He hesitated only a moment, their heated breaths mingling in the dark, the rhythm of their breathing already fragmented. He sensed her yearning, sensed the swollen, parted, hungry lips less than an inch from his.
Closing the distance, he sealed her fate. And his.
This time, however, he was determined to remain in control, to orchestrate their play until the very end. He’d plotted and planned and fantasized. After he’d had his wicked way with her and treated her to the full spectrum of sensations an experienced lover could evoke, he would wager his hard-won reputation that she wouldn’t wait days to return to him.
His lips on hers, he quickly dispensed with her cloak and set her veil fully back. Drawing back from their kiss, he let his fingertips linger over the delicate skin of her forehead, the arch of her brows, the sweep of her cheeks. Her jaw was firm and finely wrought, her throat long, slender . . . elegant.
At the base of her throat, her pulse beat hotly. The scooped neckline of her gown revealed the upper swells of her full breasts. His fingers traced; his memories strengthened. Need burgeoned.
Her breath shivered on his lips; she quivered in his arms.
“Your coachman. What instructions did you give?”
She drew in a shaky breath; he sensed her struggle to think. “I told him to drive slowly around the avenue . . . until we’d finished our meeting.”
“Perfect.” Reaching up, he rapped on the carriage roof. A second later, the carriage lurched, then ponderously rolled forward.
She straightened. “I—”
Her breath caught on a hitch as, lowering his arm, he closed his hand possessively about one breast. He kneaded and she shuddered. Nudging her head up, he took her lips again, and set himself to cast her wits to the wind.
It wasn’t difficult; she put up no resistance to speak of. She seemed a natural in this sphere, a deeply sensual woman, her consciousness surrendering willingly to the moment, to the physical thrill, the sexual excitement, the indescribable delight of give and take.
At first, it was he who took and she who gave, then he mentally drew back, inwardly reasserted control, then deliberately embarked on his script, his carefully plotted plan to bind her to him with sensual chains.
His lips on hers, he reached for her laces.
Divesting her of her gown was no great feat, not to one of his extensive experience. But he accomplished the deed slowly, savoring every inch of her curves as he exposed them, much to her shivering delight.
Not that she was cold. Thick curtains sealed the carriage windows. With their heated bodies enclosed within the small space, she would be in no danger of taking a chill despite the totality of his plans. That was just as well as, with her warm weight across his thighs, her luscious curves filling his arms and her hungry lips under his, he was in no state to rework them. Tonight, fate was on his side.
Lifting her, he eased the soft gown past her hips, then set her down, the bare backs of her thighs, exposed beneath her short chemise, in direct contact with his trousers. Through their kiss, he sensed the heightening of her tension. He set out to heighten it some more.
Deepening the kiss, he held her steady, one arm about her. Closing his hand on her bare thigh, he brushed her gown down by caressing her long limbs, first down one leg, then the other. Swiping up the gown, he tossed it on the seat beside him, and caught her foot. He slipped her shoe off, surprised to note its weight. As he dispensed with the other, he realized the heels were high. Skimming his hand up one leg, he located her garter, a few inches above her knee.
He toyed with the band. On? Or off? He reviewed his plan. Her lips shifted under his; she struggled to draw breath, to surface from the fog of desire in which he was deliberately shrouding her. He stilled her with a searching, ravishing kiss, and quickly rolled her stockings down and off, sending them to join her gown.
Leaving her clad only in her silk chemise.
He drew her to him, deeper into his embrace; tipping her head back, he plundered her mouth. She responded ardently, caught up in the hot tangle of their tongues, the melding of their lips.
His quick fingers slipped the tiny buttons closing her chemise free, all the way to her navel. The instant the last slipped its mooring, he closed his fist in the fine garment; pulling back from the kiss, he drew the chemise up and over her head in one movement.
“Oh!” She grasped, not the chemise, but her veil.
His steadying hand now on bare skin, he grinned into the dark. Discarding the chemise, he reached for her face, touching gently, then framing her jaw. “Your veil’s still there.” That was part of his plan, having her totally naked except for that damned veil.
Her hands fluttered; the fingers of one touched the back of his hand as he drew her face nearer. He touched her lips with his tongue and they parted; he surged in, then retreated, settling to nibble, tantalize, tease . . . until she shifted on his thighs, trying to press her own demands, unsure what those demands should be.
He knew. Urging her hands, her arms, over his shoulders, he drew her around. Clasping one bare calf, savoring the smooth skin, he drew the limb up, lifting that leg over his thighs as he turned her, then released her, leaving her, blissfully naked but for her veil, sitting astride his long thighs.
Oh, yes. Before she had time to even try to think, he reached for her face with both hands, holding her steady for an incendiary kiss, one that left them both gasping, chests heaving, bodies heated and urgent. Hers had softened; his had hardened. Their panting breaths mingled. He slid his fingers under the back of her veil, finding the pins that anchored her hair. As they rained on the floor, their lips met again. Heat welled, swelled, grew.
Her hair cascaded down her back, long strands curling on her shoulders. He kissed her long and hard, then drew back.
She tried to lean closer, to follow his lips with hers, but he closed his hands about her shoulders. “No.” Even though he couldn’t see, could only feel with his senses at full stretch, he knew she was dazed, wanting but not yet frantic, her wits disengaged but her senses still aware. “Not yet.”
They’d only just begun.
“Sit still, and concentrate on what you feel.”
She shuddered lightly, but did as he asked. He hadn’t expected an argument—she was far beyond that—yet he went slowly; he had no intention of overwhelming her—not yet.
Curving his hands about her shoulders, he trailed his fingers lightly down, over the long sweeps of her arms, over her elbows and forearms, down to her wrists, then slid his fingertips along her palms, drawing them out across her fingers. Fingertip to fingertip, he held her arms out from her sides, then let them fall.
She was mesmerized; he knew that as he reached out again, and touched her breasts. They were already swollen, the peaks hard, begging for his attention. For long, heated moments he touched only with the pads of his fingers, listening as her breathing grew increasingly ragged. Then, leaning forward, he cupped one warm mound in his hand and took the peak into his mouth.
A cry died in her throat; her body arched convulsively. He suckled, one hand closing on her knee, the other lifting her flesh to his lips. When that nipple was aching and throbbing, he changed hands and tortured the other.
Her head fell back, her hair a gossamer curtain, its end brushing her hips, her bare bottom and his knees. Her spine bowed, every nerve drew taut; like the master he was, he let them tighten, and tighten, until she couldn’t breathe, until she quivered, as fragile as spun glass, then he released her breast and leaned back.
He sensed the huge, shaky breath she drew in. Leaving his hand on her knee, more to reassure than to hold her, he gave her only a moment of surcease, then lifted his hand again.
To her ribs, tracing the fine skin over the smooth bones, then trailing his fingertips down to her waist. Releasing her knee, he closed both hands about her waist, circling her almost completely. Splaying his fingers over the supple muscles in her back, he touched, stroked, caressed.
She eased a little; his lip
s curving in a smile she couldn’t see, he let his hands slide to caress her derriere, then sent them smoothly gliding over her flanks. And away.
For one instant, he left her there, posed on his knees in her naked glory. Then he reached out and touched her again.
He splayed his hand over her taut stomach. She shuddered, but her spine was so rigid she only swayed slightly, then tensed even more as he gently kneaded. She caught her breath on a sob. “I—”
“Don’t talk.” He waited a heartbeat, then added, “Just feel.”
He waited until her senses refocused, then removed his hand. Clasping her knees, he slid his hands up, fingers gliding over the long, taut muscles of her outer thighs, his thumbs grazing the quivering inner faces. At the tops of her thighs, he ran his thumbs over and up, following the creases between thigh and torso outward. Then he removed his hands again.
Again he waited, leaving her quivering expectantly in the dark. Then, with one hand, he reached out again.
And touched her between her widespread thighs.
Her breath shook; she quaked.
“Shh.”
He traced the swollen folds, exposed and open to him. He suspected she hadn’t realized, modestly shrouded by the dark.
She realized now; she reached out—he felt her fingers brush his sleeve.
“No. Leave your hands at your sides.”
She didn’t immediately obey, but as he continued to caress her, the slow, steady stroking reassured her, and she let her arms fall.
Her breathing was shallow, racing with her heart. He didn’t want to speak again, to risk breaking the spell. She was hot and wet, his fingers slick with her dew. He found the tight nubbin concealed between her folds and circled it, but that wasn’t his target. He waited until she’d steadied, until she’d stabilized on a narrow ledge one step away from the peak, then zeroed in.
The long slide of his finger entering her, spearing in, inexorably penetrating and filling her softness, sent her into spasm. Every muscle locked, so tight she was shivering, every fragment of awareness focused, waiting for the final touch that would shatter her.
He didn’t administer it; the time was not yet. His finger buried in her sheath he held still, blocking all awareness of the heated softness that gripped him, the supple strength of her inner muscles, the hot honey that dampened his hand, the evocative scent that wreathed his brain.
Then she stabilized again, and the peak had moved away, one step further on. He knew, but doubted she did. He started to caress her again.
How long he prolonged the delicious torture, how many times he brought her almost to the peak, then let it shift away, he didn’t know, but she was wild, sobbing in her need, her fingers clenched on his arms, her lips burning his, when he finally thrust deep and let her fly.
She came apart in his arms.
Cursing the darkness that stopped him from seeing it, from reaping the reward of his expertise, he gathered her to him, letting her cling, then cradling her as she collapsed completely.
He drew her closer, sensing her heartbeat, feeling it thunder, then slow. Then she stirred.
“I want you.”
His lips curved against her hair. “I know.”
Her breath was a soft huff against his neck as she shifted, and reached, and found him. “How?”
Her fist closed, and he shook. “Ah . . .”
Fingers as quick as his slipped the buttons on his waistband, brushed aside his shirt. Slim digits dipped, then stroked, caressed . . .
Words were superfluous. He drew her hips nearer, sliding his own to the edge of the seat. They met—it was she who sank down, a long-drawn sigh shattering in her throat. It was all he could do to stifle his groan as she closed hotly about him. After that, he lost touch with the world as she became his reality, the hot, wet, generous woman who loved him in the dark.
She was everything he craved, mysterious, giving, intensely feminine; in some sensual way, she held a mirror to his soul. She filled his senses until he recalled no other, until he knew nothing beyond her luscious heat and the primal need that gripped him.
He sank into her and she wrapped herself about him; at his urging, she shifted her legs, awkward for a moment as she repositioned them, locking them around his hips. When she sank fully onto him again, she gasped. Gripping her hips, he lifted her, thrusting upward as he lowered her.
She sobbed, then found his lips. They clung, and loved, gave and took and gave again. The horses plodded slowly on.
The gloom inside the carriage became a heated cave, filled with lust, desire, and so much more. Hunger, greed, joy, and delirium all spun, a kaleidoscope in the dark. Then she flew high and he followed, soaring beyond the stars. The end left them shattered, broken and destroyed, reborn in each other’s arms.
The gentle swaying of the carriage slowly drew them back to earth, yet they lay still, letting the long, achingly sweet moments wash over them, neither ready to lose the soul-deep communion.
His lips at her temple, her hair silk against his cheek, Gabriel dragged in a breath. His chest swelled, shifting her warm weight. He locked his arms around her; he didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want to lose the peace she’d brought him—she and she alone.
Never had he reached this state, this depth of feeling. Beyond sensation, beyond the world, a sea of unnameable emotion still lapped him. He wanted to deny it, shrug it aside. It frightened him. But it was a drug—he feared he was already addicted.
She stirred, first again. Sitting up, she sighed and shook back her hair. “I meant to tell you . . .”
He got the distinct impression she’d intended to say, “before you started this,” and, what’s more, in a censorious tone. He was too sated to do more than smirk in the dark. He was still buried to the hilt inside her. “What?” Reaching for her, he drew her back into his arms.
She acquiesced, then relaxed; despite her resolution, she was still dazed. “My stepson . . . he overheard a conversation at White’s—between a Captain Something and another man. The captain was dismissing the Central East Africa Gold Company.”
He frowned. “I thought your stepson was too young for White’s.”
“Oh, he is. This was on the steps—he was walking in St. James Street.”
“Who was the captain talking to?”
“Charles didn’t know.”
“Hmm.” It was difficult to think with her warm weight snuggled against him, with her body intimately clasping his. That last, and his resurging vigor, prompted him to say, “A captain recently returned from Africa shouldn’t be impossible to trace. The shipping lists, the Port Authority, the major merchant lines. He’ll be known somewhere.”
“If we have a witness like that, we’d be able to petition the court immediately.”
But then there’d be no reason for them to meet, and he’d yet to learn her name. He frowned, grateful for the dark. “Perhaps. It depends on how much he knows.” Turning his head, he squinted down at her, but still could see nothing. “I’ll look into it.”
“Have you heard anything else?”
“I have contacts in Whitehall sounding out the African authorities over the company’s mining claims, and there are others I’m hunting up who might know of the company’s presence in those particular towns.” Shuffling higher on the seat, he glanced upward. “Now—tell your coachman to roll back, slowly, to Brook Street.”
She sat up, still clutching his coat, and cleared her throat. “Jones?”
The carriage slowed, then halted. “Ma’am?”
“Brook Street, please—you know where.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Taking advantage of her uptilted head, Gabriel pressed his lips to her throat. She fought to stifle a giggle, then sighed.
Then her breath caught. A moment later, she asked, slightly dazed, “Again?”
“I’m hungry.”
So was she. They devoured each other at speed, reckless and driven, reaching the bright pinnacle before the carriage even left the park.
/>
It wasn’t, unfortunately, all that far to Brook Street. Wrapping her in her cloak, Gabriel shifted her to the seat beside him. He righted his clothes, then leaned over her to press a long kiss to her swollen lips.
The carriage halted; he drew back. From over his shoulder a street flare shone in, laying a narrow swath of light across her face. She was exhausted, her eyes shut—he could just see the edge of a crescent of dark lashes lying on one pale cheek. The strip of light illuminated only that cheek, her earlobe framed by a strand of soft brown hair, the edge of her jaw and the corner of her lips.
Not enough to identify her.
Gabriel hesitated, then he shifted and his shoulder cut off the light. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”
Her murmured “Good-bye” was soft and low, a lover’s farewell.
Descending to the street, Gabriel watched her carriage roll away; it was all he could do not to call it back. Turning, he climbed his steps, frowning as he reached for his latchkey.
He’d seen her face before. The line of her jaw was familiar.
She was one of his circle.
Who?
Letting himself in, he went up to bed.
Sniff.
Alathea battled to lift her heavy lids, and lost.
Sniff.
Stifling a sigh, she tried again and managed to see through a slit. “Nellie?”
Sniff. “Yes, m’lady,” came in dolorous tones. Sniff.
Alathea struggled onto her back and raised her head. And saw Nellie, red-nosed with watering red eyes, shaking out her cloak. Alathea dragged in a breath. “Nellie Macarthur! You go straight back to bed. I do not want to see you, or hear of you being about on your feet, not until you’re better.” Fixing her old maid with a pointed glare, Alathea summoned strength enough to deliver the words “Do you hear?” in appropriately intimidating tones.
Nellie sniffed again. “But who’ll see to you? You’ve got to go to all these balls and parties, and your stepmama rightly says—”
“The tweeny will do for me for the nonce—I’m not entirely helpless.”
“But—”
“Doing my hair in a simpler style for a few nights will be a relief. No one will think anything of it.” Alathea glared again. “Now go! And don’t you dare sneak about downstairs—I’ll be speaking with Figgs immediately I get up.”