‘I am sure it is a very large and powerful pistol,’ Lina responded, opening her eyes wide.
‘Resist the temptation to giggle as you say it.’
‘I have never felt less like giggling in my life,’ she assured him as the dinner gong reverberated from the hallway.
As Michael pulled out Lina’s chair for her, Quinn went to the windows, unlocking each one. She saw him turn the handle of the door at the rear of the room as he passed it. He is making sure we have escape routes, she thought, a fresh pang of fear cramping her stomach.
The meal passed in a dream. Lina forced herself to keep eye contact with Quinn whenever possible, to react to everything he said with smiles and nods, to offer no opinions of her own and to let her hands flutter close to her scandalously plunging décolletage at every opportunity.
He responded by holding her gaze until she felt the colour stain her skin. His voice became deeper, slower, his lids heavier as he watched her. When she glanced away, and it was always she who could not hold the look, she found herself staring at his hands, the long fingers caressing his wine glass, or dextrous on the carving knife. The scratches left by her nails had healed, faster than she had feared, leaving red marks that she wanted to soothe with her fingertips.
Her breath became shorter and a strange, disturbing heat began to build low down in her belly. Lina tried not to shift restlessly on her chair, but her breasts felt full and tight and there was a disconcerting, intimate pulse between her thighs that made her flustered and uneasy.
The meal ended after what seemed an eternity and Lina began to rise, to leave Quinn to his port. ‘No, stay,’ he said. ‘Our visitor will be here shortly. Michael.’ The footman set the decanters on the table and waited, attentive. ‘That is all for the present. When Mr Inchbold calls, announce him at once.’
The man went out, leaving them alone, and she closed her eyes, seeking some relief from the intensity, the tension.
‘Come here,’ Quinn said, taking a tiny jar from his pocket and unscrewing the top. He dipped his forefinger into it and it came out red. ‘Pout for me, Celina.’
Reluctant, she stood beside him while he touched colour to her lips as though painting an intricate picture. The touch was assured and disturbing as the cream caressed her lips, lingering over the fullness of the lower, gliding across the upper. ‘There.’
Through the open window the sound of carriage wheels penetrated even the heavy curtains. Lina tried to step back to return to her seat, but Quinn took her hand and stood. ‘Just one finishing touch,’ he murmured, bent his head and kissed her, right on her painted mouth.
Chapter Twelve
Lina gasped, pulled back, but found herself held tight in arms that gave her no freedom to do anything but arch her back, pressing her lower body intimately against Quinn’s blatant arousal. His mouth roamed over hers, his tongue pushed between her painted lips and into her panting mouth with complete assurance. If he remembered that she bit, it did not appear to concern him now.
There was no possibility of struggling, hardly any air to breathe, only the heat of him, the thrust of his tongue into the quivering moistness that seemed to arouse him so much, the strength of his hands, flat against her spine, the fingers splayed on her bare skin of her shoulders.
She wanted him to stop, she was frightened of her own response, the torrent of utterly undisciplined, alien feeling that swept through her—and yet when Quinn did lift his mouth she put her hands up to pull his head down to her again.
‘Oh, no, my passionate little virgin,’ he said, his voice husky even as his eyes mocked her. ‘There is no time for that now.’ He took a napkin from the table, touched around her lips with it, then dragged the back of his hand over his own mouth, leaving a betraying smudge on his cheek. Quinn turned her to face the overmantel mirror and Lina stared at the pair of them. Her mouth was swollen and pouting, red from rouge and kisses. Quinn’s eyes under the heavy lids were bright, alert, aroused. ‘We’ll do.’
He sat down in his chair again and pulled her back on to his lap. ‘Ready?’
‘After that?’ Lina stared into the green eyes so close to hers and tried not to pant.
‘Pretend you want to wheedle the nice big diamond I’ve got in my room out of me,’ Quinn suggested, low-voiced, as the door opened.
‘Mr Inchbold, my lord.’ Lina did not dare look at Trimble, but she was sure that the butler’s perfectly modulated tones faltered when he saw them.
‘Show him in, if you please.’ Quinn raised his head from nuzzling her bare shoulder and pushed her to her feet. ‘Go and sit down, there’s a good girl. You’ve had the pearls; I’m selling the diamond.’
Lina turned in a swish of silken skirts and sat down, thankful her chair was so close. Whether it was that kiss or the appearance of the Runner, she did not know, but her knees felt like jelly. She put her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, pouted her lips, and looked down the length of the table at the doorway.
Inchbold was a solid man, not tall, but broad across the chest. He had a face that looked as though it had been in many a fight and would be quite happy to engage in a few more. He was dressed like a countryman of the middling sort: neat in good cloth of a plain cut, but with pockets that bulged and boots that looked as though they had moulded themselves to his big feet.
‘My lord. Miss Celina.’
He was looking to see how she reacted to the name. Celina let her eyes stray over him in a leisurely assessment, then merely nodded.
‘Take a seat, Inchbold.’ Quinn waved a hand at the chair opposite Lina. It was a considerable concession to a man like Inchbold to offer him a chair at table. Lina wondered if Quinn intended to disconcert the other man, but he merely nodded his thanks and sat stolidly on the broad satin seat. Experienced and not easily intimidated, she thought, her stomach churning.
Quinn poured two glasses of port and pushed one across. ‘Now then, this is my Miss Haddon. Are you going to tell me she is a witch who is able to be in two places at once?’
Inchbold reached into the breast of his coat and produced a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and spread out on the table, flattening it under one meaty hand. ‘The footman who let the Shelley woman in is reckoned to be a bit of an artist,’ he said. ‘Seems this is a good likeness, by all accounts.’
Lina glanced at the sketch that had been strongly done in charcoal and pastels. The man had caught her perfectly: wide-eyed with fear, her mouth a thin line as she pressed her lips together to stop them trembling. Now she maintained her sultry pout and let her lids droop. As she tipped her head on one side a loose ringlet brushed her cheek, quite unlike the simple arrangement she had worn at Sir Humphrey’s.