And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Henrietta obliged, leaving her hand in his, lightly returning the pressure of his fingers. “I can see that you’re worried, but . . . I don’t quite understand why, at least not to this extent.” She drew breath, then added, “I haven’t thought—haven’t allowed myself to think—too much about what happened today, but . . . even so, I can’t see what we can possibly make of it. I don’t know of anyone who might wish me dead, much less act on that wish.”

“But someone did.” He looked up at her, meeting her eyes, his concern on open display. “Henrietta, someone tried to kill you today—we can’t overlook that. But”—his lips twisted—“there’s more. I learned something I haven’t yet told you, about your horse. I checked with your stableman. He’s convinced, and so am I, that someone darted your mare.”

When she blinked uncomprehendingly, he explained, “Someone threw a dart at her rump. That was why she screamed, reared, and then bolted.” He paused, then added, “Someone hoped you’d fall to the cobbles and die.”

She stared into his eyes, searched, but saw nothing but absolute conviction. She quelled a shiver. “But . . . why?”

Lips grimly set, he shook his head. “I can’t begin to guess, but . . .” He tightened his grip on her fingers. “That wasn’t the start of it, if you recall.”

When, too shocked by what he was implying, she remained silent, he continued, his eyes steady on hers, “You fell off the bridge into the stream at Lady Marchmain’s rout. We assumed it was an accident—but what if it wasn’t? Anyone who was there might have seen the opportunity—you were by the side of the bridge, and all of us were distracted by the fireworks. A stumble, a quick, anonymous push, and the stream was running swiftly and it was dark . . .”

Held trapped in his gaze, reluctantly, she added, “And not many young ladies of the ton know how to swim, not even a little.”

“Exactly. And the Thames was close, only yards away.” He paused, then after a moment continued, “So we have three near-fatal accidents—the bridge, your horse, and now the falling stone. Any of those incidents might have seen you dead, and all of them, even the last, might well have passed for accidents. If it wasn’t for the dampness of the moss by the wall, we wouldn’t have seen your would-be murderer’s boot prints. We would simply have been left wondering how the stone had come to fall, but meanwhile, you would have been dead.”

“But . . .” The first shock of realization was fading; annoyance, spiced with a definite dollop of belligerence, swelled, and she embraced the strength it offered. She frowned. “Who the devil could it be?”

James was relieved by her reaction; he’d worried she wouldn’t want to see, to acknowledge that someone might wish her ill. That much ill. “I think we can be sure it’s a man, and that he’s a member of the ton. He would have to be to have been on the bridge at Marchmain House. Anyone with a purpose in Brook Street that morning, from a street sweeper, a delivery boy, a costermonger, to a strolling gentleman, could have darted your horse, and the falling stone could have been any man who wears decent riding boots, but the incident on the bridge could only have been caused by a gentleman of the haut ton.”

“Or a lady.” Henrietta wrinkled her nose. “But no lady pushed that stone, so I concede your point.” She blew out a breath. “So some gentleman of the haut ton is trying to kill me.” Brows knitting, she tilted her head. “Which brings u

s back to why.”

He studied her face, her expression. “Could it have anything to do with some past activity of yours as The Matchbreaker?”

She gave the suggestion serious thought but ultimately shook her head. “Other than you, no gentleman has ever protested my findings, and”—she met his eyes—“if they had wished to, I would think they would have protested to my face, at least at first, as you did, but none have.”

He conceded the point with a tip of his head. “True enough.” After a moment of studying her eyes—and her studying his—he sighed and sat back, fingers gently caressing the back of the hand he still held. “So that’s why I have to stay with you tonight. This would-be murderer is a gentleman. He’s not at the house party, but he knows you’re here. He’s familiar with our world. It’s perfectly possible he’s familiar with this house, and he’ll certainly know that few doors will be locked, just in case guests wish to wander.”

For a long moment, she stared at his face, then said, “I can see your reasoning. More, I don’t dispute it—I agree.” She paused, then drew breath and said, “Yet I ask again: Why?”

Looking into her eyes, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, very conscious of her fingers beneath his, in the simplest, most direct words he could find, he gave her the truth. “Because you’re mine.”

She held his gaze for a heartbeat, then nodded decisively. “Yes, I am.”

Then she swiveled on the chair’s arm, leaned over him, framed his face, and tipped it to hers—paused to look into his eyes as if to confirm that he was following her reasoning—then she bent her head, set her lips to his, and kissed him.

From that first touch of her lips, there was never any doubt what she intended or where this would end; the kiss went from definite, to scorching, to incendiary in mere seconds. Hardly surprising then, she being her and he being him, that thereafter matters rapidly spiraled out of control.

Or, more correctly, were with ruthless determination and unwavering will driven forcefully toward one paramount goal.

Mutually ravenous, mutually greedy, the kiss ignited a conflagration that spread flames beneath their skins, that incited, razed and burned. Heat surged in a wave of molten hunger, of fiery yearning.

On a muted gasp, she shifted, and then her hands were everywhere, racing over him, tugging at his coat, urging him up out of the chair so she could strip the restricting garment away.

Engaged himself, absorbed and caught, distracted and enthralled, his tongue dueling with hers, his lips rapaciously devouring hers while his hands shaped and weighed her sumptuous breasts, he had to haul sufficient awareness from those all-consuming, senses-stealing tasks to oblige—to bodily lift her to her feet and rise to his, and release her long enough to shrug his coat and waistcoat off—and once he had, nothing could hold her.

Nothing he did seemed capable of reining her in, of reining her back—of reestablishing any degree of supremacy in a world fired by unexpectedly rampant need, and flooded with burgeoning passions, with violently surging desires that only had to rise to be given full expression, only to be offered—in the next heartbeat—immediate gratification.

He felt giddy—as reckless and unrestrained as she as they wrestled each other free of their clothes, as silk whispered over flushed and dewed skin, as palms and fingers flagrantly explored, sculpted, traced. As the cool caress of the night air was banished by the first touch of heated skin to heated skin, naked and burning, and sensation, sharp and potent, rocked them.

Jolted them into a new level of fiery flames, into a new level of consuming awareness.

Of utterly consuming passion.

He closed his arms about her and locked her tight against him, evocatively molding her body to his. And still she didn’t pause, not for thought or modesty; she wriggled and urged him on, seemingly hell-bent on plunging into the act—one she’d never indulged in before—with a reckless enthusiasm that left him reeling.

His problem was that her wishes were his; everything she wanted—to do, to feel, to explore—precisely coincided with his own ravenous hungers.