She found herself enthused with a zeal to in some way assist in working out the puzzle of what Ruskin’s information was used for, and why. She’d intended to do something—pushing the investigation to a rapid conclusion would remove the most compelling excuse Torrington had to call on her, to be close to her.
About to ask how she could help, she stopped; why ask? Reaching for the lists, she drew them from his fingers. “May I make copies of these?”
His brows rose, but he nodded. “If you like.”
Tony watched as she stood and crossed to the escritoire standing against the wall between the windows. She sat, drew out a sheet of paper, then settled to copy his lists. A slanting beam of sunlight struck coppery red glints from her dark hair. In the evenings, she wore it coiled high; during the day, the heavy loops were neatly constrained at her nape, the dark silk lustrous against her pale skin.
A fleeting notion of releasing that restrained abundance, of spreading it in a sheening mahogany veil over her bare shoulders, a distracting screen about her charms, filled him. Caught him. Momentarily held him.
She glanced at him, alerted, suspicious, but not knowing why.
He frowned, surreptitiously shifted. “What do you intend to do with those?”
Laying aside her pen, she blotted the lists, then rose and turned to him. “I don’t know.
If I have them, then when I think of something…” She shrugged. His originals in her hand, she walked back to the chaise.
His frown wasn’t feigned. “If you do think of anything, or learn anything, promise me you’ll tell me immediately.”
Alicia halted before him, met his eyes. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “I promise.” What else was she to do with anything she learned?
She held out the lists. For one moment, his gaze didn’t leave her face, then it slowly lowered, eventually fastening on the sheets in her hand.
He reached out—reached farther than the sheets and grasped her wrist. Long fingers locking, he tugged.
Before she could catch her breath, she was on his lap, in his arms. In a flurry of skirt and petticoats, she tried to right herself, tried to push back.
She heard a deep chuckle, felt it reverberate through her palms, braced on his chest. “We have a few moments…” His tone was pure temptation.
Resist, resist, resist.
She drew breath, looked up. And his lips came down on hers.
He captured them, captured her mouth, bewitched her senses. She was kissing him back, flagrantly participating in the exchange before her wits caught up with her actions. He shifted; she felt him pluck his lists from her nerveless fingers, fold them, and tuck them into his pocket.
Then his arms rose and closed about her, his head angled, and he parted her lips wider, his tongue evocatively thrusting deep, then settling to a typical, devastatingly intimate game. Of exploration, of enticement.
Soon her mind was whirling, senses locked with his as together they fed their mutual hunger, created and assuaged a mutual desire. Fingers tangled in his hair, she clung, savored, appeased, and demanded.
How long they indulged in the heated sensations she had no idea, but her wits returned with a jolt when she felt his hands between them, opening the buttons down the front of her walking dress.
It took a huge effort but she broke from the kiss; he was distracted, so let her go. On a gasp, she looked down, then glanced wildly around. “Ah…”
“Don’t worry.” From under his heavy lids, his black eyes caught hers. He searched, read, then his lips twisted wryly. “Your brothers are safe upstairs, so is your sister. Jenkins is with your brothers, and the rest are in the kitchens. No one is going to come through the door, not in the next half hour.”
Half hour? What might he do in half an hour?
“That’s—” She had to stop and moisten her lips, had to whip her wits into order. She was supposed to resist, or at least… she looked down, saw his fingers dark against the skin he was swiftly uncovering, couldn’t quite suppress a tense, expectant shiver. “This is… really too… that is…”
Good Lord! Her words died along with her wits when he slipped a hand between the gaping halves of her bodice, with a flick of his fingers dispensed with her chemise, and boldly set his hand to her skin.
The touch was a sensual shock, not muted in the least by the fact she’d expected it, knew what his hand felt like there, cupping her breast, taking its weight, fingers gently kneading, then artfully teasing the already tightly ruched peak. Her lids drifted down, eyes closing as the sensations swept her—then she remembered and jerked her eyes open. Half-open. Enough to look into his face.
He was watching her. “Stop fighting it—just enjoy.”
His hand moved on her, her wits started to slide…
“No! That is…” She drew a determined breath, only to discover she couldn’t; her lungs had locked. Her nerves had tensed, not in rejection but in pleasured delight. The urge to press her breast into his warm hand was compelling, almost overwhelming. She held it at bay.