They searched steadily, fired by their deductions.
Then Ro slowed, stopped. Lydia glanced up at him; he was frowning at the piles of notes. “What?”
Ro grimaced. “You said Addison hasn’t paid his vowel yet. It won’t be here.”
Lydia looked at the notes spread before her. “But not all of these notes are countersigned as paid.”
“If a gentleman paid Barham somewhere other than here, he’d give the man a card with a few words signifying the amount was paid. Most men would then later destroy the original vowel, but Barham keeps them-here. So these are all redeemed, even if some aren’t countersigned.” Ro started dropping the notes he’d examined back into the drawer. “There are too many, most are old, and most tellingly, Barham wouldn’t keep notes that mean money in such a mess.”
Lydia watched him, then pushed her pile across the desk to be stuffed back into the drawer, too. “So where would he keep vowels not yet redeemed?”
Shutting the drawer, Ro stared at the desk; the surface was remarkably clear and uncluttered, a lamp close to one corner, an inkstand to one side of an embossed leather blotter holder. “They should be here. I’ve seen him bring new vowels in here and come out without them.”
With one fingertip, he poked at the leather blotter holder. It didn’t move. He smiled. “Aha.”
Lydia looked from the blotter holder to him. “Aha what?”
He waved her back.
She scooted the admiral’s chair back and to the side, out of his way as he went down on one knee before the kneehole to peer, then feel along under the desk. There was space for a drawer above the kneehole, but there was no drawer front.
He found a small lever and pulled. A sharp click sounded. “There.” The nearer edge of the leather panel had popped up. Rising to his feet, he reached for it.
Lydia stood to peer around his shoulder as he lifted what was in fact a hinged, rectangular, leather-covered lid; they looked into a box-the hidden drawer. Various writing implements, a penknife, an ornate letter opener, Barham’s seals, a candle stub, and wax were all neatly laid within the box-along with a three-inch stack of vowels.
Ro hesitated; no matter what he thought of Barham, he didn’t like trespassing on the man’s privacy. But…steeling himself, he picked up the vowels, flicked through them, then drew out an envelope.
“That’s Tabitha’s writing,” Lydia said.
Examining it, he nodded. “With Addison’s note of hand on the back.” He looked inside the outer casing and drew out a single, thin, neatly folded sheet, with every visible surface covered in Tabitha’s scrawly script. He handed it to Lydia. “Check that it’s what we’re after.”
He assumed it was, but with Addison the spineless wonder involved, one couldn’t be too sure.
Lydia flicked open the sheet, then stepped back, closer to the bow window, angling the crossed and recrossed page to the light.
Ro slipped the envelope bearing Addison’s IOU back in the pile in the same position, then replaced the stack of vowels in the drawer exactly as he’d found it. Closing the drawer, he drew the admiral’s chair back to its previous position before the desk. He stepped back, scanning, checking; everything was as it had been before they’d started searching.
Lydia was standing before the window utterly engrossed in her sister’s letter. He was turning to her when he heard a heavy, lazy footstep in the corridor outside the library.
Seconds away from the door.
He had only those seconds to react, to protect Lydia while creating some plausible excuse for them being there.
His options were limited.
She caught the next footstep, closer, more definite, and lifted her head, eyes widening, lips parting.
He seized her about the waist. Her eyes widened even more as he lifted and swung her around; sitting on the window seat, he juggled her, pushing her skirts up with his knees as he lowered her.
Lydia smothered a squeak. She ended astride Ro’s hard thighs, her skirts rucked up, her stockinged knees sinking into the thick velvet cushions of the window seat.
Facing him, she clutched Tabitha’s letter-the amazing and detailed account of her sister’s determined dive into intimacy with Addison the spineless wonder-in one hand. Her other hand was on Ro’s shoulder; senses reeling, she clutched, vainly trying to steady her wits, thrown into utter turmoil by the feel of his hands hard and hot about her waist, her skin shielded by only the finest layer of silk.
Before she could gather her whirling wits, he released her waist, reached for her face, speared his long fingers through her hair, dragging locks free as he gripped her head, pulled her to him, and pressed his lips to hers.
Forced hers wide, filled her mouth with his tongue, and kissed her as if he were intent on devouring her.
Distantly-very distantly-she heard the faint click of the door latch…but then sensation rose up, welled through her and swamped her. Filled her mind to the exclusion of all else.
All else but Ro, kissing her deeply, flagrantly demanding, commanding and insisting on a response-on complete and abject surrender.
His hands framed her jaw, her face-each long searing kiss, each evocative caress, sank to her bones and melted them.
She slumped toward him. She’d stopped breathing long ago, but couldn’t spare any wit to wonder at it. All her mind, all her being, was totally focused on him and what he was doing to her.
What he was making her feel.
All he was making her long for.
He broke the kiss to fill his lungs; their lips all but touching, he whispered, “Barham’s at the door. He’s watching us.” He angled his head to trail languidly lazy, erotically tempting kisses along her jaw to her ear. “Pretend to be hungry-starving.”
Pretend? Her skirts were a silk froth across his lap; tucking Tabitha’s letter beneath the folds, she placed that hand on his chest, then slid it slowly and deliberately-savoring every inch-up the hard planes, over his heavy shoulder, up and around until she could splay her fingers, spear her hand through his silky dark hair, grip his head-and kiss him back.
She was as hungry as he could possibly want. She made no attempt to hide it, easing up on her knees, leaning into him to press her kisses ever more avidly on him.
Only to discover she was engaged in a duel with him, a heated, willful exchange, one that escalated dramatically, fed her greedy hunger until she grew ravenous, yet she still couldn’t match his rapacious demands. The more ravenous she grew, the more rapacious he became, the more flagrantly arousing, the more blatantly sexual his actions. The steely need she sensed rising within him in response to her-to her nearness, to her eager kisses-fascinated and lured, and drew her on.
Ever deeper into the spiraling whirlpool of sensations.
Ever more deeply under their spell.
From some way behind her, a fraction to the side, Barham rather pointedly cleared his throat. “Ro, dear boy.”
Barham waited until Ro, unhurriedly and with every evidence of reluctance-including a small but audible sigh-drew back from the kiss. Making absolutely no attempt to sit up or shift Lydia back, heavy-lidded, he remained slumped against the padded back of the window seat, looked at Barham, then arched a languid brow.
He kept Lydia’s face anchored between his palms, stopping her from glancing around, keeping her face hidden from Barham.
Barham’s smile was all masculine understanding. “A pleasure to see you once again within these walls, dear boy. Grafton mentioned you’d arrived.”
“Indeed. It’s proving a delight to be back, old chap.” Ro pitched his voice to a world-weary drawl, his tone that of a man interrupted, distracted from an activity he would much rather be pursuing only by the demands of polite behavior. “Finally having the chance to rejoin you, as you can see, I grasped it. However, not having attended your revels for so long, I wasn’t sure who else might be here. I decided it was wiser to amuse ourselves here, within these more exclusive surrounds, at least until you were up and about.”