“Yes, I would.” Before she knew what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed her by the back of the neck, hauling her onto the table. Claire’s heart hammered against her ribs, not in fear, but in anticipation. The tines of a fork dug into her knee and she didn’t care. She reached out with both hands and seized the front of his dressing gown. The bare flesh of his chest scorched her thumbs. Their gazes locked.
“Do it,” she whispered. Commanded. Begged.
He growled low in his throat, and his mouth claimed hers.
Claire’s mouth felt exactly as Alastair had known it would, though he had imagined her tasting of berries or spice rather than of bacon and sugary jam. It really didn’t matter, because her full lips yielded beneath his, letting him inside without hesitation. Her mouth was hot and wet, inviting. Her fists held him just as tight and close as h cnd his, le held her, and the table be damned.
He was already hard for her, despite having relieved himself of the same affliction not long ago. Christ in a dirigible, he felt as if he were eighteen again. If he slipped his hand beneath her nightgown, would he find her equally enthusiastic for him?
If he took her to bed, would she look into his eyes? He would keep his open just to see.
The thought was exactly the shock of reality he needed. He released her, then pulled away. He sat back in his chair and made a show of brushing toast crumbs from the rumpled front of his dressing gown.
Claire slowly moved off the table and sank into her own seat. She had a smear of jam over her left breast. It looked almost like blood against the ivory silk of her wrapper. She lifted a hand to her mouth, the pads of her long, slender fingers pressing as though to check for bruising or injury. Had he hurt her?
“That . . .” She cleared her throat. “That was . . .”
“A mistake,” Alastair blurted before she could. “My apologies, Miss Brooks. I forgot myself. It won’t happen again.”
It was undoubtedly his male pride and wishful thinking, but he thought he saw disappointment flicker in her eyes.
“Of course,” she replied softly, her sultry voice a little strained. “Obviously we were overtaken by the moment.”
Alastair frowned. That sounded more like something he’d expect out of an Englishwoman rather than this bold American. What had he expected? That she’d declare her lust for him after he had said his for her was an error in judgment? It was, but no woman wanted to hear that.
“I want you to know I would never take advantage of you,” he said, though he wanted to. He really, really wanted nothing more than to take advantage of her right there, on the table.
Her lips twisted—a little bitterly, he thought. “No, of course you wouldn’t. You are an honorable man, after all, and despite my being a Company whore, I am your prisoner. Wouldn’t want to abuse your power. Would you excuse me? I should really get cleaned up and dressed if we’re going to venture on to the house party as planned.”
He barely had time to stand before she leaped up from the table, grabbed her things from the bed, and bolted to the bath. The door closed firmly behind her.
Alastair slumped into the chair. He’d certainly mucked this up well and good. Perhaps it was time for him to give up being a Warden. He certainly didn’t seem to be very good at it anymore, at least not where Company females were concerned.
Sighing, he stood and went to a case sitting on top of his baggage. From it, he withdrew a small brass and leather box that had seen better days, and returned to the table with it. He might be an idiot, but he was still hungry, and not about to let all this food go to waste. He ate two slices of bacon and a piece of toast as he opened the box and set the machine to working order.
It had to be used near a window or outside for the best aetheric reception, and it always behaved better on clear days such as this one. He pressed several keys on the small typew ce sethriting keys, struck the carriage return and then waited. From the bath he heard the sound of water filling the tub.
The small, circular screen flickered and crackled with static; then a grainy image appeared—a face Alastair had heard several ladies describe as terribly handsome, though he didn’t see it. “I’ve been waiting on you, Wolfred.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Blackstone. This is the first chance I’ve had to make contact. You’re an aristocrat; you shouldn’t be up yet regardless.”
“There was a hunting party this morning. I had to plead a hangover.” Declan Frost, Lord Blackstone, was not the type of man who drank to excess, and Alastair doubted the man would know a hangover if one chose to cosh him over the head.
“Is Howard with the party?”
“How the devil should I know? I haven’t been downstairs. If he’s the bloke I think he is, then he talked as though he wouldn’t miss the chance to shed a little blood on the hunt. That odd friend of his is going to join the party for the midday meal. Are you certain he’s the Doctor?”
“That’s what our intelligence tells us. They’ll be out for a little while longer at least. We should be there before luncheon.”
“We?”
“I have a traveling companion with me.” It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want to tell this man about Claire; he didn’t want him to know the truth about her.
Blackstone’s eyes twinkled—or it might have been more static. The aether was being temperamental today. “Good to hear. For a while there was speculation that you might never bother with a woman again.”
“Indeed,” he remarked drily. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d taken part in similar speculation regarding other agents over the years—it wasn’t that different from the betting books at the clubs—but he’d rarely been the object of such wagering before. “I hope you didn’t bet against me.”
“Never. All right, get your arse dressed and up here. I’ll meet you when you arrive.”
“Excellent. Make certain you’re armed. See you soon.” He flicked the switch to disconnect communication and packed up the machine once more. He’d just set it in his bag when there was a knock on the door.
His fingers closed around the handle of a scatter pistol, but he left his hand inside the luggage, out of sight. “Come in.”
It was a maid, carrying a freshly pressed purple lady’s day gown. She curtsied to him and carefully avoided his gaze. “Begging your pardon, my lord. I’m just returning the lady’s clothing.”
“Thank you.” He let go of the pistol, and dug a couple of coins out of his change purse. He gave the silver to the girl. “Excellent work.”
She flushed. “Excuse me, sir, but will the lady need any assistance? I can come back.”
Alastair glanced at the closed bath door. Who the hell knew what Claire needed? “We’ll ring if we need you.”
The girl bobbed anot cl b? her curtsy and exited. Alastair had to let her out because of the lock bieng used to keep Claire in. He hung the gown on a nearby hook on the wall. It was a lovely color. Whoever did the shopping for the W.O.R. had excellent taste. It was probably the work of Madame Cherie, popular seamstress and W.O.R. agent. The dress was quality without being pretentious. Fashionable but not fussy, it was exactly the sort of thing one would expect of a woman who knew she needed little adornment.
He finished his breakfast while he dressed, putting on dark gray trousers, a white shirt, a dark gray brocade waistcoat, a dark green cravat and a dark gray jacket. The drab color of his own ensemble would make Claire stand out even more, and they needed her to attract attention. It was the only way to draw Howard out into the open.
She would draw Howard to her, and when the bastard made his move, Alastair and Blackstone would be there to capture him. Then he’d return to London with Howard, the Doctor and Claire in custody. As far as the Wardens would be concerned, he would have proved that he had his balls back, and he would be out of his father’s shadow once and for all. Life would go back to how it had been before.