Читать книгу The Earl's Irresistible Challenge - Lara Temple, Lara Temple - Страница 13

Marcia Pendle’s cloying perfume rose like smoke from under the door and Lucas resisted the urge to move away. He did not want to miss any of the entertainment in the other room. Miss Olivia Silverdale might not know what a Bulgarian madame sounded like, but her version of a spirit-possessed fortune-teller would do well in a Drury Lane farce.

He had begun his vigil of her little masquerade annoyed as hell, but after half an hour of her antics he was having a hard time resisting the urge to laugh out loud. He couldn’t believe Marcia Pendle was taking her so seriously.

To give Miss Silverdale her due she paced her theatrical nonsense well. Just when Marcia Pendle was on the verge of extracting a promise of eternal fidelity from the deceased, who sounded like fidelity had not been his strong point during his corporeal state, Miss Silverdale sent him scurrying at the interruption of a host of avenging angels accusing Marcia of assisting in the perpetration of a heinous sin.

‘You must reveal all!’ Madame Bulgari intoned, her voice quivering with baritone outrage. ‘Only then will the Lords of the Gates be appeased and allow you to unite with George! The wife of the man you maligned has powerful spirits working for her. They can bar your way for ever!’

‘No! Please, Madame Bulgari, I only did what this man told me. I swear! He said it was to help someone from ruin. He weren’t no flash cove, nor sharp—why, he was nervous as a virgin on her bridal night. I reckoned the lady who rode that fellow so hard was his relation and he didn’t want questions. He gave me five guineas just to tell the constable I was this Henry Payton’s particular friend these past six months and that I visited him veiled and all. I told him don’t you worry, it happens, don’t I know it? I didn’t mean trouble; I thought I was doing a good turn. Tell the spirits!’

‘Calm yourself. They know your heart is true. They will seek the malefactor, but you must name him.’

‘The mal-e-what?’

‘He who did evil. The man who bade you lie.’

‘But I don’t know him, I tell you. He shows up and asks for me particular—says he heard I used to be on the stage and offers me five guineas. Five! He shows them to me, too, right there in the middle of Catte Street which shows you he has less sense than a day-old kitten. Clear as anything he didn’t want to be seen with me, had me walk three steps behind him the whole way from where the hackney left us. I only know his name because a man he passed tipped his hat and said, “Evening, Eldritch, fancy seeing you south of the river.” Poor fellow almost wet himself, turned redder than a duke in a new corset. I’m not saying it’s right, lying about who this Payton was frolicking with behind his missus’s back, but it ain’t a shade on the evil I’ve seen elsewhere. It ain’t right to punish me and my George for trying to help. You tell them that, will you?’

‘They hear you, but still you must present him to their judgement. Tell them what manner of man is he. Close your eyes and give him the image you see in your mind, give it to them so they may take away his sin from your spirit. Describe him.’

‘I don’t know. He was...a man. Not tall. He were dressed like a clerk or one of them better shopkeepers, brown eyes, I think, or black. I see a dozen of those a day at Madame’s, they look alike in the end. I’d say by his clothes he’s got a wife or someone who sees to his housekeeping, but they ain’t too well-padded. There’s the darning, neat stitches, but enough to say he doesn’t have too many Sunday clothes, see? If he’d have come to Madame Bernieres you can be sure he’d have been palmed off on the country girls who don’t know the tricks yet. He looked serious, scared, but then he ought to, oughtn’t he? Are they still angry, the spirits?’

The silence that followed her agonised question was punctuated by her tearful sniffling and Lucas reined in his impatience. Surely even the irrepressible Miss Silverdale recognised there was nothing more to be extracted from Marcia Pendle, even under the threat of eternal damnation. Finally there was a rustling and a shuddering sigh.

‘Ah, there is much water, fog, they are going away.’

‘But they won’t keep me from George when my time comes?’

‘For now they are appeased. But they say I am not to communicate with them again on your behalf unless they send word first. I dare not defy them.’

Lucas pushed away from the door frame. Marcia Pendle’s tale was far more sensible than Miss Silverdale’s theories. Perhaps now this outrageous young woman would abandon her fantasies of conspiracies. He glanced at the lists decorating the wall behind him and sighed. Not likely. People believed what they wanted to believe and Olivia Silverdale wanted to believe Henry Payton a wronged man.

When the front door closed behind the sniffling Marcia Pendle he entered the parlour. With the reek of perfume, the guttering candles and the garish scarves, it looked like a struggling brothel. Olivia was unwinding the gold-embroidered scarf that secured her curls and they tumbled down, glinting with copper and gold lights as they settled on her shoulders. She twisted them into a knot and secured it with a wooden pin, but tendrils escaped like trailing ivy, framing her face and curling around her neck and ears. Lucas picked up a discarded scarf to keep his hands occupied. It was a bad sign when he began contemplating helping a woman with her coiffure.

‘Well? What did you think?’ she asked the silence.

‘I think that was the worst Balkan accent I have ever had the misfortune to hear.’

Laughter burst in her eyes but her rouged mouth remained serious. It was a peculiar and unsettling combination.

‘It was effective, though, wasn’t it?’ she demanded.

‘That depends on what you consider effective.’ He went to the mantelpiece, snuffing the candles. ‘I think we should remove to your spider’s lair. This room reeks.’

She followed him into the study, untangling scarves as she went and balling them into a rainbowed lump. Without the veil she looked even more a parody of a fortune-teller, her cheeks and lips flared with rouge and her eyes dusky with kohl.

‘Can’t you take off that paint? You look like an actress from one of the lesser theatres.’

The honey-and-moss eyes sparkled with either amusement or annoyance, but her answer was all business.

‘I know we did not learn much beyond the fact that this Eldritch told her what to say to the constable, but at least that is something. We must find him.’

‘Sit down, Miss Silverdale. Let me explain something to you.’

She folded her arms, the tangle of scarves pressed against her bosom like a strangled pet, drawing his gaze to the low-cut bodice of the purple satin monstrosity she wore and to the tantalising cleft between what he judged were two delightfully shaped globes, neither too large nor too small. He regretfully removed his eyes from this unintended display and fixed them instead on hers.

‘Very well, stand if you wish. I will explain in small but explicit words so there can be no chance of a misunderstanding, and you will have to forgive me for not sparing your maidenly blushes because any woman dressed as you are dressed at the moment and pursuing your present course of action can surely survive a little plain speaking. Your godfather had the misfortune to expire mid-coitus—it is rare and highly undesirable, but it happens. It would have been better if the real person involved in this unfortunate situation had hared off and left Payton to be discovered in due course instead of involving a third party, but the fact remains this is nothing more than an unfortunate accident.’

‘But...’

‘But nothing. Your godfather was not perfect, no man is. If the worst you know of him is that he had an affair, then he is a man like many others, however regrettable that fact is. I suggest you accept this and move on, and by move on I mean back home at the soonest possible opportunity.’

‘What of the note I found with your father’s correspondence? What if they are connected after all? What if this Mr Eldritch was involved in his death? Perhaps he had been trying to prevent Henry from doing something or saying something or—’

‘Miss Silverdale,’ he interrupted again, ‘You clearly read too many novels. I have indulged your imagination far enough. You have a day to pack and leave Spinner Street and return whence you came or I will send a messenger to your family informing them of your whereabouts and your activities.’

‘Don’t you even wish to see your father’s letters?’

‘No, thank you. Twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow you should be well on your way out of London. If you need help hiring a post chaise, I can offer my butler’s services. He is very discreet.’

Her arms spread wide, the crushed scarves fluttering in a parody of an exotic dance. ‘How can you be so certain there is no more to this than a weak heart and an officious relation? Can you honestly walk away without a qualm?’

‘Not honestly, sweetheart. Too late for that. But without a qualm, yes.’

‘Oh, don’t be so glib!’

‘Too late for that as well. What the devil do you think you will achieve if you keep rummaging in other people’s rubbish heaps? Do you think you will discover a dastardly plot to defame your godfather that somehow stretches back twenty years to another plot against my father? That you will redeem them from their own iniquity and win your godmother’s gratitude? The world doesn’t operate that way. Just accept that your godfather, like my father, was a weak man who made a mistake, or several. That is the end of this story. Anything else is pure indulgence on your part.’

Except for her garish clothes she looked a model of cool defiance, her shoulders back, her lips pressed firmly together and her eyes disdainful. But her hands gave her away, kneading away at the tangle of scarves, and he was sure he heard the rending of silk. He doubted the colourful fabrics would survive the evening.

Still, when she answered her voice was calm.

‘I know you are probably correct. About them. About me as well. But I must do this. If I walked away now...’ she shook her head ‘...I cannot do it. At least when I leave I shall know I did my best.’

She looked ridiculous but peculiarly appealing with her painted face and beseeching hazel eyes made far too vivid by the kohl. He assessed his options and sighed.

‘Do me a favour and scrub your face clean and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a demi-monde’s back. Then we will talk. Calmly. Is there anything to drink here?’

‘Drink? There is brandy in the parlour. Gypsy Sue suggested having some on hand to make Marcia more generous. Or would you care for tea?’

‘I will find the brandy. Go and change.’

The brandy was surprisingly good and he took it into the study and poured himself a measure and on second thought poured her a glass, too. Perhaps it would make her more generous as well.

He paused with the glass halfway to his mouth at the thought of Olivia Silverdale being generous, the potency of the image surprising him with a rush of heat that flowed upwards from his stomach and then settled back into his groin with an insistent thudding. It was utterly unwelcome, but before he could push it aside it was followed by the realisation that she was somewhere upstairs, undressing. That the vulgar purple-satin dress was even now hissing downwards over her skin, puddling on the floor at her feet with a whisper like an exhaled breath.

He tightened his hold on his glass and grimaced at the unwelcome thoughts. She might be an appealing little thing, but despite her eccentricity she was clearly gently born and as far outside his areas of interest as was possible without being married with ten children. Besides, from what he witnessed in the church she had no positive outlook on physical intimacy.

The image returned of her standing in the church, chin up, eyes closed as that young cub bent to kiss her. It was a submissive stance except for the fact that her hands had been fisted and her mouth anything but inviting. She looked more like a soldier before a firing squad, defiant but resolved to embrace his fate, than a young woman about to be kissed. It struck him as strange then, but doubly so now. Someone so very passionate about life should not look like that when a young man she clearly cares for steals a very chaste kiss.

I must do this...

He swirled his brandy, watching it lick against the edges of the glass.

It was not his concern. She might not be able to tame her curiosity, but he had years of experience doing just that. The fact that his discipline was lagging in his dealings with her was no excuse to slacken control further. She was not his concern. The ragged remnants of the Sinclair name were. Sam should not have to weather any more storms and so his only concern was to push this genie back into her bottle and move on.

‘Oh, good. You found it. Is that for me?’

He turned, his body clenching in readiness to either administer or receive a blow. She was transformed again—she was wearing a cream-muslin dress with rows of tiny pale-yellow flowers marking the bodice and sleeves. The makeup was gone, but her lips and cheeks were reddened from rubbing and a faint shadow lingered around her eyes. She had not even tried to dress her hair, but merely twisted her curls a little more rigorously into an off-centre knot and secured them with what looked like short knitting needles. She looked like what he imagined a young woman from the country would look like in the privacy of the breakfast room, still warm from bed and with nothing more on her mind than embroidery and morning calls. Not that he had much experience with that breed or wanted to. What he wanted was to pull one of those needles and see if that knot of burnished curls survived. Then take out the other and watch it all unfurl. Then lead her upstairs and watch her remove that proper dress as well.

Hell and damnation. This was the very definition of unwelcome.

She sat, sipped her brandy, frowned and sipped it again.

‘This is rather foul. Do men truly enjoy it or do they merely drink it for the pleasure of becoming intoxicated? By the way, I should warn you I have no intention of leaving London tomorrow.’

‘Not voluntarily. I’m aware of that.’

‘Not even under duress. I must at least discover who this Mr Eldritch is. If he is indeed merely a concerned relation and there is another woman involved, then...well, perhaps you are right. But I must try. Well? You said you wished to talk. What shall we talk about?’

How I am going to bed you.

He smiled at his unaccustomed descent into folly and shook his head.

‘Who was that young man you were kissing at St George’s?’

Her eyes widened and a flush rushed over her cheekbones, as vivid as Madame Bulgari’s rouge.

‘You saw us?’

‘I saw him accost you by your carriage and, as you pointed out, I am a curious fellow, so, yes, I followed you back into the church.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘You weren’t meant to. So, who is he?’

‘Colin Payton. Henry Payton’s son.’

‘Ah, I see. What is there between you?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Are you engaged to that young pup?’

Her mouth flattened and her eyes narrowed.

‘He is not a young pup; he is but a good man. But, no, we are not engaged.’

‘If you go about kissing him in churches you are as near to engaged as possible without the priest reading the banns. Why didn’t you tell me this is one of your reasons for wanting Payton cleared? If I am to help you, you must be honest with me, Miss Silverdale.’

‘I didn’t tell you because it isn’t true.’

‘So you kiss men in churches for the sheer pleasure of it?’

‘He kissed me—I didn’t instigate it.’ Her ferocity confirmed his observation, though he couldn’t tell if it was merely a virgin’s inexperience or some deeper objection. Probably the former; her obsession with conspiracies was making him see shadows when there were none. His experience with virgins was thankfully minimal; for all he knew they all reacted like that at the prospect of physical intimacy.

Before he could respond she pressed her hands together, calming. ‘But I might marry him, if I cannot solve this any other way.’

‘How precisely would matrimony solve it?’

‘Well, it would at least solve the financial concerns that Henry’s death caused. I am very wealthy, you see. If my brother Jack had married his sister Phoebe they would have had his protection, both financial and otherwise, but he died and now it falls to me to help as much as I can.’

‘I see. Very noble of you.’

‘It has nothing to do with being noble. I am merely trying to do what is right for people for whom I care deeply. To answer your as-yet-unspoken question, no, I will not cease merely because you tell me to, so I think it is in your best interest to help me rather than try to chase me away.’

‘And so we circle back to your agenda. Are you always this stubborn or do I bring out the worst in you?’

‘Both.’

He laughed, moving forward to raise her chin with the tips of his fingers.

‘Do you know, if you want me to comply, you should try to be a little less demanding and a little more conciliating.’

‘I don’t know why I should bother. You will no doubt do precisely as you wish without regard for anyone. So far, the only way I have found of persuading you is either by appealing to your curiosity or to your self-interest. I don’t see what good begging would do.’

He slid his thumb gently over her chin, just brushing the line of her lip, and watched as her eyes dilated with what could as much be a sign of alarm as physical interest. He wished he knew which. His blood was simmering, expanding, demanding he find out.

‘It depends what you are begging for,’ he said softly, pulling very slightly on her lower lip. Her breath caught, but she still did not move. Stubborn and imprudent. Or did she really trust him not to take advantage of the fact that they were alone in an empty house in a not-very-genteel part of London?

It really was a pity she planned to waste herself on that dull and dependable young man. What on earth did she think her life would be like with him? All that leashed intensity would burn the poor fool to a crisp if he ever set it loose, which was unlikely. A couple of years of being tied to him and she would be chomping at the bit and probably very ripe for a nice flirtation.

He shook his head at his thoughts. Whatever else he was, and whatever his body was unexpectedly demanding, he had never yet crossed the line with an inexperienced young woman; they were too apt to confuse physical pleasure with emotional connection. It wouldn’t be smart to indulge this temptation to see if those lips were as soft and delectable as they looked. Not smart, but very tempting...

‘You could always offer a trade,’ he prompted gently, testing the line of her lip with another soft brush of his thumb. The sensation was addictive.

‘A trade?’ Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat.

‘I will try to find out who Eldritch is...’

‘And what must I do?’ Her expression was wary, but she did not pull away and if anything the tension in her shoulders relaxed, as if becoming accustomed to the licence he was taking. He wasn’t certain that was an encouraging sign either.

‘If it is about turning my back on this, then there is no trade,’ she added as the silence stretched.

‘I wouldn’t think of asking for something I know you are constitutionally incapable of. It is something much simpler.’

‘Well, what?’ She frowned and he hesitated. However much he wanted to test this strange need that was sinking its claws in him, the thought of asking her for something she had shown such an aversion to when approached by her friend was too uncomfortable. It was a breach of trust where trust should not be an issue at all, and that was problematic. He breathed in and dropped his hand, stepping back.

‘Never mind.’

She moved towards him.

‘No. Tell me what it is!’

The command should have served further to convince him he should leave this room, this house, this peculiar woman’s fantasy. Instead it prodded further at his own fantasy.

‘You tell me. What would that information be worth?’

‘Do you mean in monetary terms?’

‘No. I have no need for your money. This is pointless. Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’

She caught his arm.

‘Oh, please just tell me. I need your help, but I have nothing else to offer but my money. Nothing someone like you might value, at least.’

‘Someone like me?’

Her beseeching eyes fell from his.

‘Someone with...experience. I can hardly imagine you would wish for anything along such lines from someone like me.’

‘Someone like you?’

‘Unremarkable.’ The word burst from her as if it had been lodged in her throat. It was not her word, and that was surprising in itself. Who in their right mind would call this woman unremarkable?

‘That is one epithet I would never associate with you. Believe me, Miss Silverdale, you are one of the most remarkable women of my acquaintance.’

Her cheeks, already pink, heated and so did every cell in his body. He touched his fingers lightly to the hand clutching his arm so desperately.

‘I will pledge to find this Mr Eldritch for you if I can.’

Her hand did not relax.

‘You will? Just like that? Without recompense?’

‘Without. But then you are on your own.’

She let go and as her tension seeped away he saw the return of her curiosity.

‘What were you about to ask for, Lord Sinclair?’

‘You have what you wanted. What difference does it make?’

‘I dare say it doesn’t, but I am curious.’

He sighed. ‘Of course you are. You will be pleased to find you were spared the noxious experience of being asked for a kiss.’

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

‘A kiss?’

‘You needn’t sound so shocked.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ she said, her voice scolding.

‘Rarely, but in this instance I am. It was merely a kiss, I was not about to ask for your first-born child.’

‘But why?’

‘Now that is a question worthy of being ignored. You have what you want. Now I had best leave before you further crush my vanity underfoot.’

‘I am not... It is merely that it seems a little silly. I mean, the gossip columnists hint you have dozens of mistresses, why would you wish for a kiss from me?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder that myself. Do you know you are the most aggravating woman...girl...whatever... I have ever met? Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’

‘Wait.’

Despite his better judgement he paused at the door. ‘What now, Miss Silverdale?’

‘Did you really wish to kiss me?’ She looked so confused his impatience waned. His frustration on the other hand...

‘I do, but it was extremely foolish of me to make that suggestion. I am well aware that despite your Spinner Street fantasies you are a respectable young woman and one with a dislike of being...approached. That much was evident by your martyr’s stance when Payton’s son did no more than tickle your cheek.’

She pressed her hands to her cheeks.

‘It isn’t that I... I never did until...’

Anger bubbled up in him at this confirmation of his suspicion. He wondered what clumsy fool had left his mark on her. It probably wasn’t the boring Payton boy, she seemed quite fond of him and the kiss they exchanged had been as unthreatening as being accosted with a daisy. Still, it was all the more reason to leave now. She wasn’t his responsibility.

‘Someone hurt you.’

Her mouth thinned.

‘Someone lied to me and used me and that hurt most of all, but he never... It hardly matters, it is in the past. But you are wrong about Colin. I didn’t wish for him to kiss me because he would then read into that single kiss a hundred things I am not ready for and I would once again find myself in a corner, with no choices that reflect my own wishes. This is different; you don’t want anything from me but a kiss and I am still not quite certain why you want even that. Do you understand?’

He refrained from correcting her that what he wanted went quite a bit beyond a mere kiss.

‘I think I do.’

She smiled, her eyes narrowing, more honey than green. They were speculative now and he remembered how she inspected him that first day in the church—even though she had been tense and afraid, there was that same assessing gaze, measuring his worth.

‘May we try, then?’

‘Try what?’ He was rapidly losing control of the situation. She could not possibly mean...

‘Kissing. I cannot bear the thought that every time I think of it I must think of...him. When Henry died I decided that perfidious wretch had affected my life far too much. So perhaps this is a good idea. I wish to take his power away and I may not have such an opportunity again. After all, I know I can trust you not to tattle. I’m a little worried, though. What if I do hate it? Do you think you could contrive to be convincing?’

Only a madman would pick up that hand with the cards so absolutely stacked against him. He might on occasion be a little reckless, though certainly less than society imagined, but he never...

‘I could try.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

She straightened resolutely, shoulders back. Her cheeks were still flushed, but the animation was fading from her features and she looked as she had in the church waiting for that young man to kiss her.

Contrarily it was the anxiety behind the determination that held him there. It made no sense for someone as intensely passionate as she to react with such a mixture of resolution and fear to a mere kiss. He wasn’t certain if he agreed with her experimentation analogy, but it struck him that, his own undeniable interest aside, to spurn her request now would be to add insult to injury. He would just have to be very, very careful. He was well served that his foolish impulse to satisfy his curiosity by bartering for a quick kiss had landed him in such hot water. That would teach his impulses not to escape their fetters again in future.

He raised her chin gently and her lips tensed, pressing together hard.

‘Relax, I will not kiss you yet.’

Her eyes flickered up to his.

‘You won’t?’

‘I will tell you before I do and, if you wish me not to, you have only to say so. Now close your eyes.’

‘Why?’

He sighed. ‘Just trust me. I promise I will not kiss you without asking first. Now close your eyes.’

She obeyed, frowning, and he touched her cheek, moving his fingers lightly over her cheekbone to where a downy wave of brown hair curled over the tip of her ear. He brushed his thumb over its warmth, easing it back from her temple with soft stroking motions, his hand moulding to the curve of her jaw as he tucked it behind her ear. Her shoulder rose a fraction and he watched the flickering of her lashes, surprisingly dark and long, the shifting of her brows as they moved in and out of a frown as if trying to hear something far away.

He kept his touch light and soothing as his fingers explored the contours of her face, wondered what she was thinking. Whether despite her determination to master her thoughts and reactions she was cringing inside, linking his touch with memories of pain and humiliation.

‘Is it terrible?’ he whispered. ‘Shall I stop?’

Her brows twitched again, but she didn’t open her eyes or speak, just shook her head. It was hardly an accolade to his appeal, but it did quite a bit of damage, relief flowing through him more potently than her brandy, and he couldn’t stop his gaze from settling on her mouth or his head sinking towards hers. So he closed his own eyes and concentrated on touch. On the slide of his fingers over the curve of her ear, her neck, on to the hard ridge of her collarbone and the sweep of her shoulder, then back up again.

Without seeing them there were revelations on the journey. The lobe of her ear was softer than any he had ever felt, so much so he had to feel it again, brushing his palm against it and barely controlling the shudder that rushed up his arms to join the building agony in the rest of his body. Then there was her collarbone. He had noticed it before with the eye of a connoisseur who could appreciate architectural highlights, but under his fingers it was combination of hard lines and velvety skin; it drew his fingers along its definite sweep and made his body imagine her hands touching him in a mirror image of his caresses, sending tingling sensations over his chest to join the rising heat below.

His hands itched to go lower so he made them rise again, rewarding them by touching that impossibly soft skin beneath her ear where her pulse was fluttering as swiftly as his, then moving gently along her jaw and cheeks, resisting the urge to touch her mouth with every ounce of his control. He couldn’t remember the last time he had either touched a woman so innocently or been swamped by such mind-numbing need. He gathered his disintegrating control. It was time to either go forward or retreat.

‘May I kiss you now? I will stop the moment you ask.’

Her lips parted and she nodded slightly, the words sliding out, hardly audible, but they seemed to enter directly into this chest, two spears dipped in molten lead.

‘Yes, please...’

He had never felt such tension at the thought of just kissing a woman. The need to be gentle was in absolute opposition to his desire. But it was imperative that he not scare her, and allowing her to feel one iota of the heat tormenting him would probably send her running.

He touched his mouth to hers. The burn was immediate, like making contact with a live flame under a veil of silk. Her body jerked, her breath hitching, and he fought his own instinctive recoil at the contact. He held himself still, just absorbing the feel of her lips, as her breath, short and shallow, feathered over his lips. It was both torture and exquisite—nothing was happening, but every passing second the sensations shifted, sparking little shivers of pleasure along his lips that danced out through his body like ecstatic messengers preparing the ground for a feast. Her heartbeat thundered where his palms were pressed against her neck and cheek.

Finally, he felt something in the balance of her body shift; a slight quiver ran through her and her lips parted just a little, her lower lip sliding between his, until he felt the perfect point where the pillowy softness was damp, warmer. He concentrated on keeping his movements slight, gentle, sliding one hand into her hair, his thumb brushing over her ear as he pulled her lip slowly between his, tasting it.

His other hand moved over her shoulder, to her waist, holding her as he moved in, trying not to drag her against him as he wanted to, just bringing his body to touch hers. Her own hands, which had hung by her sides, rose languidly, resting for a moment on the lapels of his coat, then with another devastating shiver they slid up and around his nape, her fingers skimming into his hair, moving gently against his scalp. He wanted to arch his head back, force her to go further, to sink her hands into his hair, press her body the length of his, he wanted her to sink her teeth into the stinging need spreading in the wake of the sweep of her lips against his. The disconnect between her languid movements and the raging fire they were feeding finally dragged him to a halt.

He drew back, but he didn’t let her go or do more than manage even an inch of distance between their mouths.

‘That was nice.’ Her breath brushed against his lips, soft and warm as a Mediterranean breeze. But her words were as lacklustre as ditch water and dragged him categorically back to reality.

Nice.

‘For someone who was not certain she would like kissing, you did very well,’ he managed to say.

She moved back, but his hands remained on the soft curve of her waist. She didn’t appear to notice and he wasn’t going to call her attention to it because he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Her eyes were half-closed and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. It slid out, moist and full, and the tense knot of heat and desire tightened like a ship’s rigging in full gale winds and then her eyes softened in a smile that hit him like a fist to the gut. If he didn’t know better, he could well believe she had conceived of the perfect seduction. It was certainly far too effective.

‘I am glad I tried. This was quite...different,’ she replied.

Different. Almost worse than ‘Nice.’ Before he could respond she stepped back.

‘Do you really believe there is a chance you will find this Mr Eldritch?’

He let her go and moved towards the door.

‘I will do my best. Such a sacrifice on your part shouldn’t go unrewarded.’

He didn’t wait to hear her response. He was damned if he gave her any more opportunities to make a fool out of him.

Olivia went to sit at her desk, staring at the still-open door of the study until the thud of the area door closing brought her a little closer to the surface.

She touched her lower lip. It felt strange, puffy and sensitive like the time Jack accidently bumped his head against hers while struggling for ownership of a croquet mallet, except that it didn’t hurt. Everywhere Lord Sinclair had touched and a few places he hadn’t felt strange—tingly and restless and pulsing, as if he had scoured away layers of sheltering skin. She felt strange.

To think she had worried it would give even more power to those images and memories of Bertram. The moment his fingertips brushed her mouth her mind latched on to the sensation like Twitch on to a stick. By the time he asked if he could kiss her it would have taken a great deal more strength than she possessed to say no.

Now that he was gone she wondered where she had found the temerity to ask him to kiss her. She had told him far too much, revealed much more than she ever revealed to anyone. She had trusted him. She must be quite mad. He certainly must have thought her mad. She winced at the memory of her comments about experimentation. What had she been thinking to prattle on so? It seemed so natural, so right to share with him that fear, that need, her curiosity...

At least if she had utterly humiliated herself, again, there was some comfort in knowing she was not fated to think of Bertram the moment a man approached her. As much as she enjoyed Bertram’s embraces before his betrayal, she could not remember ever feeling them so potently. She remembered Bertram’s own excitement, his endearments, and especially the feeling of power over him. And all of those had been lies. This was different. She was not even certain the earl enjoyed the kiss or whether for him it was merely curiosity and dominance.

All she knew was that she remembered every second of it, every element of it. The sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers, silkier and warmer than those scarves, the scent of musk and soap and something far away but so familiar. Even with her eyes closed images filled her mind—the way his eyes narrowed and darkened as he bent over her, the strength of the long fingers bringing her skin to life, his mouth a breath away from hers... And then the scalding moment of contact and the kiss...

She had been utterly present and utterly lost in the moment.

Even now that he was gone she still felt...strong. Alive.

Confused.

She shivered and picked up his glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid pitch and sway. The packet of his father’s letters was right there, the handwriting on them still clear despite two decades having passed. He had looked right at them without a sign of recognition. Surely anyone...anyone normal would show some curiosity about letters from their deceased parent, no matter how much they disliked that parent? She wasn’t very fond of hers but she would definitely be curious if someone presented her with a packet of their lost letters, even if they were most likely about orchids and other rare flora.

Too much about this man didn’t make sense.

She sighed and sipped the brandy and stared at her wall. Then she pulled a sheet of paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkpot. In her scrawled writing she wrote and underlined the title:

Lord Sinclair. Characteristics...