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He kissed her neck. “True. But that was a week ago.” His hand was already on her ankle. Her slipper fell to the floor. His warm palm slid upward over her stocking, clasping her leg, making her breath instantly short.

He captured her mouth with his again, and her hands went instinctually to his bare shoulders. The heat of his skin filled her palms. She'd almost forgotten this feeling... the way that every touch between them made her want more. His hand slid farther up her leg to caress the bare skin at the top of her stocking. Her heart was suddenly beating so fast that she felt lightheaded.

His eyes were half-lidded as her hands went to the front of his breeches and she began to unbutton them. He pushed her skirts higher. A small moan broke from deep in her throat as his fingers slipped between her legs and flicked over the tight bud at her apex.

It had been so long. And suddenly she couldn’t wait a moment longer. He pulled her into position to straddle him. The head of his manhood nudged against her opening. She gasped as he pulled her closer... downward... pushing inside her until she was seated on him and so full of him that for a moment she felt as though she couldn’t breathe.

Her inner muscles stretched around him, stirring and fluttering and already sending shivers up her spine. His eyes, glazing with pleasure, met hers as she moved. He slipped his hand between them and touched her again. She cried out, and he sheathed himself fully in her.

Shivers raced down her arms and legs. She clutched his shoulders, riding him, pushing down onto him as she sought her release. Each new wave of pleasure seemed to lift her higher, carrying her upward until she lost control and flew helplessly into the white light that exploded behind her eyelids as the world went tumbling away.

Some time later—she couldn’t say how long—her heart rate still hadn’t returned to normal. Unexpected jolts of pleasure between her legs drew out the giddy, boneless feeling. He smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her temple. “I think that was well worth any exertion required.” His voice was husky. “At least for me it was. And you?”

She couldn’t speak for a moment. But this time it wasn't because she was afraid or overwhelmed. It simply because words—for once—seemed unnecessary. Instead, she simply nestled her head against his shoulder and let herself rest. Something had changed. An ache in her throat that she’d lived with for so long that it had become part of her was... gone. A gust of rising wind splattered sleet against the sitting room window. A log popped on the fire.

"Well." His voice was a warm rumble of comfort against her ear. "That was the single best moment of the year. Apart from the other times that we have made love, of course.”

"Is that so, duke?”

He smoothed her hair and kissed the side of her head. "Yes. But... I have not told you yet about what I heard today, and how you became a heroine."

She just wanted to stay here forever. "Oh? I assumed that you were talking nonsense, as usual.”

His laugh tickled her ear. “'Nonsense as usual'? Well, well, well. We will have to... discuss that later, your grace.”

There could be no doubt what he meant. Despite their recent activities, a wave of heat traveled through her body from top to toe.

"This is to do with your friend and mine, Mr. Cecil Townley. Apparently, he is leaving the country.”

Instantly, she froze. Even Townley’s name sent a jolt of dread through her. “What do you mean?”

“It is a peculiar story. And the government has tried to hush up any details. All the soldiers who were present at Castle March were ordered not to speak of the events of that night. And indeed, they were not eager to speak of it anyway, as they could see that Townley had played them for fools. But somehow, the story has leaked out anyway. And nobody knows how."

"But what are people saying?"

"The bare bones of it are this: Townley is going to Germany. He will not be appointed to Cabinet. He will not be sitting in the Commons for this very important session. And of course, he will be giving none of his fanatical public speeches calling for martial law and the suspension of habeas corpus.”

Pomona blinked at her husband. “But what has that to do with me?”

“Well, the official story is that Townley has had an acute attack of sciatica, and must seek treatment at a spa. But the rumor is that he has had a breakdown.”

This time, Pomona really, truly could not utter a word. She simply stared at West, speechless.

West’s eyes were beginning to dance. “As I say, nobody knows how the rumor started. But eventually, a report that Townley was publicly raving about black magic reached the ears of the Home Secretary. He was most alarmed. A secret meeting was held. Townley was unable to explain himself. Shortly afterwards, he was told that he must leave the country for a few months—for the sake of national stability.”

“But why did Townley not simply tell them about my book, and blame me? He has always scapegoated me, after all.”

“What could he have told senior members of the Cabinet? That a gothic novel frightened him so much that he could no longer distinguish fact from fiction? You and I know that it is his guilty conscience that has driven him to this behavior. But he cannot very well explain that to anyone else.”

“No, I suppose not." She was still thinking this over when a tingle shot up her spine. It was the tingle that meant that she’d just had a very good idea.

And in this case, the idea was for a novel of suspense. It would open with a wicked man reading of his dreadful, long buried crime in a book. The details would be unmistakable to him... and yet, since he had believed that his crime was a secret, he wouldn’t know who could have written it. So, he would set out to find and silence the author. And his quest for revenge on an unknown enemy would lead to his ultimate undoing…

“You are thinking about your work.”

She gave a guilty start. “I… well, yes. I am.”

He grinned. “I knew it. I am beginning to recognize the expression that you get when you are thinking about writing. I like it. I like it a great deal. Indeed, I pity any man who cannot appreciate a wife whose mind naturally runs to devious plots.”