Page 26 of The Inconvenient Compromise
She could feel a blush suffusing her face. It wasn’t embarrassment. Or rather, it wasn’t only embarrassment. At that point in time, she wanted only to be alone with him, to be at home, in their chamber, in their bed. Far from any prying eyes or gossips who would watch their every move, he could do more than simply hold her. The degree to which she desired him, the swiftness that such need could lay claim to her senses, was shocking.
As he twirled them around the dance floor and then through a pair of columns that flanked the long corridor just off the ballroom, she hadn’t even noticed that he was leading them away from the ballroom. It wasn’t until they were in that dimly lit corridor and he was guiding her into an alcove that was hidden from view by heavy draperies that she even realized how expertly she had been maneuvered.
“I do not think dancing was what you had in mind at all,” she observed.
* * *
Lucian reached behind him,tugging the cord that would release the drapes and separate them from the corridor entirely. They were completely concealed from view. “I confess, it was all a ruse to get you alone.”
“To what end?”
Lucian touched his fingertip to her lower lip, caressing it gently before trailing it down her chin, over the little hollow at the base of her throat, and lower still to the tantalizing décolletage so alluringly framed by the green velvet gown. “I told you that making love was not limited to the bed, Fiona.”
Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes wide. Her indrawn gasp was more than just shock. He knew that sound. It was one of desire.
“Here? But… what if we are discovered?”
Lucian pressed her back against the wall, the softness of her form molding to his, cradling him in her warmth. “The risk, Fiona, is part of the pleasure. Do you trust me?”
“You ask me that so frequently… and always for different reasons,” she replied with some amusement. “And the answer, much to my dismay, is always the same. Yes. Yes, I trust you.”
With deliberate movements, he grasped the fabric of her skirt, sliding it upward until his fingertips were skimming over the velvety skin of her thighs. She let out a startled breath, a soft sound that told him just how much she enjoyed his touch… and how exciting she found their current tryst. Shifting his hand slightly, he moved it between her thighs, cupping her mound. “Do you want my touch, Fiona?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He leaned in, whispering against her ear. “I can feel how wet you are for me. Spread your legs… just a little.”
She did so, parting them enough to give him full access to her. He stroked his hand over the soft curls shielding her sex. Sliding one finger into her, he stroked gently at first, soft and delicate movements that drew a whimper from her.
Whispering once more, he cautioned, “Not a sound, Fiona. Not even a sigh.”
She nodded, biting her lower lip to comply with the edict.
With each caress, with each pass of his fingers over that sensitive bud, the tension in her drew tighter. Her hands were at his shoulders, grasping at his coat as she moved against him. Oh, yes. Fiona was wicked. Wicked and wanton and perfect. She might have found herself rather inconveniently compromised by the wrong earl, but fortune had shone on him.
When her thighs began to tremble, and he could feel her body poised on the brink of release, he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. Swallowing her cries, he felt the flutters of her release as she went slack against him.
“For the rest of the night, until I can get you home and make love to you properly, I will be thinking of this moment…and you will too.”
* * *
“Takethat trunk and put it on the small cart in the mews, then go straight to bed. We have much work tomorrow.”
Charlotte was in the drawing room. She could hear the butler issuing orders to the footmen. Her stomach was in knots, and her mind was racing. But it wasn’t her nerves that were frayed by the horrible events of the day. In fact, they had inspired her. Estelle had escaped the institution, after all. Mad as she was, bent on avenging herself against all those she thought had wronged her, all manner of misdeeds could be laid at Estelle’s feet now, and she would not be there to gainsay it.
Penelope Dennings—Lady Ralston— and now Fiona, the newly married Countess of Rathmore, posed a threat to her. They knew things, after all. Bits and pieces of all the things she had done over the years to others, the lovers she’d taken. Now that they were fast friends, sharing all their information with one another, gossiping about her, it could go very badly indeed.
Estelle was the perfect scapegoat. But she wouldn’t want to dirty her hands again. Murder was not beneath her, but she didn’t want to be to participate in it at such a close distance. Thinking of the blood-stained bank notes that were even now in her pocket, she knew that she had all that she required to hire someone to see to the task. But this was not the countryside, and hiring such a person in London brought greater risk.
The door to the withdrawing room opened, and the butler stepped inside. “It’s done, madame. I shall go and dispose of the item now, as you wish.”
“I do. Very much… and on your return, I need you to stop at a pub called The Boar’s Flagon. Ask for a man by the name of Roger Turner. If he is not there, ask the tavern keep to din you a man who will do the same sort of work that one might employ Mr. Turner for.” Charlotte retrieved the roll of banknotes from her pocket and pressed them into his hand. “That is not entirely for him. You pay him what he asks for, and you will keep the rest… for your aid and your silence.”
“Yes, madam. Though you need not pay me for either. I will be your devoted servant, always.”
Charlotte smiled at him in false gratitude. Devotion was not to be trusted.
TWENTY-ONE
