“So you’ll learn what A. C. used the information for from Jonathon?”
Beneath his hands, she stirred. Her pulse had accelerated; her breathing was shallow.
“Not quite.” He bent lower, let his breath caress her ear. “Jonathon will be able to say what the information might have been used for, but proving that someone did use it, then following the trail back to that someone won’t be quite so simple.”
“But…it would work.”
“Yes. Regardless of how we identify A. C., we’ll still need to piece his scheme together. Eventually.” He breathed the last word as he set his lips to her ear, then lightly traced with his tongue.
A telltale shudder racked her spine, then she surrendered and sank back against him. Feeling ludicrously victorious, he changed position so he could minister to her other ear.
Her hands closed over his at her waist, gripped. “What other route…you said avenues… plural…”
Her voice faded as he artfully teased; when he lifted his head, she sighed. He grinned openly—wolfishly—knowing
she couldn’t see. “There’ll be some other connection between Ruskin and A. C. They’ll have met somewhere, have known each other, even if only distantly. Their lives will have touched somewhere, at some time.”
Sliding his hands from under hers, he ran his palms slowly upward. Heard the swift intake of her breath as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She stiffened, stilled. He caressed knowingly, reassuringly; gradually, almost skittishly, she eased back.
“How—” She cleared her throat. “How do you plan to investigate…that?”
She was having trouble finding breath enough to speak; he decided to make it harder still. “I have a friend, not exactly up that way, but close enough.” Boldly turning his hands, he cupped her breasts.
Alicia thought she might faint. Her lungs seized; her head whirled. Desperate, she clung to her wits. Dragged in a tight breath. “Ah…what…?”
“I’ll ask him to check in Bledington. See if the initials A. C. mean anything to people there.”
She jerked as his hands shifted, frantically fought down all further reaction. She hadn’t imagined he would…
His voice had grown deeper, darker, more gravelly. Would a widow protest? On what grounds?
Giddiness threatened. She hauled in a breath, briefly closed her eyes, battered by conflicting impulses. Panic that his friend might stumble on more than she would wish. The urge to stiffen—not just in response to that, but to his boldness, to the liberties he was taking… her head was spinning. The countering instinct to sink against him, to arch her spine, press her breasts, now aching so strangely, into his hard hands only added to her dizziness.
Then he closed his hands and kneaded.
She lost the last of her breath. Her senses fractured. Her wits fled.
Beyond her control, her spine softened, gave; she had to lean fully against him, her hands dropping helplessly to brace against his muscled thighs.
His fingers shifted, then closed again. Tightened.
Fire lanced through her. She gasped, arched; eyes shut, she let her head fall back as he repeated the torture, then he bent his head to her throat, now exposed. His lips cruised, then settled.
Hot, wet, his mouth covered the spot where her pulse raced. He kissed, licked, laved, all the while massaging her breasts, sending wave after wave of pure sensation rushing through her.
Heat built beneath her skin; the rasp of his tongue over her pulse point shocked and teased her senses. His hands were strong, his grip confident, knowing, his body a wall of hard muscle and bone, holding her there, a captive to delight.
To the pleasure even in her innocence she knew he was orchestrating.
She felt totally at his mercy. And witlessly content to be so.
Madness—but an oh-so-pleasurable insanity.
This had to be lovemaking, a part of it, of the type a nobleman indulged in with his mistress.
Illicit. Exciting. Enthralling…
The moment for protest was long past. Her role was set; eyes closed, head back, she gave herself up to it—she couldn’t draw back now.