Her soft cries of ecstasy as he released her inner fire, all that long-repressed passion…
He could still taste the sweetness of it, the hot stinging need in his body, the staggering intimacy he’d felt, the overwhelming tenderness. Her ability to fire his blood had never surprised him, but he still felt stunned by his feelings in the aftermath of their consummation.
He would find it even more difficult, Quinn knew, to wait for his plan for Venetia to bear fruit. He had forced her to wed him, but he couldn’t force her surrender. He had to let her come to him.
Quinn felt his jaw flex involuntarily. He’d long ago learned that there was an art to wooing women. In fact, he had deliberately honed his skills as a lover, his way of controlling his fate in small measure. After being pursued for his fortune and title at a young age, he’d wanted to be desired solely for himself, not his inheritance.
In Venetia’s case, he needed to build her desire to a fever pitch so that she would come to him willingly. So that she would stay with him willingly.
It would take all of his willpower, however, to curb his impatience.
At least he seemed to be making progress in one respect. She cared enough to be gravely worried for him. He felt similarly about her. Few women would be so stalwart in the face of danger. Venetia was not one to turn away from peril out of fear, he knew. Rather, she would cope with any crisis that came her way, even if it meant braving an assassin at his side. Her courage continued to impress him—and worry the devil out of him as well.
Quinn’s fingers closed reflexively around the handle of his sword cane. It would be unforgivable if she came to harm because he’d married her to save her family from ruin, only to make her a target for a killer. He had to solve the riddle of the assassin quickly and put an end to the threat to their lives. Only then would he relax his guard. Only then could he move on to solving the problem of his marriage—gaining Venetia’s trust and healing her past hurts.
Another thing was also becoming clear. He couldn’t let her conflict with her family continue to fester. She had been separated too long from the sister she cared deeply about.
Quinn tightened his grip on the cane. First he had to confront Edmund Lisle and discover what he could about the pendant. After that, he would see about mending Venetia’s relationship with her parents and her sister.
—
Lisle resided in a newer part of town, near where Quinn’s cousin Jack lived, in an elegant, storied terrace house. When Quinn demanded entrance, the sleepy manservant who answered the front door looked properly intimidated and hastily agreed to rouse his master from his bed.
Several minutes later, the master himself came stalking down the staircase. Edmund Lisle was a man of medium build, a trifle portly, with thinning brown hair—and, at the moment, bloodshot eyes, likely the result of a late night gambling. He also boasted handsome features and a vast fortune, which no doubt appealed to Julia.
Lisle was barely civil enough to invite Quinn into a nearby parlor, and in the same gruff tone, ask him to be seated. Before Quinn could state his business as requested, Lisle went on the attack.
“I cannot imagine what has brought you here, but if you are attempting to lure Lady Dalton back, you will fail.” His animosity was obvious, as was his defensiveness, and both likely stemmed from jealousy, Quinn knew.
“I assure you I have no such aim.”
“Then why the devil are you here?”
Lisle was clearly puzzled by the visit rather than wary and nervous, which was a point in his favor, Quinn calculated. A guilty man would not have seemed so surprised.
“I came to inquire about your motives.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you try to have me killed a fortnight ago?”
Lisle first stared, then gave a bark of laughter. “Good God, no. Why would you think so?”
“There have been three attempts on my life recently, beginning the evening we played cards at Tavistock’s. Each time assailants tried to end my existence.”
“And you think it was I? How preposterous.”
If he was acting, Quinn couldn’t tell. Lisle’s astonishment seemed genuine. Certainly he was exhibiting no sign that he feared retribution for attempted murder.
“Why in blazes would I want to kill you?” Lisle asked in true bafflement. “Granted, I may sincerely dislike you, but my antipathy is not so severe that I wish you dead. Besides, I wouldn’t dare challenge you. You are known to be a crack shot and an even better swordsman.”
“You could have hired accomplices,” Quinn pointed out.
“To what purpose? I am not idiotic enough to risk your wrath. I value my skin too highly.”
If Lisle was lying, he was making an expert job of it, but more likely he was innocent of the charges.
Quinn tried another tact. “Yet you blame me for Lady Dalton’s scene in Hyde Park last year.”