Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

Fool! Never had he uttered such tender words. Never had he tried to talk a woman out of making love. But Vivienne was right. There was a crude term for what he’d done in the past, a term that in no way defined what was about to happen here.

Please say you want me.

She responded by smoothing her hands over the muscles in his back, arching into him. “I want my first time to be with you, Evan. Don’t worry. I hear the pain is often exaggerated.”

He wouldn’t know.

But he knew how to make her want him, how to tongue her mouth the way he’d tongued her sex. It didn’t take long for her to pant his name, to rock her hips and beg him to fill the emptiness.

He obliged. Hell, she was so tight, so warm and wet, so divine. The way she hugged his cock proved maddening. So maddening he almost forgot about her virtue as he moved in and out of her body. She moved with him, drawing him deeper with each moan of encouragement.

“Do it now,” she breathed upon sensing his sudden hesitance.

He pushed past her maidenhead with one hard thrust.

She gasped, took a few seconds to catch her breath before reassuring him all was well and urging him to continue.

He might have spent time lavishing her breasts, frolicking and feasting, but the intensity of their passion, the urgency for release, had him rocking into her like a lovesick buck.

Vivienne Hart made him feel like a virgin.

She did not lie there demanding pleasure. She hugged every inch of his body, kissed the bulging muscles in his arms, stroked him, looked deep into his eyes as she took every hard thrust. She made him feel like a king amongst men, made him feel worshipped and adored.

Then she did something else new and novel—she cupped his cheek as she found her release, touched him tenderly as she milked his manhood and squeezed him tight. Hell, he managed to withdraw in time, but he wanted to fill this woman with his seed, pour everything of himself into her, leave her soaked, dripping with the evidence of his devotion.

Chapter 14

Howarth’s Mathematical, Optical and Nautical Instruments shop employed two staff. One middle-aged man, dressed impeccably in black and sporting a sturdy pair of spectacles, demonstrated how to use an octant and sighting telescope to his customer. Behind another oak counter, a young fellow with fashionable side-whiskers had numerous quizzing glasses displayed on a velvet-lined tray. Thankfully, the elegant lady inspecting the objects decided she would consult her husband and return forthwith.

After placing the items back inside the glass cabinet behind him, the fellow addressed them directly. “Good morning. May I be of assistance?”

Vivienne chuckled to herself. She wondered what the man knew of magnetism. Could he explain how Evan Sloane compelled her with his indeterminable force? How he wielded an invisible power that left her aching for his touch, longing to join him in bed?

Evan stepped closer to the counter, and she took a moment to admire his magnificent form. “We wish to speak to Mr Howarth,” he said, unaware of her silent appraisal. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”

The man’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid he’s occupied, making a pair of spectacles for a client who is to arrive shortly. If you would care to come back this afternoon, I can schedule an appointment.”

Vivienne gave a discreet cough. “Might you tell him we are worried about a friend? Tell him Mr Sloane and Miss Hart are here at Mr Golding’s behest.”

Evan presented his calling card. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

The assistant appeared disturbed. A scan of Mr Sloane’s card had him hurrying through the door at the end of the counter. He returned with a look of surprise and an invitation for them to join Mr Howarth in his private workshop.

One would expect the workshop of a maker of optical instruments to be full of tools for grinding and turning lenses, with measuring sticks and scientific apparatus. But they were shown into a dark, sumptuous room lit by candlelight, a room filled with curiosities and old tomes, a room carrying the smell of herbs and aromatic oils which grew more potent as they passed the display of unusual glass bottles.

An elderly gentleman, the age of Mr Golding, pushed out of a worn leather chair behind a cluttered desk. “Sloane and Hart. Good heavens. I never thought I’d see the day.” He wiped his hands on his black apron and brushed a swathe of silver hair from his brow. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited?”

“Seventy years?” Vivienne suggested.

Mr Howarth laughed. “Not quite, my dear, but my father knew Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart and left me with the task of safeguarding the treasure.”

“Treasure?” Evan inhaled deeply and then glanced at the glass tubes in the rack on the desk. “Please tell me our ancestors weren’t opium dealers.”

“Opium? Lord, no.” Mr Howarth’s eye’s glinted with recognition. “Ah, you can smell milk of the poppy. I’m an apothecary by trade, Mr Sloane, but I swore an oath to continue my father’s legacy, and so Mr Jameson and Mr Austin deal with all matters of mathematics and optics.”

Vivienne frowned. “Your assistant said you were making a pair of spectacles.”

“Howarth is a trusted name when it comes to optical equipment and the like, Miss Hart. We must give the illusion I am skilled with a lens.” He leaned closer and tapped his nose. “And though I imagine your ancestors have you darting this way and that, you’re not here to purchase a compass.”