Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

He sat on the floor, his back against the sofa, his placket open, his cock a rod of iron. Vivienne gathered her skirts to her waist and came to sit astride him as he instructed. She sank down so slowly he almost flooded her with his seed.

Her head fell back. Her mouth fell open.

He’d already fallen, fallen hard days ago.

“Show me how well you ride, love—gallop, canter, you choose.”

“Let’s start with a teasing trot.” She came up on her knees, moaned as she sheathed him to the root.

He didn’t care how she rode him. He reached under her skirts, found the sensitive nub, caressed, teased and tormented until she convulsed around him, crying out in ecstasy.

With some urgency, he pulled out of her body, came by his own hand.

They sat there, breathless. Yet he knew from the look in her glazed eyes she would want him again before the night was through. He wanted her, too. He wanted to do everything, walk, talk until the early hours, play games, solve cases, probe her body, her mind.

A sudden knock on the door had him wiping his hand on his shirt in a panic, left them both hurrying to straighten their clothes and look reasonably presentable.

“Enter,” he called, aware the scent of sated lust hung in the air.

Fitchett appeared. “Forgive me, sir, but it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. You asked to be informed when I heard from Mr Buchanan.”

“Has he returned?”

“No, sir. A boy arrived in a hackney. He brought a note.” Fitchett stepped forward with the salver. “Buchanan paid the boy’s return fare.”

Evan took the note and read it quickly. “We need to head to town.”

Vivienne gasped. “Tonight? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, we’re to meet Buchanan in Lambeth, south side of Walcot Square. It appears he’s found Golding and Wicks.”

Chapter 16

Walcot Square consisted of two rows of terrace houses facing a communal green, though Vivienne wondered why it was considered a square when it resembled a triangle.

“You’re certain both men are in the house?” Evan addressed Buchanan in a hushed voice, despite the fact they stood hidden in the shadows.

“Aye. I met both men when I escorted Miss Hart to the office a few weeks ago. It’s them. Golding answered the door to the fellow in the burgundy coat. He went inside, left two hours later. Then Wicks left and took off towards Kennington Road.”

“But he came back,” Vivienne confirmed.

“Aye, stumbling about the street and singing a country ballad. Golding ushered him inside and slammed the door. That was about an hour ago.”

Vivienne glanced at Evan, though it was difficult to concentrate when remembering

the wanton way she’d claimed his body. Indeed, she would rather be astride him in front of a roaring fire than standing in the dark on a cold, damp night.

“So,” she said with a shrug. “What’s the plan?”

With his mouth curled in a wicked grin, Evan looked like Lucifer’s prodigy. “We’ll hammer on the door until someone answers. One’s past seventy, the other a drunken lout, I doubt they’ll run.” He looked at Buchanan. “You’ll remain with us.”

“I canna wait to hear why the canny old devil lied.”

“Mr Golding hasn’t exactly lied, Buchanan. He might be hiding here in fear of his life.”

“You must be cold, Buchanan, and I’m desperate to get home to my bed.” Something in Evan’s tone hinted there was space for her there, too. “Let’s get this over with.”

They strode across the square, opened the wrought-iron gate of Number 8, and mounted the five stone steps. Evan banged the black door with his clenched fist, raised the brass knocker and slammed it against the plate. No one came.