devoured, and tasted her growing urgency, her burgeoning desire, the tempo of her escalating arousal, something she wantonly—innocently—allowed on full display.
As always, she captured him; with her open and honest ardor, with her enthusiastic embrace of this, of him, of them, she snared him and held him captive, his mind and senses entirely focused on the simple act of having her. Loving her.
This time he fought against her tide, her siren’s lure. The question in his mind, flaring insistently from the moment he’d touched her, was, What is this? Was it what he thought it was? Could it become what he hoped it might?
Most importantly, was she and this the route to his dream?
That dream.
Or was it just a more intense liaison—an affair between two people who had somehow connected in a more intimate way, on a somewhat different plane than the norm? Different, but not special.
He kissed her and wondered, then drew a deeper breath and plunged into her mouth, claimed and sought, and she kissed him back with building urgency until between them the flames ignited and rose.
Heat spread, insidiously urgent, beneath their skins. Desire rode, hungry and needy, in its wake.
So many questions and the answers . . . some of the answers, surely, lay here, between them. In what flared between them.
They stood pressed together, pressing close and closer, mouths communing hungrily in the dark, hands searching out the places most sensitive to caress, to pressure. To the evocation of pleasure.
Arousing, yes, but possessive as well, and it wasn’t only he whose touch carried that telltale stamp.
But this time he needed more, more than mere surrender, more than possession. He needed revelation.
How to gain that he didn’t know. He stood in the whirlpool of their needs, feeling the maelstrom tug at him, and fought to find the path to enlightenment through the swirling, beckoning enticements.
The first time they’d come together, in the hotel room in the aftermath of danger, her wish to taste passion—a wish she’d already had, but that had been sharpened to need by the threat and their escape—had combined with his own response to that danger and swept them both into the fire.
The second time, here in this bed, she’d reached for him, wanted him, and he’d been driven to simply be with her, to soothe and comfort and share the triumph of having successfully rescued Roderick and brought him to safety.
The third time . . . he’d needed her to declare she wanted him, and she had. Since then, indulging in their mutual passion, exercising their complementary desires, feeding the other’s hunger, had become an uncomplicated progression.
But tonight . . . tonight he wrested control of his senses from the all-consuming act, held tight to his wits and dove into the engagement wanting to see, to uncover and learn . . . more. To see what lay beneath their passion. To learn what gave it such unprecedented strength, what lent their mutual desire such irresistible power.
With her laces dangling, he slid her gown off her shoulders, bared the delicate curves—had to bend his head and taste. She shivered, and pushed the halves of his shirt wide, spread her hands on his chest and, devoured by touch, greedily explored and claimed.
He drew the gown down; his hands occupied, he caught the ribbon ties of her chemise in his teeth, tugged them free, then followed the downward slide of the fine silk with his lips.
Heard her gasp. The evocative sound was all encouragement and delight. Her fingers tangled in his hair and held him to her as he cruised his lips over the firm mounds of her breasts, circled, then settled his mouth over one furled nipple, licked, slowly laved, then drew the tight bud into his mouth and suckled.
Her head tipped back and she clung, gasped again.
He immersed himself in the moment, devoted himself to drawing a moan of surrender—sweet and low—from her throat. She was so vibrantly alive, supple and giving under his hands, flagrantly urging him on, a full partner in their game.
He wanted to strip her bare, not just her body, but her heart—if he could, her soul. Wanted to see what it was that brought her so passionately to his arms. Wanted to reach deeper within himself and answer the complementary question.
Instead . . . under his hands, her gown and chemise slid to the floor. Her hands pushed his shirt from his shoulders; he surrendered to her insistent tugs and released her long enough to strip his arms from the sleeves.
While he did, she reached for the placket of his trousers, slid the buttons free, slipped her hand inside and found him.
Caressed and adored that painfully rigid part of him.
He gritted his teeth, hissed in a breath, but it was too late.
Despite his intentions, despite his determination, his senses slipped their leash and his wits sank, subsumed beneath a wave of explicit, unadulterated sensation, while between them passion’s fires raged and cindered his every thought.
She stepped free of her crumpled gown, leaving her slippers behind; without thought, without conscious direction, he toed off his shoes, stepped out of his trousers, and their bodies met.
Both felt the jolt, that scintillating senses-stopping moment of contact, of skin meeting naked skin with nerves so aroused and so close to the surface they sizzled.
Miranda drew in a tight breath; wits flown, senses reeling, she yet marveled—could not do otherwise. This was still so new, so utterly compelling—this moment when he, and this, became her everything.
She wrapped her arms about him, surrendered her mouth to him, pressed naked against him, and let the flames have them.
She’d never defined the man of her dreams, but he was with her now, conjured in the flesh—in the heavy muscles of his chest and the crinkly dark hair that pressed against her breasts and abraded the sensitive tips, sending heat and sensation lancing through her. The powerful muscles of his thighs, his narrow hips and waist, the ridges of his abdomen, surrounded and impressed, male to her female, hardness to her softness, angles to her curves. Above all he was power and strength, dark beauty, and virile masculinity.
He was everything she’d never known enough about to dream.
And he was hers, tonight. Hers to welcome in the moonlight. Hers to draw to her bed, to enfold in her arms and take into her body.
And suddenly—suddenly—there was no more time.
He lifted her, hoisted her against him; instinctively she wrapped her legs around his waist.
Felt his erection nudge into her slick softness; hauling in a breath, she eased down and he pushed up.
Slowly, he slid inside her; slowly, she engulfed him in her heat.
Took him in.
When he was fully seated within her, she could only cling and tremble, all but overwhelmed by the feel of him there, somehow so much clearer to her senses this way.
Then he grasped her hips and lifted her, drew her up until she almost lost the fullness of him, but then he reversed and drew her down, thrust up, and glorious sensation surged through her.
Tipping her head back on a half gasp, half sob, from under heavy lids she met his eyes, burning and sure behind the screen of his lashes. She looked for only a second, needed only that to see, to sense that the fury of the fire within him was every bit the equal of that inside her . . . then she offered him her mouth and he angled his head and took.
And lifted her again.
And again, filling her to a slow, then escalating rhythm; filling her mouth to an echoing beat, he waltzed her into the glorious fire, kept her there, whirling ever faster, ever more desperately burning in the flames until ecstasy fractured her tension and reality split and she shattered.
Sensation poured through her, down every nerve, glory sliding, heavy and golden, down every vein.
Lips parting from his, she hauled in a huge breath; barely sentient, she registered him still hard, rigid and heavy within her.
She felt him carry her the few paces to the bed. Supporting her with one arm, he hauled back the covers, then knelt on the bed and laid her down.
Followed her down, the connection between them unbroken. Settling his hips between her thighs, with one hand keeping her legs curled about his waist he thrust harder and deeper, sinking fully into her.
Then he rode her to glory.
Into the all-consuming heart of passion’s fire.
Within seconds, she rose again, rode with him again. The landscape of desire, of passion and need, flashed past, given reality in their panting breaths, in the greedy grasp of their fingers.
Hearts thundering they raced to the lip of oblivion—seconds later they soared, bodies locked, hearts entwined, into a universe of scintillating ecstasy.
Into the mind-shattering pleasure of completion.
Then they fell.
Satiation caught them, buoyed them, carried them away on its golden tide.
Eventually it receded, and left them, hearts barely slowing, pulses still pounding, wracked and tangled in each other’s arms, on that blissful, peaceful shore.
How long it was before he found his wits again he had no clue. When he could think again, could sort the impulses from his senses into coherent form again, he still lingered—in her embrace, clinging to the moment for just an instant more . . .
Which, he supposed, answered his question.
Did he want this—more of this? Yes.
Would he hold on to it if he could?
Yes.
For how long, if he had the choice?
Forever
.
The word resonated in his brain, powerful and sure. Certain.
Easing their slick bodies apart, lifting from her, he reached down to snag the covers and flick them over them both, then he settled alongside her and drew her into his arms.
She made a soft, richly sated sound, one that sank to his marrow and soothed. As his arms closed around her and he let himself sink into the waiting sea, he acknowledged the revelation he’d gained.
That much he’d learned. That much he knew.
What he might do with the knowledge was another matter.
T
he next morning, Miranda stepped out of Roderick’s room and found Roscoe lounging in the corridor.
As she closed the door, he pushed away from the wall. “I wondered . . . do you ride? Edwina, Henry, and I are heading out for an hour or two.” Eyes on her face, he cocked his head. “Would you like to join us?”
She beamed. “I’d love to—and my maid remembered to pack my riding habit.” A trunk of her clothes and another of Roderick’s had arrived the day before.
He stepped aside, then followed as she headed for her room next door. “I’ll help.”
He undid her laces, then watched her don the lacey blouse that went beneath her brown velvet jacket. The skirt was of more serviceable twill, but the rich color suited her.
Finally straightening from rummaging in the trunk for her riding gloves, she turned to join him by the door and saw his gaze riveted on her hips. She waited until he raised his eyes, slowly, to her face, then arched a brow.
He held her gaze for a moment, then stepped back, holding the door. As she passed him, he murmured, “Later.”
She smiled and led the way down the corridor.
Edwina and Henry were waiting, already mounted, in the stable yard. A strong black gelding she’d seen Roscoe riding snorted and stamped, while a neat chestnut mare sidled alongside. She walked confidently up to the mare, stroked her nose, smiled at the lad holding her reins. “What’s her name?”
“Pippin, ma’am. ’Cause she loves ’em.”
“Thank you.” Meeting the horse’s dark eye, Miranda stroked her long nose one last time. “Well, Pippin, we’d better get on, or that nasty brute alongside will be in an even worse temper.”
She turned to find Roscoe waiting to lift her to her saddle. She’d always used a mounting block, had never been lifted by a man before. Another new experience courtesy of him; she stepped closer, felt his hands grip her waist, then he hoisted her up . . . and set her gently down atop the mare.
Stifling a giddy impulse to gasp, she managed a breathless “Thank you,” then busied herself slipping her boots into the stirrups, rearranging her skirt, then, senses subsiding, picked up the reins.
By then Roscoe had swung up to the restless black’s back. His gaze swept her, assessing her posture, her seat, her hands on the reins, then, apparently satisfied, he tipped his head to the stable arch and led the way out.
The ride was an hour of simple pleasures, of unfettered freedom thundering over the fields, galloping down rides and paths, over hill and dale, with no agenda other than enjoyment. They reined in a few times to take stock, to admire their surroundings, exchange grins and comments.
At one such pause atop a small hill, Henry, beside Roscoe, pointed to a farm nestled in the valley below. “Croft has asked if he can extend his fields under plough to include the wild meadow there.”
Roscoe looked. “There aren’t any other farms in that valley, so”—he glanced at Henry—“why not?”
Henry nodded. “That’s what I thought. Croft’s young, and he and his wife have just had their first child. And he’s been an excellent tenant so far—he took over the place from his uncle just before the old man died.”
“Always a good idea to encourage good tenants.” Roscoe gathered his reins. “Why don’t you take it up—make the decision, see it through the process, the amendment to the tenant agreement, and so on?”
“Can I?”
“If I say you can, you can—I’ll have a word to old Draper. Now you’ve finished school, you should start picking up the estate reins. Legally you still have to operate under my aegis, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start cutting your teeth.”
Henry looked nothing short of thrilled.
As they cantered on, Miranda, riding with Edwina a little way behind the two males, had time to dwell on the responsibility Roscoe shouldered with respect to his nephew’s estate. All who lived on it, who were dependent on it, were dependent on him—on his making the right, proper, and fair decisions.
While he’d been establishing himself as London’s gambling king, he’d simultaneously carried that burden, and from all she’d seen, all she’d gleaned, he’d been effective and successful. Quietly, without fuss.
The same way he worked as Roscoe, the same way he worked through the Philanthropy Guild. That was his hallmark, it seemed—that quiet, self-effacing giving.
Encouraged by Roscoe’s suggestion, throughout the rest of the ride Henry kept his gelding alongside Roscoe’s and raised several other estate matters he’d clearly been mulling over. Roscoe was surprised only in that he hadn’t realized how absorbed with the estate Henry already was. That was, in fact, a relief; from his questions, it was clear Henry was eager to engage and, even at a minor level, start to manage his birthright.
George, Roscoe reflected, had never been that anchored.
While part of him felt a swelling satisfaction over Henry’s direction, another part noted that, with respect to Ridgware, this heralded the beginning of the end for himself. Over the next ten years, he would increasingly surrender the reins into Henry’s hands, until, at twenty-five, Henry would take on full responsibility. Roscoe might remain in the background, but he wouldn’t be the one making the decisions; the responsibility would no longer rest on his shoulders.
But he was no longer the hedonistic Lord Julian Delbraith; the man he now was would need something to take Ridgware’s place.
Some other responsibility to fill his private life.
As they cantered into the stable yard, he glanced at Miranda—at the light in her eyes, the color in her cheeks, the wisps of hair the wind had teased loose. And sensed, yet again, that his life was changing, shifting.
The grooms came running to take the horses. Cribbs, the oldest, caught the black’s reins. “Yer men from Lunnon are here, m’lord. Asked us to tell you.”
“Thank you.” He swung down from the saddle and walked to where the chestnut mare stood waiting; reaching up, he lifted Miranda down. Keeping his hands about her waist, he looked into her wide eyes. “With luck, they might have news of Kirkwell.”
M
iranda halted in the front hall and looked down at her skirts. “I need to change.”
Roscoe nodded. “We’ll be in the library—join us when you have.”
Rushing up the stairs, she debated telling Roderick, but he hadn’t yet attempted the stairs, and Entwhistle had advised against it for at least another day . . . she raced into her room. “We can tell him later.”
Shutting the door, she struggled out of her habit.
Five minutes later, in a day gown of fine, amber-colored wool with embroidered ribbon about the neckline and hem, her hair neat again, she walked into the library.
The four men present, not about the desk but seated on the twin sofas before the fireplace, all rose. Going forward, she recognized Jordan Draper, Mudd, and Rawlins; she inclined her head and the three politely bowed.
Roscoe waved her to the sofa beside him. “We’ve been discussing other matters, but now you’re here . . .” She sat and the men resumed their seats. Roscoe looked at Mudd and Rawlins. “What have we learned about Kempsey, Dole, and Kirkwell?”
Rawlins looked grimly disgusted. “Kirkwell’s proving to be a mystery man. We asked all around the Hood and Gable again—the tavern where he hired Kempsey and Dole. We thought perhaps we’d catch him visiting, waiting for word, but no. And no one there or anywhere around could tell us any more about him.”
“Fact is,” Mudd put in, “that other than when he was there hiring Kempsey and Dole, no one in the neighborhood has seen or heard of him, not even heard his name—he’s not a local nor a regular in the area.”
Roscoe’s lips thinned. “More and more I suspect that Kirkwell won’t be his real name.”
The other men nodded.
Mudd stirred. “As for Kempsey and Dole, they haven’t reappeared in London, so we called in at Birmingham as we came past and got the latest, but they haven’t been sighted there, not since they left with Mr. Clifford. Some of their male relatives did come puffing back—that would’ve been after you’d rescued Mr. Clifford. Lots of grumbling and growling, but seems they’ve left Kempsey and Dole to sort things out for themselves.”
“So unless Kempsey and Dole summon help, they’ll be on their own?” Roscoe asked.
“Seems like they generally operate on their own,” Rawlins said. “The rest of the family will hide them or warn them, but otherwise don’t get involved in their schemes—at least not this sort.”
“Good.” After a moment of thought, Roscoe refocused on Mudd and Rawlins. “Anything else I need to hear about?”
Rawlins reported, “Mrs. Selwidge sent word that they hadn’t seen Lord Treloar, so everyone there’s relieved, and there’s nothing else that’s come up since you left town.”
“In the matter of Lord Treloar,” Jordan said, “I checked at the other clubs. He tried to gain entry, to slide in with a group of his cronies, at two other clubs in Mayfair, but after being turned away—just him, not his friends—he hasn’t darkened any of your doors.”
“We can hope he’s learned his lesson.” Roscoe looked at Mudd and Rawlins. “While we’re here, you can assist Mr. Clifford should he need any assistance getting about, but otherwise I want you on guard, keeping watch. You know the people here, you know the place. You know its weaknesses.”
Mudd and Rawlins nodded, to Miranda’s eyes rather eagerly.
Roscoe waved a dismissal. “Wander around, talk to Cater and the staff, re-familiarize yourselves with the house and grounds, and the position of Clifford’s room. I’ll speak with you later.”
Mudd and Rawlins got to their feet.
Given Kempsey and Dole were very likely scouring the countryside for Roderick, Miranda was relieved to know that Mudd and Rawlins, both large and capable, would be rambling around. She rose. “I’ll show you my brother’s room.” She met Roscoe’s eyes as he and Jordan politely stood. “I’ll tell Roderick the latest, and that he can ask Mudd and Rawlins for assistance—especially if he wants to come downstairs tomorrow.”
Roscoe nodded. “Do.”
She noticed him exchange a glance—one carrying some indefinable meaning—with Mudd and Rawlins as she turned away, but the two large men dutifully fell in at her heels as she led the way from the room.
“D
o you really think Kempsey and Dole will track Roderick—and you and me—here?”
Finishing unlacing Miranda’s evening gown, Roscoe turned aside. “I have no real notion what they might do.” Withdrawing the pin from his cravat, he laid it on the dresser. “But as they haven’t yet returned to their London haunts, then either they’re out there trying to hunt Roderick down, or they’ve slunk away to avoid Kirkwell’s displeasure. Which option they’ve chosen depends on Kirkwell and the details of the deal they struck with him.”
Given Kempsey and Dole’s reputation, he knew which option he was wagering on, which was why Mudd and Rawlins were presently patrolling the woods around the house.
“Hmm.” Miranda shook out the gown and reached for a hanger. “After a week of calm, the kidnapping is starting to feel like a distant dream—fading like a nightmare.”
Having already dispensed with his coat and waistcoat, he looked down to unbutton his cuffs. Dinner was long over, and the house had settled into the comfortable quiet of a usual night; it was too large a house to ever be completely silent, and owls and foxes hunted in the woods, occasionally hooting or barking, but even though, these days, he spent only a handful of nights there each year, the place had changed little since it had been his home—he recognized every creak, every sound.
It was soothing to be there, and, strangely, in some way he didn’t understand, it was even more soothing to be there with her, undressing and getting ready for bed.
He’d never indulged in this degree of domesticity with any previous lover. As it was . . . he found the moments a subtle pleasure. The interlude wasn’t dispassionate, but rather passion was held in abeyance, the promise of it inherent in the situation, yet with it held back, restrained . . . but only temporarily. Only until they consented to let it off the leash.
His lips curved in anticipation. That was one of the aspects that made the moment so oddly delectable—the sure and certain knowledge of what was to come.
“Edwina told me you usually only visit here for a few days each year. Don’t you find it difficult to manage the estate—all the decisions you have to make in Henry’s name—from London?”
He glanced at her—and his mouth went dry. His mind blanked. His tongue stilled, wouldn’t move, as he watched her draw her chemise off over her head, then, letting the delicate shimmering silk slip from her fingers to drape over the dressing stool, she glided, graceful and naked in the moonlight, to the bed. She lifted the covers and slid beneath.
Only as she settled and sent a shadowed, questioning glance his way was he able to draw breath and think again. What had she asked?
Peeling off his shirt, he dropped it on a chair. “I grew up here—as a boy I spent a lot of time out and about the estate.” Toeing off his shoes, he unbuttoned his trousers. “I wasn’t groomed to be duke, as George was, but in some ways my knowledge of the farms was more practical, more in-depth, than his.” Looking down, he stripped off his trousers and stockings. “And after George’s death, I was blessed with excellent help—Jordan’s father was and still is the estate’s man of business. He was and continues to be a godsend.”
Finally naked, he walked toward the bed.
She watched him approach, her gaze tracking down his body. Her lips curved as she asked, her tone increasingly distant, “Is that why you hired Jordan—in recognition of his father’s sterling service?”
“No. I hired Jordan because he’s even better than his father.” He raised the covers, paused to look down at her, studying her face, her bare shoulders and arms, the cascading bounty of her hair.
Miranda looked up at him, gloriously naked in the night, allowed her eyes to swiftly devour, then she let her smile speak for her and held up her arms, fingers boldly beckoning.
He got into bed, shifted gracefully into her arms, and covered her lips with his.
And in perfect accord they let passion loose, set it free to ravage them. Savage them. And gloried.
