Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,90
them up to loop around his neck.
The kisses were frantic, savagely deep. Their lips met and parted, caressed, feasted, dueled. They drugged him. He slid his hands down and filled them with her breasts; he slipped his fingers inside her bodice and dragged the tips of them across her ruched nipples.
She arched with a cry that he covered with the next kiss.
When her head went back in pleasure, he kissed her throat.
Her lips found his ear, and her tongue traced it. He turned his head into it. It maddened him, deliciously. She moved her hips against his hard cock. Vixen. Anyone could come upon them any minute.
“Come to me.” His voice was a rasp, a whisper, a command, a plea, against her lips, her throat, her ear. “Come to my room. Please. When you can. Today. I need you.”
This was madness. Surely he was possessed. The sound of his own voice, hoarse and urgent, half command, half beseeching, all raw hunger—he didn’t recognize it. He had never asked for a thing in life, let alone begged. He had fought for everything. He was ashamed of how all the tortured conviction of the previous night had gone right out the window at the first glimpse of her. But not too ashamed to get down on his knees if he had to.
“I will. I promise. I will. I need you, too, Oh, God help me, I want you, too,” she moaned against his mouth, his ear, his throat.
He let her go abruptly then, as though he’d extracted a blood vow from her.
Readjusted his hat.
Shifted his trousers. A few thoughts about the Gardner sisters and missing smugglers ought to make short work of his erection.
He stared at her, her hair mussed, her breathing like a bellows. As though she was a siren in an apron who had lured him into the alcove.
She smiled at him, and it was like the heavens had broken open.
He smiled at her and bolted down the stairs.
“You?” Massey was almost incensed when Tristan told him about the previous evening, he was so envious.
“A sort of waltz.”
Massey stared at him, in resentful wonder.
Then he sighed. “Well, you’re the captain.”
“That I am. We also sang.”
Massey sighed, then he resettled his shoulders resignedly, manfully absorbing his wistful envy. “Well, the jewelry sales are confirmed, sir. A Mrs. Angelique Breedlove did indeed sell some nice pieces to a broker named Reeves on Bond Street. Here are the figures.”
He slid a little sheet of paper over to Tristan.
“We’ve also spoken to some workmen who helped clean and repair the place. Weren’t paid unduly, saw nothing untoward, said nothing but nice things about Lady Derring and Mrs. Breedlove. ‘Right bossy,’ I think one of them called Lady Derring, but he made it sound like a virtue. Here is a list of the work they did and what they claimed they were paid.” He slid over another sheet.
“Good work, Massey,” Tristan said absently, relieved. Here was a record of Delilah and Angelique trading one sort of life for another. Two ropes of pearls. A necklace of rubies. Diamond earbobs. And more. Not a king’s ransom, but certainly enough to get The Grand Palace on the Thames off the ground.
Had Delilah any jewelry left now? Then again, pearls against her skin would be redundant.
“I actually had a reason for instigating the waltz, Massey.”
“You . . . instigated it?” His jaw dropped.
“Yes. And I plan to go with you today to ask a very specific question of a few vendors. A new approach.”
“No one around here wants to tell us from whom they purchased the cigars, sir. They’re getting used to our faces and they’re bound to get suspicious.”
“They will talk to me,” he said simply.
This was likely true. He had his ways.
“What is this question?”
“I would like to ask them . . .” Tristan paused. He almost didn’t dare say it aloud. “. . . if they’ve purchased cigars from a large man, built like a bear. Scar beneath his ear. Or a small man, with a pointed face.”
“Sounds like the Miss Gardners’ brothers, sir.”
Tristan regarded him grimly.
Realization dawned on Massey’s face. “You don’t mean . . .”
“A suspicion. It’s been growing for some time. The larger one doesn’t speak in company. Perhaps because it’s a struggle to disguise his voice. Always looking down, ostensibly shyly but likely because they don’t want anyone to look very closely at their faces. And they both tried to lead a waltz last night. It was disastrous.”