A few hours closeted in his library clarified matters, at least as far as identifying his immediate next steps.
Through Ruskin’s blackmail and fateful coincidence, Alicia Carrington was being drawn further and further into his investigation. Given his personal interest, he needed to regain lost ground rapidly—needed to regain her trust. Doing so would require an apology, and worse, explanations. All of which necessitated a certain amount of planning, which in turn required a certain amount of reconnoitering. His groom returned from the mews near Waverton Street with the necessary details, by which time he’d formulated his plan.
He began its implementation with a note to his godmother, then sent a different note around to Manningham House.
When the clocks struck nine, he and Geoffrey were propping the wall of Lady Herrington’s ballroom, keeping a careful eye on the arrivals.
“I would never have thought of sending around a groom.” Eyes on the throng, Geoffrey seemed to be relishing his role.
“Stick with me, and you’ll learn all sorts of useful tricks.” Tony kept his gaze on the ballroom stairs.
Geoffrey softly snorted.
The strands of old companionship had regrown quickly, somewhat to the surprise of them both. Tony was four years Geoffrey’s senior; much of their childhood had been colored by Geoffrey’s need to cast himself as Tony’s rival. Despite that, there’d been many occasions when they’d combined forces in various devilry; the friendship beneath the rivalry had been strong.
“There they are.” Tony straightened. At the top of the steps, he’d glimpsed a coronet of dark hair above a pale forehead.
Geoffrey craned his head. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Which was of itself revealing. “Remember—the instant they reach the bottom of the steps. Ready?”
“Right behind you.”
They swooped as planned, a perfectly executed attack that separated Alicia and Adriana the instant the sisters set foot on the ballroom floor. Geoffrey took Adriana’s hand—offered with a delighted smile—and smoothly cut in, drawing Adriana forward while simultaneously insinuating himself between the sisters, cutting Alicia off from Adriana’s immediate view.
Before Alicia could even gather her wits, she was captured, swept aside; Tony propelled her across the front of the ballroom steps and around into their lee, where a small and as yet uncrowded little foyer stood before a closed door.
They’d reached the foyer before she caught her breath.
Then she did. Her eyes swung to his face. They blazed.
He caught that scorching glance, held it. Her breasts swelled; her lips parted—on a scathing denunciation he had not a doubt. “Don’t fight me.” He spoke softly; there was steel in his voice. “Don’t look daggers at me, and for God’s sake don’t rip up at me. I have to talk to you.”
Her jaw set mulishly. She tugged her right arm, firmly gripped in his right hand; his left arm was around her waist, steering her on. She tried to stop, to dig in her heels, but she was wearing ballroom slippers. “If we must, we can talk here!”
He didn’t pause, but looked down at her, leaned closer, drawing her into the shield of his body. “No, we can’t. You wouldn’t like it, and neither would I.”
He released her arm to fling open the door, catching her in his left arm when she tried to step back. He swept her over the threshold and followed, shutting the door behind him, by sheer physical presence forcing her on along the corridor beyond.
She hissed in frustration, took two steps, then swung to face him and glared. “This is ridiculous! You can’t simply—”
“Not here.” He caught her arm again, propelled her on.
“The door on the left at the end is our best bet.”
He could sense her temper rising, seething like a volcano. “Our best bet for what?” she muttered beneath her breath.
He glanced at her, but held his tongue.
They reached the door in question; he sent it swinging wide. This time, she entered of her own volition, sweeping in like a galleon under full sail. He followed, shutting the door, taking note of her gown—a sleekly draped silk confection in bronzy, autumnal shades that became her extremely well.
She turned on him, faced him; the silk tightened over her breasts as she dragged in a deep breath—
He heard a click as the door at the head of the corridor opened. The noise of the ball washed in, abruptly cut off again as the door was shut. A woman giggled, the sound quickly smothered.
Reaching behind him, he snibbed the lock on the door.
Too far from the corridor to realize the danger, eyes blazing, Alicia opened her mouth to deliver the broadside he undoubtedly deserved.
He stepped forward, jerked her into his arms, and silenced her—saved them—in the only possible way.
FIVE
HE KISSED HER.
Her mouth had been open, her lips parted; he slid between, caressed, claimed—and felt her attention splinter. Her hands had gripped his upper arms; they tensed, but she didn’t push him away. She clung, held on.
As a whirlpool of want rose up and engulfed them.
He hadn’t intended it, had had no idea how much he wanted, how much hunger he possessed, or how readily it would rise to her lure. Hands framing her face, he angled his head and flagrantly feasted. Asking for no permission, giving no quarter, he plunged them both into the fire. She was a widow, not a skittish virgin; he didn’t need to explain things to her.
Such as the nature of his want. His tongue tangling with hers, aggressively plundering, he released her face and gathered her to him. Into his arms, against his hard frame. Glorying in the supple softness that promised to ease his ache, he molded her to him, blatantly shifted his hips against hers. He felt her spine soften as she sank into him.
As her bones melted and her knees gave way.
Alicia struggled to cling to her wits, but time and again he ripped them away. Her breath was long gone; with their mouths melded she could only breathe through him—she’d given up the fight to do otherwise.
Her head spun—pleasurably. Warmth, burgeoning heat, spread through her veins. Intoxicating. Shocking. She tried to cling to her anger, rekindle her fury, but could not.
She’d had only a second’s warning, but she’d expected a kiss—a touching of lips, not this ravenous, flagrantly intimate exchange. Mild kisses she could cope with, but this? It was new territory, unknown and dangerous, yet she couldn’t—could not—let her innocence, her inexperience show.
No matter how much her senses swam, how much her wits had seized in sheer shock.
She had nothing to guide her but him. In desperation, she mimicked the play of his tongue against hers, and sensed his immediate approval. In seconds, they were engaged in a duel, in a sensual game of thrust and parry.
Of lips and tongues, of heated softness and beguiling aggression, of shared breaths and, amazingly, shared hunger.
It caught her, dragged at her mind. Drew her in. Held her captive.
He urged her closer still, one hand sliding down her back to splay over her hips, her bottom, lifting her and pressing her to him.
Sensation streaked over her skin, prickling, heated; she clung tight, felt the world whirl.
And she was engulfed in his strength, enveloped by it, a potent masculine power that seemed to weaken every bone in her body, that promised heat and flames so dizzyingly pleasurable all she wanted was to wantonly wallow, to give herself up to them and be consumed.
On one level it was frightening, but she couldn’t retreat—had wit enough left to know she couldn’t panic, couldn’t run.
She was supposed to be a widow. She had to stand there, accept all, and respond as if she understood.