head, but not far.
Her lips felt swollen and hot; from beneath her lashes, she glanced at his eyes. His black gaze touched her eyes, held, then he sighed. Bent and touched his lips to the corner of hers.
“I didn’t intend this. There were people in the corridor. A danger…”
Deep, gravelly, the words feathered her cheek; sensation, hot and immediate, flashed over her.
“I wanted to apologize…” He paused, raised his head. Again she met his eyes, again found them waiting to capture hers. Something predatory flashed in the rich blackness, then he continued, “Not for this. Not for anything I’ve done or even said, but for how what I said in the park sounded.”
His tone was still low, slightly rough, teasing something—some response—from her.
Her gaze had drifted to his lips; his hands tightened on her back, and she looked up, eyes widening as she felt the heat between them flare again.
He caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not Ruskin. I will never hurt or harm you. I want to protect you, not threaten you.” He hesitated, then went on, “Even this—I didn’t plan it.”
This . He was still holding her close, not as tight as before yet just as flagrantly. Only lovers, she was perfectly certain, should ever be this close. Yet she didn’t dare pull back, fought instead to ignore the warm flush the embrace sent coursing through her. What had gone before no longer seemed terribly relevant.
“So—” She broke off, shocked by the sound of her voice, low, almost sultry. She moistened her lips, tried for a normal tone. Didn’t quite manage it. “What had you planned?” She met his eyes, clung to her bold front.
He studied her face, then his lips twisted. “I spoke the truth—I do need to speak with you.”
He made no move to release her. How would an experienced widow react? She forced herself to remain passive in his arms and raised a haughty brow. “About what? I wasn’t aware we had anything to discuss.”
One black brow arched—arrogantly; holding her gaze, he deliberately shifted her against him, settling her in his arms—sending her senses reeling again. “Obviously”— he gave the word blatant weight—“there’s much we could, and later will, discuss. However…”
The room, a small parlor overlooking the gardens, was unlit, but her eyes had adjusted—she could see his face well enough. Although he didn’t physically sigh, she sensed his mind lift from them and refocus on something beyond. A frown in his eyes, he looked down at her, studied her face.
“When did you marry Carrington?”
She stared at him. “Marry?”
His frown grew more definite. “Humor me. When was your wedding?”
“Ah.” She struggled to remember when it must have been. “Eighteen months—no, more like two years ago, now.”
She dragged in a breath, struggled to ignore the way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her nipples tightened, and dragooned her wits into order. He was investigating Ruskin’s death; she couldn’t afford to prod his suspicions. “It was a very short marriage. Poor Alfred—it was terribly sad.”
His brow arched again. “So you’ve been Alicia Carrington for only two years?”
She checked her calculations. “Yes.” She bit her tongue against adding anything more; better to keep her answers short.
He didn’t seem to notice; he seemed, not exactly relieved, but pleased. “Good!”
When she looked her surprise, he smiled rather grimly. “So you can’t be A. C.”
“Who’s A. C.?”
“The person who paid Ruskin for his treasonous services.”
She stared at him. Her lips formed the word twice before she managed to utter it. “What?”
Tony grimaced. He looked around. “Here.” Reluctantly releasing her, he steered her to a chaise. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
It hadn’t come easily, his acceptance that if he wanted her trust, he would have to tell her, if not all, then at least most of what was going on, how he was involved, how she was
Her lips felt swollen and hot; from beneath her lashes, she glanced at his eyes. His black gaze touched her eyes, held, then he sighed. Bent and touched his lips to the corner of hers.
“I didn’t intend this. There were people in the corridor. A danger…”
Deep, gravelly, the words feathered her cheek; sensation, hot and immediate, flashed over her.
“I wanted to apologize…” He paused, raised his head. Again she met his eyes, again found them waiting to capture hers. Something predatory flashed in the rich blackness, then he continued, “Not for this. Not for anything I’ve done or even said, but for how what I said in the park sounded.”
His tone was still low, slightly rough, teasing something—some response—from her.
Her gaze had drifted to his lips; his hands tightened on her back, and she looked up, eyes widening as she felt the heat between them flare again.
He caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not Ruskin. I will never hurt or harm you. I want to protect you, not threaten you.” He hesitated, then went on, “Even this—I didn’t plan it.”
This . He was still holding her close, not as tight as before yet just as flagrantly. Only lovers, she was perfectly certain, should ever be this close. Yet she didn’t dare pull back, fought instead to ignore the warm flush the embrace sent coursing through her. What had gone before no longer seemed terribly relevant.
“So—” She broke off, shocked by the sound of her voice, low, almost sultry. She moistened her lips, tried for a normal tone. Didn’t quite manage it. “What had you planned?” She met his eyes, clung to her bold front.
He studied her face, then his lips twisted. “I spoke the truth—I do need to speak with you.”
He made no move to release her. How would an experienced widow react? She forced herself to remain passive in his arms and raised a haughty brow. “About what? I wasn’t aware we had anything to discuss.”
One black brow arched—arrogantly; holding her gaze, he deliberately shifted her against him, settling her in his arms—sending her senses reeling again. “Obviously”— he gave the word blatant weight—“there’s much we could, and later will, discuss. However…”
The room, a small parlor overlooking the gardens, was unlit, but her eyes had adjusted—she could see his face well enough. Although he didn’t physically sigh, she sensed his mind lift from them and refocus on something beyond. A frown in his eyes, he looked down at her, studied her face.
“When did you marry Carrington?”
She stared at him. “Marry?”
His frown grew more definite. “Humor me. When was your wedding?”
“Ah.” She struggled to remember when it must have been. “Eighteen months—no, more like two years ago, now.”
She dragged in a breath, struggled to ignore the way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her nipples tightened, and dragooned her wits into order. He was investigating Ruskin’s death; she couldn’t afford to prod his suspicions. “It was a very short marriage. Poor Alfred—it was terribly sad.”
His brow arched again. “So you’ve been Alicia Carrington for only two years?”
She checked her calculations. “Yes.” She bit her tongue against adding anything more; better to keep her answers short.
He didn’t seem to notice; he seemed, not exactly relieved, but pleased. “Good!”
When she looked her surprise, he smiled rather grimly. “So you can’t be A. C.”
“Who’s A. C.?”
“The person who paid Ruskin for his treasonous services.”
She stared at him. Her lips formed the word twice before she managed to utter it. “What?”
Tony grimaced. He looked around. “Here.” Reluctantly releasing her, he steered her to a chaise. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
It hadn’t come easily, his acceptance that if he wanted her trust, he would have to tell her, if not all, then at least most of what was going on, how he was involved, how she was
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