Twice Fallen (10 page)

“Why?” James looked at her—at her face—his gaze probing.

He wasn’t asking why he needed to follow the rules. He was asking why he’d been the only one invited. Deliberately, she acted as if she misunderstood. She wasn’t ready to explain, mostly because she hadn’t analyzed it yet herself. She leaned forward and whispered, “Because, as I said, this is my domain.”

“You’d better clarify, then,” he said on a growl, his hand sensuously sliding up her thigh, “since my ability to be biddable is crumbling by the moment.”

“Take off my stockings.”

“My pleasure.”

He was quite proficient at it, she discovered, with an economy of motion that involved a deft twist of his fingers
on her garters and the swift descent of silk that was rapidly tugged away. Yet even enormously aroused, he was thoughtful enough to not simply toss the expensive silk on the floor, but dropped them on top of his shirt.

She’d lowered her foot to the floor after he’d stripped off her stockings and she stood there, letting her gaze drift down the muscled contours of his torso to the strained material of his breeches. “You look uncomfortable. Let me help.”

“I am at your complete disposal, as always.” His voice had taken on a husky timbre.

Her fingers grazed his chest, and then lower, across the taut plane of his stomach, the muscles tightening under her questing touch. She undid the fastenings of his breeches slowly, parting the cloth, and finally allowing his rigid cock free. Regina lightly ran her palm up the hard length of his arousal and he sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.

“You seem very… ready, darling.”

“What gave me away?” His lashes lifted and there was a hint of irony in his eyes. “There are
some
advantages to being female.”

“Many actually.” She knelt on the floor in front of his chair between his splayed thighs, the pose supplicant, but both of them knew he was the prisoner with her hands caressing his erection. “Men only fool themselves into believing they have all the power. Think back on your history lessons. The lot of you are ruled by this.”

When she circled her finger around the tip of his penis, the crest beaded with semen already, his body quivered in response.

Regina went on, enjoying how much he wanted her,
how his knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of the chair. “Helen of Troy? Cleopatra?” She leaned and blew lightly against his heated skin. “And what about Eve? Would Adam have taken that apple if he hadn’t wanted her?”

“I am not sure I can debate Original Sin at this moment.” James caught her shoulders. “I need to be inside you.”

She wasn’t statuesque precisely, but Regina was tall for a woman. However, he was taller, stronger, and when he stood abruptly and lifted her in his arms it was done with ease.

“The drop cloth,” she suggested, the idea of making love in her studio somehow an aphrodisiac, and though the hardness of the floor was barely buffered by the thin cloth she’d tossed in front of her easel, she didn’t mind at all when he laid her down, tore off his breeches, and covered her.

James was not an impetuous man. She knew that, and his abrupt entry made her gasp in triumph over his loss of control, the stiff shaft of his cock impaling her fully, his breathing ragged as his mouth found hers and he kissed her hard the way he knew she liked it; she wasn’t a shrinking virgin and didn’t wish to be treated like one. Regina arched into the carnal possession, wrapping her legs around his waist, urging him on with her fingertips at the base of his spine.

“Take my word for it,” he apologized hoarsely as he slid backward and then plunged forward with a silken thrust. “I can’t help this.”

Perfect. She didn’t want him to be able to hold at bay his desire for her. “Don’t stop,” she instructed him on a
pant, the erotic pleasure a contrast to the solid wood of the floor at her back.

“Like I could,” he said on a gasp, moving between her legs with an urgency that consumed them both. Before long Regina moaned, her climb toward orgasmic release intense, swift, powerful, all-consuming.

There was something about the quiet of her studio, with the tall unadorned windows and the more than familiar scent of oils and solvents that added to the excitement. Regina arched, angling her body so he drove in as deeply as possible, not quite mindless but approaching that threshold, and from the rasp of his breathing in her ear, he was almost there as well.

In another moment it would happen.…

It did. As if the world stopped just for her, the tightening of her inner muscles in conjunction with the frantic clutch of her hands on his buttocks, unconscious in the rapture, halting the motion of thrust and acceptance, holding him still as he also went rigid and the fierce pulse of his release was accompanied by the rush of the breath out of his lungs.

Sprawled together, not speaking, they lay there for what might have been a few moments or a lifetime, his weight balanced, his face averted as his respiration slowed. Eventually, he spoke on a small, explosive laugh. “Not that I have a single complaint, but my knees will have bruises tomorrow and I cannot imagine it was comfortable for you. Shall we go upstairs to your bedroom?”

“If you wish.” At this point she would grant him whatever he wanted, she was so languid and satisfied. “On one condition.”

“Oh?” James rose and peered into her face.

“Stay for breakfast.”

Any expression bled away, as if he was doing his best to conceal his reaction to that imperious edict. “Of course.”

Very carefully, she ventured, “The servants might talk if you accept.”

“They might,” he agreed softly, brushing back a tendril of hair from her temple.

“One of those winsome young ladies so heavily in pursuit of the current heir of the Earl of Augustine might hear it.”

It was so difficult, always, to admit to any weakness, but there it was. It just… was. She wasn’t quite so young any longer at thirty-five. She wasn’t dimpled and smooth-cheeked and fashionably blond… just the opposite. She was an older woman, not all that eligible even with her bloodlines, because while her father had been a viscount, her mother had been—to not put too fine a point on it—essentially a whore in the eyes of society. Never mind that she knew her parents had been sincerely in love and would have wed if it was possible, but it had never happened. Her mother had gone to Paris to pursue her artistic endeavors and it wasn’t until she realized she was gravely ill that she had written to her former lover to inform him he was a father. To his credit, he had come to France at once, but by then Regina’s mother was gone. Viscount Altea had brought his daughter back to England and given her everything possible, but he hadn’t been able to provide respectability.

“So?” James smiled as if none of that mattered. “I am not going to stay heir apparent long, I assure you. Jonathan’s lovely wife is already with child, and even if it isn’t
a boy, I anticipate they will have a large family given their passion for each other. Besides, I am not interested in winsome young ladies.” He eased free of her body and stood, nude and beautiful as a statue, offering his hand. “But I am very interested in breakfast with the most beautiful woman in London tomorrow morning.”

She extended her hand in acceptance and allowed him to pull her easily to her feet and into his embrace. His hot breath brushed her ear. “We will need some sustenance after tonight, trust me.”

C

It was nothing more than a caricature of a foppish gentleman, beads of sweat drawn on his brow, one coin on the table in front of him next to a deck of cards, and the caption:
The sport of fools
.

What the devil did that mean?

With it was a street address but no other information, which made him wonder if he couldn’t just ignore it, pretend it had never arrived, and go on about his business. After all, he no longer worked for the Crown.

The only catch was he didn’t really have much business to attend to. Oh, yes, his investments to manage his pay for his years in the service of King George and his considerable inheritance from his father, but truthfully, that took up precious little time. Colton had an excellent steward who took care of a great deal of it for him for a small salary. Damien hadn’t had the occasion to actually
spend much money since his return, other than the purchase of the town house and to acquire a new wardrobe that would befit a fashionable gentleman, and while he wasn’t frugal, neither did he favor extravagance, unlike so many of his contemporaries.

Which, in a roundabout way, reminded him of Lady Lillian.

She’d also spent a few years away from London’s elite circles—and though she’d been most elegantly dressed the other evening before she had so tantalizingly removed her gown, she was probably just adjusting to the
ton
again. Rather like him. Distant from society, cut off in a different world…

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

Damien glanced up, startled.

Mrs. Wheaton hovered in the doorway of the breakfast room, an apologetic smile on her face. “It’s a bit early, I know, but there’s a gentleman to see you.”

When Charles came into the room, a saturnine smile on his face, Damien couldn’t exactly say he was surprised, but there was an element of theatrics he found amusing in a man who was understated in every other way.

“I see you received my message.”

“Is that a message?” He pointed at the piece of paper sitting next to his plate.

Charles just looked bland.

“Sit down.” Damien motioned to a chair in resignation. “I received the illustration, yes, and assumed it was from you. May I ask why you didn’t just bring it yourself?”

“Because I wanted you to ruminate over what it
might mean for a while and I see it worked, for you are breakfasting and thinking about it. Intrigued?”

“Forgive me, but I no longer have a dozen agents to call upon for information. You will have to enlighten me before I offer help with the matter you mentioned in our last meeting—which I am not convinced I should even give.”

Charles took a seat, his thinning hair brushed back neatly, his expression as unreadable as ever. He looked at the toast rack. “May I?”

“Please,” Damien responded, pushing the marmalade jar closer to his unexpected guest. Mrs. Wheaton efficiently whisked back in with a plate, napkin, and the necessary cutlery. She hastened to pour a cup of coffee, adjusted the cream pitcher just so, and then discreetly left the room, hurriedly closing the door behind her.

At that moment Damien realized that though the staff might not know anything about what he’d done during the war, they had no illusions that his visitors were not of the ordinary kind.

“Tell me, what do you think of my little drawing?” Charles dropped several lumps of sugar in his cup and stirred as if he were discussing the weather and stopped by for crumpets each morning.

“I think the subject’s nose might be a tad too long for physical symmetry.… Is there a point to this special delivery and unexpected visit?’

“The artwork could be better. It’s a hobby, nothing more. Dabble in it to soothe my nerves,” Peyton admitted.

“You don’t have any nerves, Charles.”

His guest lifted his cup to his mouth, took a measured
sip, and then smiled. He rather resembled a benign shark baring his teeth as he circled, in Damien’s opinion. “Excellent coffee.”

“I will convey to Mrs. Wheaton your compliments.” Damien sat back, aware enough that Charles did everything in his own time. “I’m sure she’ll be flattered.”

“We have a small problem that I hoped you might clear up for me.”

Well, at least it wasn’t going to take forever. Damien made an encouraging sound and took a bite of toast.

“It’s delicate.” Charles decided on the marmalade and scooped some out of the jar, spreading it liberally on his toast. “It occurred to me that since you’ve made a rare art form of finding information and keeping the good while discarding the bad, all the while being quiet about it, you might be just the man for the task.”

It was a bit cloudy outside, just overcast enough to give the sky a tinge of gray, with a whiff of rain in the air. Damien contemplated the leaden horizon through the window. “Most information is neither good nor bad. It just depends on the perspective of the one receiving it.”

“So true.” Charles took a generous bite of his toast and then meticulously wiped his mouth with his napkin.

Damien had to laugh. “It tends to make me nervous when you agree with me.… What is it you want, Charles?”

“I thought I just made it clear that I want you to seek and find who is causing this… sticky problem. There could be more than one quarry. I’m inclined to think so. It should be a small task. From the accolades you gained in the war, we both know the assignment will not be much of a feat for you.”

“Last I knew, I was no longer in the service of the Crown,” Damien said dryly, picking up one last forkful of eggs.

There was a little bacon left and Charles took it, making an appreciative sound in his throat. “A mere detail.”

“Perhaps it isn’t to me.”

“Humph.” Charles shot him a glance. “Is that so? Tell me no, and I will leave. After all, this requires discretion of the highest kind, and I have little desire to waste my time.”

Damn the man
.

Maybe it was the realization that both his brothers were happily married men with families; that most of his adult life had been spent on a cause that was over and done with, and that while he might enjoy the freedom of not looking constantly over his shoulder, he still had the hunger of the hunt.

And Charles, the sly fox, knew it even as he wiped his fingers on a pristine white napkin and refilled his own cup with a flourish.

Damien said abruptly, “What does the address mean?”

“Ah, I thought you would not be able to resist.”