She shifted fractionally on him. He caught his breath, broke from the kiss. Screened by their lashes, their eyes met.

He whispered against her lips, his breath a hot flame. “Take me. Give yourself to me.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Be mine.”

Gravelly, rough, another seduction, a dark temptation to a deeper level of giving.

She didn’t hesitate. Drawing in a breath, tightening her hands about his face to anchor her, she angled her head, set her lips to his, and slowly eased down.

Inch by slow inch, she took him inside her, gloried in the feel of him filling her, stretching her. She’d never before been so aware of how her body closed about him, enclasped him. Took him in.

His hands were hard as iron about her hips as he ruthlessly guided her down; he let her set the pace only until he was fully seated within her, then he took the reins, took control, and the giving began.

Hard, hot, and complete.

Without restrictions, limits, or reservations.

Their bodies merged deeply, compulsively riding a wave of sensual desire higher than any before, a tide of need more desperately urgent, more powerful. More addictive.

Their tongues tangled, their mouths feeding in frenzy. He took her as he would, seizing and claiming every sense she possessed, demanding more even as she gave him all.

In the end, on a gasp, she surrendered completely, opened her body, her soul, her heart, and let him plunder.

Let him capture, take, and make her his.

Beyond all thought. Beyond all denial.

Beyond this world.

She was his. Forever. He would never allow anyone to take her from him.

When he slumped back on the bed, drained, replete, to the very depths of his soul sated, the darker side of his nature for the moment wholly satisfied, as he tumbled her down with him, then kicked off his trousers and wrapped them in the covers, those were the only thoughts to cross Tony’s mind.

They were the only thoughts that mattered.




SIXTEEN

IN THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN, ALICIA STIRRED.

Awareness slunk into her brain. Her body still thrummed; her hair was a wild tangle, a fine net ensaring them, wrapped about the muscled arm lying protectively about her. Eyes closed, she lay still, safe, secure, warm. Freed by the night, by the silence, her thoughts crept from the corners of her mind, dwelling on the strange twist her life had taken—the deception she’d never intended to practice, not on so many, not to this degree.

The role of her own making now haunted her.

Not in her wildest dreams had she expected to rise to such social prominence, never imagined calling so many of the powerful friend. Yet in her and her family’s time of need, they’d come to her aid—how could she now draw back from them, from the protection they’d so generously offered?

Thanks to A. C. and his latest attempt to cast all suspicion on her, she couldn’t even slip away, fade from the scene. She had to remain, head high, and face down his rumors, at least for the next weeks.

Had to continue to pretend she was the widow she was not, while parading through the haut ton, the subject of the latest on-dit, the central character in the most amazing, attention-getting story.

The idea that someone from her little part of the country might, like Ruskin, pop up and recognize her had assumed the status of a nightmare. No amount of reasoning, of reiterating that there truly were few families of standing near Little Compton, and none who had known her, did anything to lessen its effect; like a dark, louring cloud it hovered, threatening, not breaking but always there, swelling in the back of her mind.

What if the cloud burst and the truth came raining down?

Her heart contracted; she dragged in a breath, conscious of the vise closing about her chest.

Tony had so publicly nailed his flag to her mast, had so openly committed himself to her cause, and brought with him so many of his aristocratic connections…if the ton ever learned the truth of her widowhood, how would that reflect on him?

Badly. Very badly. She’d now gone about in society enough to know. Such a revelation would make her an outcast, but it would make him a laughingstock. Or worse, it would cast him as one who had knowingly deceived the entire ton.

They would never forgive him.

And no matter any protestations to the contrary, deep down, in his heart, he would never—could never— forgive her. By making him a party to her deception, she would have ripped from him and put forever beyond his reach the position to which he’d been born, the position she suspected he never even questioned, it was so much a part of him.

She wanted to twist and turn, but with him breathing softly, deeply, beside her, she forced herself to lie still beneath the heavy arm he’d slung across her waist. Dawn was sliding over the rooftops when she finally accepted that she could do nothing to change things—all she could do was move heaven and earth to ensure that no one ever learned her true state.

She glanced at his face on the pillow beside hers. His dark lashes lay, black crescents over his cheekbones; in sleep, his face retained the harsh lines, the austere angularity of nose and jaw. In her mind, she heard his voice dispassionately reciting, describing what the last ten years of his life had been, how they’d been spent, and where; he’d avoided stating in what danger, but she was not so innocent she couldn’t read between his lines. When his mask was off, as now, the evidence of that decade still remained, etched in the lines of his face.

Last night—early this morning—he’d needed her. Wanted her. Taken all she’d given, and yet needed more, a more she’d found it possible to give.

His satisfaction was hers, deep, powerful, and complete. She had never imagined such a connection, that a man such as he would have a need like that, and that she would be able so completely to fulfill it.

Her joy in that discovery was profound.

Lifting a hand, she gently brushed back the heavy lock of black hair that lay rakishly across his brow. He didn’t wake, but stirred. His hand flexed, lightly gripping her side before easing as, reassured, he sank once more into slumber.

For long moments, she looked, silently wondered.

Faced incontrovertible fact.

He now meant more to her, at a deeper, more intensely emotional level, than all else in her life.

Tony left Waverton Street before the sunshine hit the cobbles. The tide of satisfaction that had swept him last night had receded, revealing, to him all too forcefully, the vulnerability beneath.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose her; he couldn’t even readily stomach the fact she was at risk. Therefore…

Over breakfast that morning, as always efficiently served by Hungerford who, despite knowing full well Tony hadn’t slept in his own bed for the past week and more, remained remarkably cheerful, he made his plans. Those included Hungerford, but his first act was to repair to his study and pen two summonses. The first, to Geoffrey Manningham, took no more than a few minutes; he dispatched it via a footman, then settled to write the second, a communication requiring far more thought.

He was still engaged in searching for the right approach, the right phrases, when Geoffrey arrived. Waving him to the pair of armchairs before the hearth, he joined him.

“News?” Geoffrey asked as he sat.

“No.” Sinking into the other chair, Tony smiled, all teeth. “Plans.”

Geoffrey grinned, equally ferally, back. “You perceive me all ears.”

Tony outlined the basics of what he intended.

Geoffrey concurred. “If you can get everything into place, including your beloved, that would unquestionably be the wisest course.” He met Tony’s gaze. “So what do you want me to do? I presume there’s something.”

“I want you to remove Adriana for the afternoon—or the day, if you prefer.”

Geoffrey widened his eyes. “That all?”

Tony nodded. “Do that, and I’ll manage the rest.”

Just how he would do that last…they sat for ten minutes debating various options, then Geoffrey took himself off to accomplish his assigned task.

Tony remained before the fire for a few minutes more, then, struck by inspiration, returned to his desk and completed his second summons, disguised as a letter to his cousin Miranda, inviting her and her two daughters, Margaret and Constance, to visit him in London, to act as chaperone while the lady he intended to make his viscountess spent a week or so under his roof.

If he knew anything of Miranda, that last would ensure her appearance as soon as he could wish—namely, tomorrow.

The letter dispatched in the care of a groom, he rang for Hungerford.

Dealing with his butler was bliss; Hungerford never questioned, never made difficulties, but could be counted on to ensure that, even if difficulties did arise and his orders no longer fitted the situation, that his intent would be accomplished.

Telling Hungerford that he proposed protecting his intended bride from social and even possibly physical attack by installing her under this roof, within the purlieu of Hungerford’s overall care, was all it took to get everything in Upper Brook Street ready.

He had little notion of what arrangements would be required to prepare the house to receive not only the widowed Miranda and her daughters, ten and twelve years old, but his prospective bride, her family, and her household, but he was sure his staff under Hungerford’s direction would meet the challenge.

Beaming, clearly delighted with his orders, Hungerford retreated. Tony considered the clock; it was not yet noon.