The Lady’s Lover Read online

  He bent his head to her breast, found her nipple and claimed it. Her back arched as he suckled and his hand moved to the other and brushed it with his thumb.

  Yes.

  Bless him, he still didn’t hurry. He took his time and she reveled as he sucked and teased her with lips and teeth. There was no escape, no retreat as he licked, pinched and rolled her nipples and sent heat jolting to the depths of her belly.

  She didn’t want him to ever stop, but his hand moved down, right to her molten center. When he touched her, slick and ready, he groaned.

  “You are right.” She grinned up at him. “That is a good sound.”

  “Yes.” He moved back down the bed. “Open your legs, Hestia. I want to hear you make it again.”

  She hesitated only for a second, then spread her legs wide. He moved between them and she wriggled at the rush of air over her exposed, swollen cleft.

  And he was there, at her core. His fingers slid over the wet folds of her sex and her legs dropped wider. And then his tongue was on her and she jumped. He gripped her hips and held her still while he explored, uncovering all of her secrets, delving into all of her feminine places, paying special, sweet attention to the sensitive bud that swelled like a moon over her slick curves.

  Oh, and she made the sounds he wished to hear. She didn’t recognize them, even as they came out of her. She didn’t recognize herself. She’d never felt such desire, never known that heat could move under her skin, melting every barrier she normally kept in place—even during moments of intimacy.

  The room—the world—faded. She was lost in a golden haze. He had taken her somewhere where she could let go, let loose the tightly bound grip, the control that took so much energy and attention.

  He raised his head. His eyes were hot. As he climbed over her, she reached for him, clutching, taking the strength he offered her with sweet laughter and tender worship and his powerful body.

  She touched him, too. She needed to put her hands on him, to give as much as she received. Exploring his warm, hard chest, she grew bolder and watched his expression change when she reached down to grasp the rigid length of him.

  He sucked in a breath.

  She moved her hand and he growled.

  She kept it up, enjoying his pleasure, until, with his knee, he nudged her legs apart. Her eyes closed as he moved into position, but then he stopped, poised at her waiting, writhing core.

  “Hestia.” His voice sounded rough and his erection pulsed urgently against her.

  She looked up into his face and found concern.

  “I need to know you are here with me.”

  She reached up and touched his face. “I am here. I don’t know where. It’s entirely new. But we arrived together. Perhaps we created it together.” She moved her hands purposefully down to grab his hips. “Now let’s finish it together.”

  He thrust, fiercely, and they both cried out.

  Saints, but he was big and she was ready. Crossing her legs behind him, she surrendered to fullness and perfect, searing heat.

  He pumped further, widening her, searching deeper with each stroke. And then he was fully seated—and she burned with the sweetness of it.

  They held there. Pelvis to pelvis. Eye to eye. Balanced on the edge of something greater.

  And then he began to move.

  “Yes.” It came out in a rush. “Yes. More.”

  He adjusted his position. Dug in and pumped harder. His eyes had gone dark, his expression intense, yet utterly open. He hid nothing of what he felt, showed every bit of desire and determination and enjoyment.

  She couldn’t give him any less. She could not. She braced her feet on the bed, lifted her pelvis and met him thrust for thrust. She was caught, helpless beneath him, but fully a participant and filled with ancient, feminine, carnal power.

  It was fierce. It was tender. It was exquisite—but it could not last. He adjusted his stroke slightly—and yes, there—he had it just right. Pleasure built. It drew tightly from her scalp to her toes and from every point of her body.

  “Hestia,” he whispered her name. “Let’s go together.”

  Her inner muscles tightened. His thrusts rocked her. Her hips rose and rose and his dark eyes were peering into her soul. Climax hit her, lifting and buffeting her higher, higher than seemed humanly possible. But it was all right. He was there, soaring beside her and when she reached the peak and began to fall back, he caught her. They drifted aloft, in sweaty, air-deprived bliss for many long minutes.

  Chapter 13

  If you would not care to have your wife beaten or debauched or your daughter deflowered, it would be wise to avoid entanglement.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  When Stoneacre awoke, Hestia’s side of the bed was empty. He turned his head to see she’d dragged a chair to the window. She sat in her shift, staring out at the early light, idly brushing her hair.

  He watched her, drinking in her beauty, knowing the change she’d started in him was a permanent one. Last night had been incredible. She’d been open and giving and free. All of that reserve and distance had vanished. But she’d made it clear that it had been temporary. A glorious victory—but he was wise enough to know it had only been a battle. The war for her heart still stretched ahead—but he’d fight for her every day until they’d both won.

  She turned to set down her brush and take up a ribbon—and saw that he was awake. She straightened. “The leaking information—the culprit must be one of my people. Marstoke knew I was coming.”

  He sighed and scrubbed his face with a hand. “The real world calls us back so quickly, eh?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I feel the pull of it, I admit. I’m just . . . sick over it. I cannot see any of my people going over to him. Not willingly.”

  Stoneacre sat up. “Perhaps they didn’t. I did report to Prinny before we left. I didn’t give him specifics and I tried to do it as privately as possible.” He shrugged. “But in that environment, one can never truly know.”

  “Ah.” Some of the strain eased from her expression. “Yes. That is a real possibility. Someone might have heard, or the Prince Regent might have mentioned it unwisely.” She thought it over for a moment, then swung around to face him fully. “So, where do you think Marstoke has gone to, now?”

  He considered. “Well, smuggling is no easy feat. He has an entire network to set up and oversee. If he’d planned a storage spot at the priory, then he’s likely bringing the opium up the Bristol Channel.”

  “He won’t operate out of Bristol, though. There are established rings there and they’d give a newcomer no end of trouble.” She frowned. “He’d find a lonely spot of the coast. Just far enough from a village to be private, but near enough to hire landsmen.”

  “There must be fifty such places along that coastline. He could be setting up anywhere. It could take weeks to track it down.” Not that that sounded like a bad idea. They could stretch their mission out, exploring the coast, admiring the views, making love on cliff tops and sheltered in long sea grass . . .

  The echo of her smile told him she knew where his thoughts had strayed. “He might have gone another direction entirely. He’ll need to set up his lieutenants to oversee the transport, find storage along the way, a building or warehouse in the city, townsmen to make the deliveries and hundred other details.”

  “Again, a near impossible task, to find him,” he sighed.

  “There is one other possibility,” she said, her brows raised. “Bath.”

  He frowned. “I did find a reference to Bath in his papers. An inn.” He thought back. “The Red Fox.”

  “He does love Bath,” she mused. “It’s been a favorite haunt of his for years, although I believe he uses more than one name there, depending on the reasons for his visits. And it would make sense that he would seek out buyers for his opium closer to the coast. Less storage and transport would mean more profit for any he could sell here.”

  “Yo
u’re right. He could be there. We really shouldn’t leave until we investigate.”

  He moved to the edge of the bed. She stood and stepped closer. “It would be irresponsible,” she agreed.

  “And then there are the added benefits,” he said, reaching out to tug her between his legs.

  “Much easier to keep the real world at bay . . .” she finished.

  “Just a little longer,” he whispered.

  She bent to him and he kissed her, languorous and long. And then they were in the bed, tangled together again, pressed flesh to flesh. She touched him with a charming mix of knowing and curiosity—and both were wildly arousing.

  And damnation, but he couldn’t move slowly this time. He lifted her shift away and ran urgent hands over her, teasing, wakening. She was ready as quickly as he was. He lay back then, and let her climb atop him. Sunlight gilded her lithe form, turned those blonde locks into a river of gold. He sucked in a breath while she straddled him and he used every ounce of discipline he had to hold himself still while she took him deep and set a sweet, then increasingly pulse-pounding pace.

  Soon enough they were both alight with the building pleasure of it. She tossed her head back and cried out at her release—and he followed.

  They lay for time afterwards, sated and happy. Talking a little and absorbing contentment as if they could stockpile it for later. But eventually she rolled out of bed and retrieved her shift again.

  “I need a real bath, before we leave for Bath.” Leaning in, she gave him a smacking kiss. “And for you, I shall ask if they have lilac soap.”

  He grinned. “Already, you spoil me.”

  “But would you or Drake do me the favor of summoning a dressmaker? A village of this size should have one.” She shot him a mischievous smile. “No dark clothes and scarves today. This is going to be another sort of hunt altogether—and will require a very different role.”

  Hestia lifted her fork and bit into her pastry with glee. She felt . . . light. Happy. She knew darkness and trouble waited just beyond the horizon, but she was determined to ignore it. For now. For right now, she had her favorite indulgence on a plate in front of her and a delicious man in the seat across from her.

  He was looking at her as if he’d rather devour her than the bun in front of him. Easing a hand over her skirt, she silently thanked the resourceful dressmaker from Bradford-on-Avon. The woman had asked no questions about their need for such quick service. Once assured they were willing to pay for it, she’d just showed up with a perfect day gown of a rich sea foam color, decorated with a bit of scalloped lace to soften the square neckline. She’d taken a nip here, a tuck there and added another bit of lace as a flounce to account for Hestia’s height. She’d sold them her own ivory pelisse to go over it. Stoneacre had required only a new bit of linen and they were outfitted before mid-morning, which meant they’d made it to Bath in time for an early tea, and here they sat, with Hestia looking like a proper matron and feeling surprisingly good about it.

  Stoneacre’s fixed attention had much to do with that satisfaction—because it was so much more than the usual scrutiny that men gave her. Stoneacre saw her. She knew he appreciated her looks, but he was the only one who had looked beyond them. Now he knew bits of her ugly past that she’d never shared with any man—and he still looked at her that way. The knowledge of it fizzed along like champagne bubbles under her skin.

  “Go on,” she urged him. “Eat it while it’s hot and let the butter melt down into the cracks.”

  She spread a bit of jam onto a bite and closed her eyes in bliss. “These are my favorite,” she sighed. “And you can only get them here.”

  “They are good,” he acknowledged. “But is that the only reason we are here?”

  So he had noticed her close perusal of the bakery’s public rooms. “No.” She lowered her voice. “If Marstoke is in town, there is one person who will know it—or can find out quickly.”

  He raised a questioning brow.

  Hestia spread clotted cream and jam on one last bite. She savored it before she sat back and regarded him seriously. “You have searched through those files of yours, learned about the men Marstoke has bribed, cheated and corrupted. You’ve seen then, how he keeps an eye on them afterward, watchful lest they think of exposure or revenge.”

  He sighed. “Yes. It’s made the job difficult.”

  “Those men remain cowed and fearful. Now, imagine how much worse the women he’s abused feel.”

  He shook his head, his eyes sad.

  “Most of them refuse to say his name. They are terrified at the thought of ever seeing him again. But him. There’s a difference in the way he treats them.” Her chin lifted slightly. “He has a pattern. He amuses himself hurting women—but when he’s done with them, he often keeps them until he knows they are not with child. I was an exception. Circumstances have created a couple of others. He sends his lackeys to check on those few, but the vast majority—he ignores. He doesn’t waste his resources and spies on women. He imagines he has broken them, has done with them, and they are thereafter incapable of anything save obscurity, ruin and slow decline. And in too many cases, he is right.”

  She took a sip of her tea. “I told you that I had found a few women who had moved past the horror of it, put Marstoke behind them and gone on to make something of their lives.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I only ever found one who outsmarted him.”

  He straightened in surprise.

  “It’s true. And it’s quite a story.”

  “Well, come on then,” he urged. “Tell me.”

  “It began about a year after he cast me out. Using a false name, he masqueraded as a businessman and courted a wealthy shipping merchant’s daughter in Bristol. She was a bit older than his usual prey, but pretty and very intelligent. Her father was thrilled with the match. He believed he was getting an investor as well as a husband for his only daughter. The wedding plans were set. But Marstoke began to talk privately to her of an elopement. He told her they had no need to wait and painted a grand picture of the drama and romance of it all. But he had chosen poorly, or perhaps not extended enough of an effort to understand her.”

  She paused. “I’ve often wondered about that. The girls he tricks with fake betrothals or marriages with usually stand out in some way. Either they are connected to men he hates or resents, or like me, they might have snubbed him or rejected him in some way. But none of it seemed to be the case with this one. Perhaps he was growing cocky. Or it might have been the settlements. She came with an enormous dowry—and a part of her father’s empire. I’ve often wondered if he meant to actually marry her, and so didn’t bother with actually trying to win her affections.”

  “More likely he meant to run off with her and come back alone,” Stoneacre said cynically. “She was likely meant to meet an unfortunate accident.”

  “You may be right. But as I said, he’d miscalculated with her. The girl had gone along with her father’s plans, accepted his courtship, but she was marrying him for duty, not for love. She declined a trip to Gretna Green. And when he began to press her, she became suspicious.”

  “Did she tell her family?”

  “Of course, but her father waved off her concerns. So, she set a couple of the family footmen to investigating her betrothed—and discovered he didn’t exist. But when she took the evidence to her father, he was furious at both of them.”

  “He was angry at her?” Incredulity caused his voice to rise a bit.

  Hestia nodded. “Marstoke was a cheat and liar and her father had him run off. But his daughter was willful and unfeminine for disobeying him and acting on her own.”

  “I’ve never heard such rubbish. He should have been ashamed to have failed her so,” he grumbled.

  She shrugged. “It’s not the first such reaction I’ve seen. But she is the first and only woman I’ve encountered who beat Marstoke at his own game. She didn’t discover who he truly was, not then, but she escaped his clutches.”
Hestia let her gaze circle around the room once more. “I’ve often wondered if there might be others like her, out there.”

  Shaking her head, she recalled herself to the conversation. “In any case, her father washed his hands of finding her a husband. So, she set about doing that job herself, as well. She found a lovely man, a minor baron who suited her well and who had an estate outside of Bishop Sutton and a house in Bath. They were happy for a few years, but he developed a gastric condition and passed on. After his death, she took up permanent residence in Bath and started up a somewhat unconventional cultural salon. When I found her, we struck up a friendship and she became my eyes and ears here.”

  He blinked as she finished her story. “I cannot wait to meet her.”

  “And so you shall. She often comes here for tea, but since she has not, then we will likely find her stirring up the afternoon crowd at the Pump Room.”

  He tossed back the last of his tea, then stood and extended his arm. “Well then, let us go and find her.”

  “The fashionable hour at the Pump Room will not begin for another hour or so,” she said as they made their way outside. She stepped aside as a delivery boy approached, pushing an empty cart with the bakery’s name on it.

  “Perhaps we should find lodging then, in the meantime.”

  “Yes.” She squeezed his arm where her hand rested in the crook of his elbow. “A comfortable room is definitely in order.”

  His gaze heated at her use of the singular and he shot her a wicked grin. But then he paused. “Hold that thought a moment.” He turned back and called to the delivery boy. “Emptied your cart, have you?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir.” The boy tugged at his cap. “Lady Darby always serves our cakes at her dinner parties.”

  “And do you make morning deliveries, perhaps?”

  “Aye!” The boy raised a proud head. “I’ve a special, portable oven cart and I deliver our buns warm to many a household hereabouts.”