The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (22 page)

His arms tightened.

“You are in shock, my lady,” Langdon explained, carefully maneuvering his large frame through the door. “Davis, come with me. Bring four men with you. Leave the rest to clean up.”

Grace clasped her hands more tightly around Langdon’s neck. “I am able to walk,” she insisted, pressing her face against his strong shoulder. She knew her words were contradicted by her actions. Still, instinct compelled her, the need to feel Langdon’s warmth seemed essential.

“You are not,” he replied, his voice grim. They
took the shortest path toward the boat landing, the five men with them forming a wall of protection around them. “And even if you were, I would not allow it. I need you in my arms.”

“Sir,” Davis said, breathless as he caught up with them.

“Is the intruder dead?”

Davis took off his coat and tucked it around Grace. “Yes, sir.”

Langdon swore under his breath. “Do we know who sent him?”

“He bears a tattoo of a chess piece.”

Grace turned her face into Langdon’s chest and closed her eyes.

“The mark of the Kingsmen,” Langdon said, his voice hard.

“We’ll make them pay, sir,” Davis assured him.

Langdon’s heartbeat hammered beneath Grace’s cheek. “Oh, of that you can be sure.”

Langdon swept Grace into Aylworth House, an arm around her waist. He was reluctant to let her go. He’d held her on his lap, close in his arms, on the coach drive home. He still needed her under his hand, the feel of her slim body next to his was necessary to his sanity and uncertain temper.

“Have water brought up immediately for her ladyship’s bath,” he told Yates, pausing inside the entry.

“Right away, sir.” Yates cast a concerned glance over Grace’s pale face and hurried away.

Langdon strode across the marble-floored entryway and up the stairs, taking Grace with him.

“I am perfectly well, Langdon,” she protested as he closed her bedroom door behind them and untied her domino.

“You are still trembling,” he said grimly, pushing the encompassing cloak from her shoulders and tossing it across a nearby chair. “And you are too pale.”

“I am a bit chilly, that’s all,” she insisted.

“That’s not all of it,” he told her as he quickly and efficiently stripped her out of her clothing and bundled her into a robe. “You shouldn’t have been there tonight.”

“I wanted to be there,” she reminded him. “I would have been most put out with you had I not been.”

Langdon ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “You could have been hurt. And it would have been my fault.” The thought terrified him. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a nearby chair, then unwound his cravat as he walked to the small table beneath the window. A decanter half-filled with brandy sat on a silver tray with several glasses.

He poured brandy into two of the heavy cut-glass goblets and handed her one.

She eyed it dubiously.

“Just sip it,” he told her. “It will warm you and steady your nerves.”

“Very well. If you insist.” She took a tiny sip and shuddered, waited a moment, then sipped again. The second taste went down easier. “Langdon—” she began but a knock on the door silenced her.

“Your ladyship?” Yates said through the closed door. “Your bath is ready.”

“Thank you, Yates,” Grace called out.

“It is about time,” Langdon muttered. He took her hand and opened the door to the bathing room just beyond.

The large tub was filled with gently steaming water. Langdon slipped her robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to pool at her feet, and caught her waist, lifting her up.

Grace gasped, her hands closing over his forearms, her eyes wide.

“Shhh, I’ve got you.” Langdon gently set her down in the rose-scented water.

“Ahhh, this is lovely,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she eased back to rest her head on the rim of the tub. A smile of pleasure curved her lips.

Langdon couldn’t resist her. He bent and pressed his mouth to hers. She responded instantly, lips soft and inviting, coaxing his, her damp hands cupping his nape to urge him nearer.

Langdon lifted his head and looked down at her. Her violet eyes were smoky, darkened, and sultry. The silky curves of her breasts and shoulders were flushed pink from the heat of the water and their kiss.

“You are feeling warmer.” It wasn’t a question. Still, Grace nodded in response.

“As am I.”

His dry comment made her laugh.

“You would be much cooler without your clothes,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He eyed her for a moment, delighted by her daring. “You are right,” he said at last. “I believe I would be.”

He removed his onyx studs and set them on the
table that held a stack of linen drying cloths, some washcloths, a bowl with soap, and a jar of rose-scented bath oil. Then he shrugged out of his shirt and sat on one of the chairs, where he managed to tug off his snug boots. Then he stood and without ceremony shoved his breeches down his legs.

Throughout his disrobing, Grace watched him silently, her eyes darkening even further, lashes half-lowered.

“Move up, love,” he told her.

Grace scooted forward and he stepped into the bath behind her, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he sank down.

“Oh, this is so nice,” she murmured as he stretched long legs out alongside her hips and slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her back to lean against his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder, her damp hair tickling his throat when she turned to look up at him. “Are you warm, sir?” she teased.

He brushed a kiss against her temple and chuckled. “I am, madam. As you no doubt can tell.” He spread his fingers over her belly and nudged her back against his solid erection.

Her gaze turned sultry. “So I can,” she murmured with a soft laugh.

Langdon scooped the bar of French soap from the bowl and rubbed it between his hands until bubbles dripped from his fingers. Then he set the soap back in the bowl and smoothed his hands over the wet curves of her shoulders, before moving on to the delicate line of her collarbone. Then he cupped her breasts, her wet skin slippery beneath his palms.

She sighed, moving against him restlessly.

He stroked his thumbs over her rosy nipples, pulled them into tight peaks.

“Langdon,” she murmured, her small hands closing over the back of his much larger ones to press him closer.

“Yes, love.” He kissed the curve of her ear, the rose scent of her skin surrounding him.

Any pretense of bathing her forgotten, Langdon smoothed his palms over the curve of her midriff and stroked the soft dark triangle between her thighs. Grace moaned and pushed against his hand, twisting to reach his mouth with hers, her fingers gripping his forearms.

Water sloshed, spilling over the rim of the tub and onto the floor.

Reluctantly, Langdon took his mouth and hands from her. “I want you in my bed.” He stood, water streaming down the length of his body, bent to pick her up, and stepped out of the tub. He set her on her feet and she leaned against him as he grabbed a linen towel and wrapped it around her, rubbing it over her wet skin. Then he did the same perfunctory drying job on himself before leaving the damp towels on the water-soaked floor and lifting Grace once again.

“You are always carrying me.” Her lazy, passion-husky voice held amusement.

“I like carrying you,” he told her as he stalked into the bedchamber. “I like touching you.”

He strode swiftly across the room to toss back the coverlet on the high bed and lay her down on the sheets, immediately covering her body with his.

“I like having you under me in bed.” He brushed openmouthed kisses over her face.

He wedged a thigh between her slighter, softer ones and stroked his hand down her throat, over the sweet high curve of her breasts, the indent of her waist, and the hollow of her belly button, until he unerringly found the softest part of all. She was hot and wet. More than ready for him.

“And I like being inside you.” He knew his voice was raspy, guttural, that he couldn’t smoothly speak sweet words and give poetic compliments. It was all he could do to carefully nudge against her, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she immediately surged upward. Her hands tightened around his shoulders, her mouth urgent as she pulled him closer, and he gave in, thrusting forward until they were locked together.

She cried out, tightening around him, and he stilled, breathing hard. Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer, her mouth urgent on his, and he began a pounding rhythm that in moments sent them both spinning over the edge.

Langdon lay on his back when they could breathe again, Grace tucked against his side with her head resting on his chest, just below his chin. Her damp hair smelled like roses where it brushed across his lips and her arm hugged his waist. One slim, bare thigh was draped over his, her soft skin silky smooth against him.

He’d never felt this level of driving passion and need to possess with any other woman before Grace.

How was he going to let her go when the King was caught and their masquerade ended?

“Was she injured?”

Langdon chewed a bite of succulent roast game hen before answering Carmichael. “Thankfully, no.”

“Good.” Carmichael nodded in satisfaction, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin.

Langdon took advantage of the pause in their conversation to scan the Young Corinthians dining room. It was brimming with agents and club members alike, some fresh from the card tables while others looked to be fortifying themselves for a long night ahead. Footmen bustled back and forth between tables, busily serving various courses from the massive sideboard along the far wall.

He knew all of the agents in the room were most likely discussing details and status reports concerning Corinthian cases. Each man there worked endless hours to ensure the safety of the country, becoming intimately involved with, yet detached from, the lives of those on both sides of the battle.

Langdon could recall that world. Professional comportment and a keen sense of justice had allowed him to operate as a Young Corinthian without forming any sort of attachments. He lived in a different world now.

“And the Queen?”

Carmichael’s question drew Langdon’s gaze back toward their table. “Now, she is interesting,” he began, setting his fork and knife down. “I would swear upon my father’s grave that she is one of us. A member of the peerage, that is.”

“And why is that?” Carmichael asked, taking a sip of wine.

Langdon lifted the linen napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “Some things can be bought. But others?”

“Meaning?”

“Not one person in the world lives who has the ability to teach such …” Langdon paused, eager for Carmichael to understand him. “Such bravado as that which is innately present in members of the ton.”

“Present company excluded, of course,” Carmichael commented dryly.

Langdon smiled. It felt good to be on familiar ground yet again with his superior. “Of course.”

The man nodded with approval. “Anything else about her that would be good to know?”

“Unfortunately she was draped in costume from head to toe,” Langdon replied, settling back in the heavy oak chair. “Does not give you much to go on, I know.”

“Strictly speaking, no it does not.”

A footman approached and waited until Carmichael gestured for him to clear their plates. Both men paused as the man saw to the finished meal and left.

“From time to time, noble families find themselves in need of funds,” Carmichael continued. “For most, such a state is cured through marriage or other, more
common means. And then there are those who go about replenishing their coffers in much more creative ways.”

Langdon himself knew of many families who had resorted to unsavory matches or ill-advised business investments in an effort to sustain their privileged way of life. But partnering with a criminal organization?

“Sounds a bit far-fetched,” Langdon suggested, waving off the returning footman.

Carmichael countered Langdon’s instruction and beckoned the man forward. “We will take our brandy here, thank you.”