The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

Jaw clenched, Damen struggled for reason. "Yes, and I'm going to get that proof. Hopefully, it's already on its way. I sent an urgent letter to the head of my Paris branch yesterday, seeking information on this mysterious Rouge. With any luck, what I find out will tie Rouge to George, and to the women they're transporting. Hell, I'd break into Colby and Sons and steal George's damned appointment book and private ledgers if I thought they'd give us what we need. But your uncle isn't stupid enough to actually pen the word 'women' under the heading 'merchandise being shipped.' He probably uses some code word. It doesn't matter. I'll get him. That bastard will soon be in Newgate, along with all his colleagues. I promise you that."

Anastasia sank gratefully into Damen's strength, rested her cheek against his waistcoat. "I believe you."

He heard the exhaustion in her voice, and frowned. "How much sleep have you gotten this week? Next to none," he answered for her. "Come." He drew her to her feet. "There's nothing more we can do right now. You're going upstairs and getting some rest."

"Rest? It's still afternoon."

"Then you'll be awake in plenty of time for dinner." Gently, Damen guided her across the sitting room and into the hallway, which was still deserted. "I'll take you up," he announced, looking unsurprised by the utter lack of activity.

"Where is everyone?" Anastasia asked. Her attention diverted, she glanced about as they ascended the stairway, curious over the odd, absolute silence.

"Occupied elsewhere, if they're smart."

Anastasia blinked, shot him a quizzical look. "Did you tell your staff we wanted privacy?"

"I didn't have to. They're very astute."

"I see." Anastasia was starting to become irritated by Damen's glib responses, and their implications. She frowned as they rounded the second-floor landing and headed down the hall. "Are you in the habit of entertaining women here?"

A corner of Damen's mouth lifted, and he came to a halt outside the bedchamber his housekeeper had prepared for Anastasia. "No," he replied, a self-satisfied gleam lighting his eyes. "Although I'm delighted by the fact that you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous. I'm…"

"Jealous," he supplied. His knuckles caressed her cheek, and he moved closer, stopping only when mere inches separated them. "You have no cause to be." He traced the bridge of her nose, his voice husky. "I've never brought a woman here before. As for my staff's perceptiveness, it isn't coincidental. It's based on the fact that I called them together last night to say there would be some changes occurring here soon."

"Changes?" Anastasia sounded breathless.

"Um-hum." Damen's thumb grazed her lips. "I told them that this manor would, within the month, be acquiring a mistress. And that that mistress would be Lady Anastasia Colby, who would, by then, be the Marchioness of Sheldrake…" He lowered his head, his lips brushing hers. "Mrs. Damen Lockewood," he clarified, kissing her again. "My wife."

"Oh," Anastasia managed.

Damen smiled at the wonder in her voice, her eyes. "Any further questions?"

Mutely, she shook her head.

"Good." He turned the handle and pushed open the door, gesturing for her to enter. "I hope you'll be comfortable here." He watched her cross the threshold; then, after a heartbeat of a pause, he followed her in. "At least for now. These quarters are only temporary. After we're married, your chambers will be adjoining mine."

"I can't wait." Anastasia turned to face him, never even glancing about to view her surroundings. Her gaze—a luminous jade green—was fixed on him. "Although I can't imagine I'll be using my bedchamber much, not with yours right nex

t door."

The tension that had permeated the day intensified, shifting its focus to something equally powerful, but far more inspiring.

"Shall I send up a maid?" Damen inquired, hearing the jagged edge to his tone.

"Definitely not." Anastasia reached up, tugged out the few hairpins she wore. "I'm very efficient at dressing and undressing myself. I lived in America, remember?"

"I remember."

"Still," she added with a siren's smile. "I suppose some assistance would be nice." She shook out her auburn tresses, making no attempt to disguise her growing anticipation. "Better than nice—wonderful. But not from a maid. A maid is the last person I need—or want—right now."

Blood pulsed through Damen's veins, pounded at his loins. "And the first person you need—and want—right now?"

"You."

He shut the door, threw the bolt before he could stop himself. "I should leave—now, while I'm still able." Even as he spoke, he was disregarding his own words, walking toward her. He reached her side, taking over her task and freeing her hair until burnished waves tumbled over his hands. "Beautiful," he murmured, caressing the silken strands. "So impossibly beautiful." He brought a handful to his lips, savored it, as his other arm clamped about her waist. "Send me away."

"No." Anastasia stepped closer, gliding her hands beneath his coat, unbuttoning his waistcoat with trembling fingers. "I can't do that."