Alicia reached home in the small hours, her wits in disarray. Her body…felt glorious. The former was a direct consequence of the latter.
She now understood something she never had before—why ladies allowed themselves to be seduced. If that evening’s sample of what a noble lover could produce was in any way indicative, it was a wonder any lady remained a virgin by choice.
A gloating whisper in her brain suggested only those ignorant of the possibilities did.
Leaving her cloak in Jenkins’s arms, leaving him and Maggs to lock up the house, she headed for the stairs.
Adriana joined her, glanced at her face. “What’s wrong?”
Alicia looked briefly her way. Wondered that her experience hadn’t left some tangible evidence in her face. She felt different from her head to her toes, yet no one in the ballroom, whence they’d eventually returned, had seemed to notice. Apparently not even her perceptive sister could see the change in her. “Nothing.”
Looking forward, she remembered the two texts on lovemaking she’d consulted. Remembered their shortcomings. “I wonder if there are advanced manuals?”
She’d mumbled—grumbled—the comment aloud. Adriana, passing on her way to her bedchamber, cast her a puzzled look. “What was that?”
She tightened her lips. “Never mind.”
Opening the door to her bedchamber, the one nearest the stairhead, she nodded a good night to Adriana and went in.
Closing the door, she stood for a moment staring into space, then she moved into the room, dropping her reticule on the dressing table, quickly unpinning her hair. She undressed and donned her nightgown—then couldn’t remember doing it. Finding herself ready for bed, standing beside the bed, she climbed in and lay down. Drew the sheet and coverlet over her.
Lay flat on her back and stared at the canopy.
Every nerve she possessed was still humming; warm pleasure still coursed her veins. Yet there was an expectation, an underlying anticipation that the evening’s small step had done nothing to assuage.
Instead, that nebulous but definite anticipation had grown.
She didn’t truly know what it was, could only guess for she’d never felt it before. But then she’d never indulged as she had that evening, never let any man touch her intimately at all, let alone as he had.
And now …having learned what she’d wanted to know, she found herself facing an even bigger unknown. An even more frightening unknown.
Knowledge, it seemed, was a two-edged sword.
By the next morning, she’d talked herself around. Her analysis of her situation, her decision on her best way forward, had been right; there was nothing in the events of the past evening sufficient to deflect her from her path.
It would, however, clearly behoove her to make a serious effort to push Torrington’s investigation along. The investigation provided his major excuse to spend time in her company, seducing her, being kind to her brothers, helping her with Adriana…
Pushing aside such thoughts, she rose from the breakfast table and went in search of the lists she’d made.
Tony sat comfortably slumped in a leather armchair in the library of Hendon House. Idly swirling a glass of brandy, he recited the story of Ruskin’s death, the subsequent revelations, and the ongoing investigation to Jack—otherwise Jonathon,
Lord Hendon—who was similiarly comfortable in another chair, and his strikingly beautiful wife Kit, presently perched at Jack’s elbow.
“So,” he concluded, “Ruskin’s been selling information on ships and dates to someone, who presumably used the information for their own gain—they certainly paid Ruskin well for it. However, we have no idea of the precise nature of the information Ruskin passed, so we don’t know how it might have been used—”
“And therefore can’t trace said user of same.” Jack met his gaze, his expression hard.
“That”—Tony saluted him with his glass—“sums it up nicely.”
Kit straightened. “Well, Jack will just have to help you learn what was important about those ships, but meanwhile, what about this widow? What was her name?”
Tony met Kit’s violet gaze. The first time he’d met her, he’d thought she was a boy—understandable given he was half-dead courtesy of a brig full of smugglers, and she’d been traipsing about in breeches at the time. Now her glorious red hair was longer, elegantly cut to frame her piquant face. Her figure, previously slender and slim, had filled out a trifle, but that only made it all the more womanly. Two children had done little to curb her fire; she was one of the most disconcertingly active women Tony knew.
He was supremely thankful she was Jack’s wife. “The widow isn’t involved, other than by the unfortunate act of stumbling on Ruskin’s body.”
Kit frowned. “Why, then, are you being so careful not to use her name? You’ve mentioned her at least six times, but always as ‘the widow.’”
Jack had turned to study his wife; now he turned, and studied Tony. “She’s right. What going on with this widow?”