Page 49

“They did?”

He set his glass aside and withdrew a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A letter,” he said. “A complaint from a neighbor of Clive Walhouse’s father in Kent.”

“That’s an odd thing to find here, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Very,” he said. “Read it.”

Emily, too, put down her glass, and leaned against him, their shoulders touching. The writer charged that Lord Strayde was negligent in his duty of appointing a new curate to the living in the neighborhood of Longfield. The people were suffering for lack of attentions of a clergyman, and he urged Lord Strayde to delay no longer, but to do his duty. The letter was recent.

She sat up. “It puts Walhouse here, doesn’t it? Immediately before his disappearance?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she said. “You think he’s gone to this empty parsonage. It’s not too far from London, and it’s on the Dover road.”

“Stop,” he said, taking the letter from her hands and stuffing it back in his coat.

“Stop what?” she asked.

“Thinking, figuring things out.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, pushing her down into the pile of bedding and rolling to pin her there with his body. “It makes me want to do this.” He lay above her, propped on his elbows, looking down into her face. His hands touched her hair. His heavy-lidded gaze met hers, his dark eyes full of longing.

He was going to kiss her. It made no sense. One moment they were speaking of the mystery, and the next his body was pressed to hers.

She must look like a drowned cat fished from the river and wrapped in cotton batting. But in his eyes she saw herself, not as the spinster society mocked and her family despaired of, the spinster she protected from the world’s scorn with her important work. In his eyes she was another Emily, desirable, passionate, alive.

Her lips parted, thoughts of spies and papers fled, and her whole self stilled to receive that kiss.

And then it came. He leaned down. His imperfect mouth met hers, and heat shot through her, warming her everywhere at once. Emily arched up into his kiss, returning heat for heat. He smelled of rain-dampened wool and himself, a heady mixture of wood and spice and man that Emily would know anywhere.

She reached up, circling his back with her arms, containing him in the world of her arms, relishing the pressure of his chest against her breasts. He wore entirely too many clothes.

The kiss deepened, and she opened her mouth. His tongue met hers in a frankly carnal exchange, an invitation to throw off all restraint. A new and unexpected sensation spread through her limbs, burning away doubt and hesitation. With Lynley she realized, she could be freely and unabashedly herself, however flawed, muddied and disheveled, or obstinate and headstrong. She could even be that thing ladies were never permitted to be—clever. She kissed him back with open longing.

Through the layers of clothing and quilt he pressed urgently against her, as if his whole self strained to join her whole self. With one hand he tugged at the quilt, pulling it aside.

He lifted his face from hers and gazed down a little dazedly at her breasts.

“Now,” he said, his voice low and rough, “would be a good time to say no, if you wish it. There will be no gossip. Barksted’s men don’t know who you are.”

Cool air puckered the tips of her breasts. He had offered her a moment to regain control, as he had that day in the park when he’d seized Circe’s reins. Emily had only to pull the quilt around her. She knew the rules of her world, knew the limits of their partnership. She wore the heavy, lavish ring he’d bestowed on her, itself a sign that their betrothal was a show, an illusion, like a scene from the opera. But, whispered a voice she could not still, you want this.

“Yes,” she said.

A brief joy flashed in his dark eyes before his lids descended, his gaze fastened on her breasts. His left hand circled her right breast lightly through the thin lawn of her chemise. Then he lowered his mouth and took full possession, his teeth and lips drawing sensation from the taut nipple, sending pleasure streaking deep through her to gather and pool in the intimate place between her legs. She reached under his waistcoat and tugged at his shirttails, eager to put her hands to his flesh.

Her mind was empty of words. Sensation overwhelmed her.

Again he joined their mouths. He made a low noise in his throat, and his knee nudged her legs apart. She stilled, alert to the change, a lifetime’s habits of propriety in the sudden stiffness of her knees.

Abruptly, she felt him pull back.