spontaneously in return. “Tea?”
The boys instantly raised a chorus of entreaty, but he didn’t take his gaze from her; his grin eased into a smile of quite devastating charm. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
With the boys about them and Maggs following with the kite in his arms, they headed back to Waverton Street.
Teatime was the usual relaxed and comfortable interlude. Maggs brought in the tray. The boys peppered Tony with questions on their latest interest—horses, curricles, and phaetons, and racing the same, while devouring their usual quota of crumpets and jam.
Alicia exchanged a smiling glance with Adriana and sat back, content to let Tony—Torrington!—manage as he would; although his knowledge of such male subjects was patently wide, she now trusted him to know what was appropriate to tell her brothers, and what was not.
It wasn’t them he was intent on seducing; he was more than wise enough to know he’d have more chance with her—
She broke off that thought and looked at Adriana. Busy as usual with sketches of gowns, hats, and accessories, her sister seemed quieter than usual. She seemed to be thinking, mulling—over what Alicia could easily guess.
She leaned closer; under cover of a rowdy conversation about swan-necked phaetons and their propensity to overturn, she murmured, “Mr. King sent a reply. He’ll gather his information and dine with us the day after tomorrow.”
Adriana looked up, held her gaze for a moment, then, lips firming, nodded. “Good.” After a moment, she added, “If there’s any difficulty…I need to know now.”
Alicia patted her hand, then drew back.
Although courtesy of her brothers’ eager opinions Tony hadn’t heard what was said, he noted the sisters’ exchange and made a mental note to ascertain just how serious Geoffrey was. The last thing he wanted was for Alicia to become anxious over her sister’s budding romance. He wanted her attention, as much of it as he could get, for himself.
Maggs reappeared to remove the tea tray, bending a glance on Tony that he read with ease: nothing to report. At Alicia’s command, the boys stood and took their leave, resigned to returning to their lessons. As they trooped to the door, Tony looked at Adriana.
She met his gaze, then fleetingly, conspiratorially smiled. Gathering her papers and sketchbook, she stood; directing an airy, “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” to Alicia, she followed her brothers out of the door, shutting it behind her.
The instant the door closed, Tony rose and sank onto the chaise where Adriana had been. Alongside Alicia.
She directed a wide-eyed look his way. “Ah—have you learned anything more about Ruskin, about what he was up to?”
Habit prompted him to answer with a simple “No,” and then distract her from the subject, but his decision not to conceal such matters from her weighed against such a tack. “Nothing specific—as I said, I’ve various inquiries under way.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out the originals of the lists he’d made of ships’ names, dates, and Ruskin’s payments. “This”—stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he settled back. Straightening the lists, he held them up before him—“are all we have to work with at present.”
She hesitated, but had to lean closer to look.
Her shoulder brushing his arm, Alicia read the entries; she was determined to keep their conversation focused on the safe and highly pertinent subject of his investigation. Relatively safe; clearly, he was not above using every opportunity that came his way to ruffle her senses, even this. His writing was neat, precise, but quite small; she had to press closer still to make out the dates—her senses flared with awareness, of him, of his strength, of the promise of sensual delight her wanton wits now associated with him.
She waved at the lists. “These dates. They seem to be related in some way—not exactly, but…”
He nodded. “We think—”
Without further prompting, he explained what the lists were, what he believed they meant. To her surprise, he even told her what his assumptions regarding the lists’ significance were, what he hoped to learn from the shipping companies, the ports, and the mariners, and how that might indicate further avenues to explore …it was intriguing.
She found herself enthused with a zeal to in some way assist in working out the puzzle of what Ruskin’s information was used for, and why. She’d intended to do something—pushing the investigation to a rapid conclusion would remove the most compelling excuse Torrington had to call on her, to be close to her.
About to ask how she could help, she stopped; why ask? Reaching for the lists, she drew them from his fingers. “May I make copies of these?”
His brows rose, but he nodded. “If you like.”
Tony watched as she stood and crossed to the escritoire standing against the wall between the windows. She sat, drew out a sheet of paper, then settled to copy his lists. A slanting beam of sunlight struck coppery red glints from her dark hair. In the evenings, she wore it coiled high; during the day, the heavy loops were neatly constrained at her nape, the dark silk lustrous against her pale skin.
A fleeting notion of releasing that restrained abundance, of spreading it in a sheening mahogany veil over her bare shoulders, a distracting screen about her charms, filled him. Caught him. Momentarily held him.
She glanced at him, alerted, suspicious, but not knowing why.
He frowned, surreptitiously shifted. “What do you intend to do with those?”
Laying aside her pen, she blotted the lists, then rose and turned to him. “I don’t know. If I have them, then when I think of something…” She shrugged. His originals in her hand, she walked back to the chaise.
His frown wasn’t feigned. “If you do think of anything, or learn anything, promise me you’ll tell me immediately.”
Alicia halted before him, met his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “I promise.” What else was she to do with anything she learned?
She held out the lists. For one moment, his gaze didn’t leave her face, then it slowly lowered, eventually fastening on the sheets in her hand.
He reached out—reached farther than the sheets and grasped her wrist. Long fingers locking, he tugged.
Before she could catch her breath, she was on his lap, in his arms. In a flurry of skirt and petticoats, she tried to right herself, tried to push back.
She heard a deep chuckle, felt it reverberate through her palms, braced on his chest. “We have a few moments…” His tone was pure temptation.
She drew breath, looked up. And his lips came down on hers.
He captured them, captured her mouth, bewitched her senses. She was kissing him back, flagrantly participating in the exchange before her wits caught up with her actions. He shifted; she felt him pluck his lists from her nerveless fingers, fold them, and tuck them into his pocket.
Then his arms rose and closed about her, his head angled, and he parted her lips wider, his tongue evocatively thrusting deep, then settling to a typical, devastatingly intimate game. Of exploration, of enticement.
Soon her mind was whirling, senses locked with his as together they fed their mutual hunger, created and assuaged a mutual desire. Fingers tangled in his hair, she clung, savored, appeased, and demanded.
How long they indulged in the heated sensations she had no idea, but her wits returned with a jolt when she felt his hands between them, opening the buttons down the front of her walking dress.
It took a huge effort but she broke from the kiss; he was distracted, so let her go. On a gasp, she looked down, then glanced wildly around. “Ah…”
“Don’t worry.” From under his heavy lids, his black eyes caught hers. He searched, read, then his lips twisted wryly. “Your brothers are safe upstairs, so is your sister. Jenkins is with your brothers, and the rest are in the kitchens. No one is going to come through the door, not in the next half hour.”
