The wave receded.
They drifted slowly to earth, their bodies eased, all tension gone, boneless in the aftermath. Their lips parted; breaths mingling, they clung, eyes still closed, savoring the closeness.
He felt her arms steal around him, then rest, lax. With the last of his strength, he slumped to the side, trying not to crush her as oblivion, deeper than he’d ever known it, caught him and drew him down.
THIRTEEN
REMARKABLE.
It had been that and more; an hour later, Tony still couldn’t rationalize how very different the interlude had been, that she, a rank novice, had been the one woman in all his years to shatter his control, capture him utterly, forcing him to rely wholly on instinct, thus taking him to…wherever they had been.
A plane on which the pleasure defied all description, in which the physical had been a golden echo of something else.
An unworldly, unearthly, otherworldly place.
In all his years, through all his experience, he’d never even imagined such an exchange could be, or that such a place existed.
On rousing, he’d disengaged and lifted from her. Lying on his back, he’d gathered her to him; unresisting, she’d let him settle her against him, within the circle of his arms, her head on his shoulder.
The covers lay warm about them. Night lay like a blanket over the house; the moonlight had strengthened. He glanced at her face; she still seemed sunk in pleasured oblivion. Lifting his hand, he tentatively touched her hair. When she didn’t stir, he set his palm to the silky tresses, smoothing them, drinking in the feel of their warm softness.
Lying back, he looked up at the canopy; slowly stroking, he tried to think.
The gentle, rhythmic comforting caress gradually drew Alicia back into the world. Warmth held her; pleasure still lay heavy in her veins. A sense of safety she’d never before known, so deep, so solid its existence was beyond question, wrapped her about, supporting, reassuring.
She sighed, and her wits returned.
And she remembered. Everything. All of it.
Every moment that had passed since he’d drawn her into his arms, every touch, every blissful second.
His arms remained around her, steel bands cradling her, gently enough, yet still overtly possessive.
The stroking slowed; his hand stilled. He knew she was awake.
Opening her eyes, she shifted her head and looked up. Met his gaze. Excruciatingly aware that she lay naked in his arms, that he was naked, too. Aware that their limbs were tangled, that they lay slumped together in a warm cocoon of rumpled sheets.
His black eyes held hers; it was impossible to read anything from them or his face. “When did you intend to tell me?” His tone was even, uninflected.
She searched his face, remembered…refocused on his eyes. “You knew.”
He’d known she was—had been—a virgin; he’d watched for every second as he’d taken her virginity, as she’d willingly yielded it to him.
He looked down, at her hand spread on his bare chest. He took it in his; his long fingers toyed with hers. “There wasn’t any trace of any Carrington anywhere near Chipping Norton. No entry in the parish records. No one of that name known at any of the stables or inns. Yet many knew the Misses Pevensey—
He glanced up; his eyes were sharp as they found hers. “I would have stopped if you’d wanted me to.”
A statement, but there was a question buried in it. She held his gaze steadily. “I know.”
She let the two words stand alone, a simple acknowledgment of the decision she’d made. She’d gone to him willingly; she wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
What was done was done; she was his mistress now.
She frowned. “How did you learn…?” The truth struck her, left her horrified. “Your friend?”
Incipient panic flared in her eyes; Tony closed his hand over hers. “There’s no need to worry.” He hesitated, then explained, “Jack Warnefleet—Lord Warnefleet—investigated Ruskin for me. He also asked after your supposed husband, Alfred Carrington. Another A. C.”
Understanding lit her eyes; he added, “We can rely on Jack’s absolute discretion.”
She studied his face, his eyes; a long moment passed, then she asked, “That was the urgent information he sent you the note about last night?”
He felt his jaw set. “He knew I’d want to know.”
She blinked, then her lashes veiled her eyes. “I couldn’t tell you.” A heartbeat passed, then she added, “I couldn’t risk it.”
There was no hint of excuse in her tone; she was stating a fact, at least as she’d seen it.
He drew in a breath, lifted his gaze to look, unseeing, across the room. Given all he now knew of her, of the plan she and, he assumed, Adriana had concocted, of her commitment to her sister and even more to her brothers, he couldn’t fault her; any hint that she wasn’t the widow the ton thought her would, even now, result in complete and unmitigated disaster. Any chance of Adriana making a good match would disappear. They’d be social pariahs, expelled from society, forced to retreat to their cottage in the country to scrape a precarious existence for themselves and their brothers.
Trusting him with the truth…
He suddenly realized she had. She just hadn’t told him in words.
His silence had bothered her; she tried to edge away. Even before he’d thought, his arms were tightening, holding her to him. “No—I know.” She stilled; he drew in another breath, glanced down at her bent head. “I understand.”
When she didn’t look up, he bent close, placed a kiss on her crown, hesitated, then gently nudged her head.
Alicia looked up, into black eyes that promised far more than understanding. Safety, protection from both the finite and the nebulous dangers of the world, but more precious, at least to her, was the strange and novel relief of having someone with whom she could share her thoughts, her concerns, her schemes. Someone who did indeed understand.
His eyes searched hers; as if to confirm her reading, he asked, “Tell me how this all came about—you, your sister, your plan.”
It wasn’t a command, but a request, one she saw no reason to refuse; better he know all than half the story. She settled against him, felt his arms close tighter. “It started when Papa died.”
She told him everything, even explaining her connection with Mr. King. Although he said not a word, she could tell he didn’t approve, yet still he accepted, and made no protest. She was surprised when he questioned her about their gowns, and gave mute thanks not everyone was so acute.
When she in turn questioned why he’d investigated her supposed husband, he explained his thoughts of some other Carrington being involved. The comment led them deeper into the possibilities surrounding Ruskin; they discussed, tossed thoughts back and forth, argued likelihoods—the sort of exchange she’d never indulged in with anyone else.
Gradually, the silences lengthened. Blissfully warm, totally comfortable, she lay in his arms and listened to his heart beat steadily beneath her cheek. The covers lay over them; she still lay half-atop him, stretched alongside, her legs tangled with his, her hand spread over his chest. One muscled arm was wrapped around her, his hand heavy over her waist.
She should, she felt sure, feel some degree of fluster, of maidenly, feminine embarrassment over their naked state, let alone all that had led to it. Instead, the intimacy was addictive, a strange sense of closeness, of inexpressible comfort, of a simple rightness she was loath to shake.
He glanced down at her, then she felt his lips brush her hair.
