Chapter 17

Margot had fought against this impulse since the first time she had seen Langley, she knew this as she curved her body closer to his, enjoying the heat that radiated out of his torso through his bared chest and forearms. She had seen his muscled legs previously, but when she had caught sight of his chest, her breath had lodged in her throat at the sight. He put the godly images of the ancient mythical creatures to shame. The shape of him, from his strong, broad shoulders to the muscles of his hands, then to the light dusting of hair that was scattered over his chest, all of him made her want more than ever to lean down and kiss, lick, and taste every inch of him.

So, she did so, placing her lips against the heat and feeling the beat of his heart. She luxuriated in the faint scent of him too—a warm, lemony infused bergamot.

When she raised her head, she saw that one of his dark blond curls hung forward to reach his eyebrow, the dishevelled disarray adding entirely to his masculine appeal. Perhaps almost all women might feel this way in his presence—a sensory pull, an undeniable allure of his because of his perfect beauty—but Margot knew it was not merely the physical that bound them together.

She kissed his lips again, enjoying the light scratch of his whiskers brushing against her skin. This was what she wanted, a truth she had denied for too long, told herself again and again that she would be able to walk away from Langley without… without knowing this desired thing. Now of course, Margot thought the experience would be richer than simply a skin-deep need for him. This moment, this shared occurrence would be a memory she could cling to when they were inevitably parted. She would be able to keep this tiny aspect of him.

Now she knew Langley, knew his ability to tease, his humour, his wit, and sharpness, but also what he tried to keep hidden since they did not aid his image. What had kept her waiting, hesitating was gone, because in this unknown, often dangerous world, with him Margot realised her own truth—he made her feel safe.

Langley paused, his gaze considering her, keen to know all, to know that she wanted him. He would stop, she knew, if she asked him to, and that made her more determined than ever to say yes. Besides it wasn't giving in to him. No, it was more that she was giving in to her own desires.

With a nod, she pressed her forehead against his and kissed him again, a gentle, soft touch conveying everything she could not quite muster up. "Langley?—"

"Tonight, call me Silvester, as you just did. I like to hear it on your lips."

Perhaps he requested that of all his lovers, but this request moved Margot despite everything, and she nodded. "Very well."

He lowered her onto the bed. When his hands left her Margot let out a moan of dismay, which made Silvester smile.

His gaze was intense as he took in her loosened evening dress. There was a heated lust emanating from him that Margot basked in—feeling that level of being wanted, needed, and desired. She had become used to Silvester amusing himself with the tales of his seduction, but to be faced with it was a thrilling sensation, one Margot felt to her core. There was no going back to her former innocent after that interlude in Madam Sandrine's, when she'd balanced on his shoulders, and he'd licked at her until she'd found her completion. This had taught Margot what to expect, so she felt she knew a little more of what would occur between the two of them. It thrilled her far more than it scared her.

The previous attempt of his to dislodge her gown had been more elegant than hers on his garments, and the frenzy she had committed in order to remove his clothes had been successful in comparison to his, since most of her dress still hung to Margot.

"Roll over," he said.

Margot did as he suggested, turning on her stomach as he unbuttoned the back of her dress, each movement tantalising and soft, alighting on her body. She could hear his breathing as he worked, and there was a tremble to his fingers indicating his excitement.

"Lift your hips." His voice was husky, almost rough, and the tone seemed designed to rub against her skin as if that too could seduce her as easily as his hands could. "There." He eased the dress down and over her hips and Margot heard the material hit the floor. She was stilled clothed in her shift and drawers and when she rolled over it was to find Silvester lowering himself onto the coverlet next to her.

His gleaming eyes met hers, and unable to help herself, she smiled at him, the rest of the world vanishing when it was just the pair of them here together. Nothing else mattered tonight, just the two of them—the memory of it would crystallise in her heart over the following years, staying with her when he was long gone.

Leaning over her, Silvester idly caught her mouth with a slow, languid kiss that caused Margot to feel like she was drifting away on a wave of sensation. Alive to the feelings he always inspired in her. Kisses that teased and enticed her wits, from the softness of brushes against her mouth to the teasing taste of his tongue—all awareness was focused on her face, but the waves of emotion were sweeping over the rest of her too. Whilst he kissed her, his hand danced down the front of her shift, lowering the material until it gaped and revealed her breasts.

A sudden groundswell of self-consciousness crashed into her, and Margot lifted her hands, needing to cover her nakedness, built on a fear he might find her small curves undesirable.

Silvester moved backwards. His face tilted as he looked down at her, a slight frown marring his features. Only when she settled did he lift his hands to cover her own—holding on to her palms when she hid her nipples from his view.

"Are you suddenly shy, love?"

She realised she was, and yet when she gazed up into his handsome face, she saw mirrored there both the fears and excitement that were governing her. Unknowing what caused it precisely, she shuddered with suppressed emotion—lust, understanding, need… a vulnerability that peeked out occasionally that Margot thought she might even love about him. This thought scared her, and she forced herself to answer his question.

"Yes," she said, then she grinned broadly. "But I still want this."

Leaning down, he captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. She liked that he didn't question her desire or remind her that she had resisted this for so long. No, Silvester knew when it was time to give in to one's needs.

She was grateful to find all her undergarments cast aside by his skilful hands.

Arching her back up, she pressed herself against his bare chest. There was an enticing rub of the hair on his chest gliding against her nipples, the friction exquisite as his fingers tangled in her hair, loosening her chignon, tugging the strands free, and rubbing her scalp with skill.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, pressing him against her core. So eager for him. More so than she had ever imagined. That night at Madam Sandrine's had lit a spark within her, unquenchable without him, that thirsted desperately for a resumption of what had occurred. It had been a gift, a temptation that now that she was aware of, Margot would forever wonder about…

The heat igniting brightly had Margot grinding herself against the shape of his anatomy, which was still shielded by his breeches. From the acts she had witnessed and from what she'd read, that itching, desirous, skin-biting urge that zipped and buzzed under her skin would not be satisfied until she could know with certainty what he felt like inside her.

"Silvester," she muttered, her mouth kissing as much of his face as she could reach.

"God, you'll make me spend before I'm even…"

"Hurry," Margot said. Her hands drifted down his back, keen to feel the supple shape of his muscled shoulders, the dip as she travelled lower, until she reached the top of his breeches, hiding the rest of his body from her hands. The material was thick, and when she dug beneath it, her fingertips brushed against the roundness of his bottom. Unbidden—from joy, nerves, and perhaps satisfaction partly answered—she laughed.

Silvester leant backwards, lifting his face from where he had been tracing warm kisses along her neck and collarbone. His gaze was still intense. It made her uncomfortable, girlish, and shy.

"Are you often caught fondling men?" Amusement warmed his words, and he leant down and nuzzled her cheek. There was something in Silvester's look, perhaps he had the ability with all women, but in that moment with that specific gaze, he made Margot feel as if she were the only one present. That no one else mattered.

"You bring it out in me," Margot said, her hand moving to rest on the curve of his spine. There was such heat pouring from him. "I am sure it is not wise of me."

"I might argue it is the wisest thing either of us have ever done."

"Then why have you not removed your breeches?" Margot asked. She knew the bravado she felt in this moment might fade, or vanish in the harsh light of the next day, but right now she would live in this moment. She would have no regrets, and holding, tasting, knowing Silvester—doing so was also a way of knowing herself better.

"I want you to be certain."

"I am."

"I will keep you safe." His words seemed almost to himself, and for a second Margot wished he had not said as much. It made her deeply aware of how he might have said something similar to another woman previously. Presumably to countless others before, and would after her too. But then, Silvester eased his breeches loose, and all other thoughts fled.

Before she could muster up the right words to express these feelings, Silvester's hand moved against the curls guarding her sex, stroking the wetness he found there, until any doubts that had been pressing down on her were distracted by the practised movement of his fingers. He seemed to know precisely how long to linger, to rub, and to hold, until Margot was certain the entirety of her frame was quivering with need.

She locked eyes with him. "I can't…"

"Just let go. I will catch you." His lips pressed lightly against her forehead, his words almost a mantra to himself. "I will always catch you." His right hand sank further into her core, and Margot screamed as her body reacted in delight to the intrusion. The sensation was a wash of colour, of emotion, of joy that pounded through her, leaving her panting. Only then, as she righted herself, did she realise that Silvester had positioned himself over her, and was pressing down into her. Further inch by inch edging inside her, and with each slight movement he made, her body clenched around his.

"Relax," Silvester whispered. Once more his finger moved down to touch her, and Margot felt any resistance crumble before he thrust into her completely.

"My God." His voice was hoarse, and Margot felt an immense wave of power consume her. She was giving him a similarly indescribable pleasure.

Silvester eased back and moved his arms to encircle her head, as tentatively his hips started to move lightly up and down. "You are wondrous," he said, the sentiment seeming almost a revelation to himself as much to her.

He was right, the feel of him penetrating her was wonderful. Silvester's movements were increasing, pushing deeply within her, sending the most glorious of pulses through her body, causing her back to arch and her skin to writhe at the feelings it produced in her. Glorious and all-consuming, as each part of her shook with the emotion and swell of it all. Her climax was stronger this time, robbing her of her surroundings, grabbing and holding her with the strength of it. Distantly, she heard Silvester cry out too.

The poets, the writers, hell, every intellectual had lied—this was the most miraculous thing imaginable, and Margot knew she was pleased to have experienced this with Silvester.

At some pointMargot realised she must have fallen asleep, they had been talking together slowly, teasingly, kissing occasionally, and then she realised that darkness had flooded the bedroom, and the faint lingering strings of music from downstairs had ceased. At one point she had grown cold, and pulled her shift over her head. She knew the ball was over, but nothing would make her leave this chamber.

Next to her she could hear Silvester's breathing, an easy, comforting noise that made her want to curl even closer to his side and resume her respite. Sink further into the warm, solid reassurance that his sleeping form offered.

But something was wrong. Something occurring in the bedroom's darkness had stirred her from her sleep, the lightest of movements had woken her, and now as she kept her position next to Silvester, Margot was aware of someone else in the bedchamber.

For a moment she hoped it was a maid, or perhaps a footman—a misplaced servant, who would excuse themselves. This did not occur. Instead, Margot listened and studied the gloom, watching as the person, whoever it was, tiptoed through the chamber, drawing closer and closer to the fireplace and the side table where the clock had been abandoned.

A stark and growing fear twisted through Margot—that it was Ashmore's murderer, who was now using the Norton ball in an attempt to find another key. Fool that she was, idiots that they both were, they had left the clock on the side table, with the key still inside it.

How was she to wake Silvester, alert him in time before the attacker realised and moved towards them?

The mounting nerves twisted through Margot, and as carefully as she could she shifted from beneath Silvester's arm. Her shoes had been discarded, but there was a knife in one of them, all she had to do was get to it, and confront the murderer.

As she watched, she saw the man reach the mantelpiece, turn in confusion, and then see the clock waiting there for his inspection. He paid the bed no heed at all.

With his back to her, Margot slid forward and reached down, lifting her shoe and extracting the knife. Fleetingly, she realised if she were found like this, if all three of them were discovered, her reputation would be gone forever, but part of her finally knew that there were more important things in life. Like justice. She hoped that Silvester would know she was not acting in order to entrap him into anything—little good that would do her, even if that were her intention.

"Stop right there," Margot said, loudly enough to startle the intruder and wake the sleeping Silvester. She had donned her shift after making love, so at least she wasn't naked. Margot continued, "I know who you are. I know what you've done and why you are here." With her free hand she indicated the clock. "Come to retrieve a prize that should never be yours."

"Is that so, miss? I have my doubts. Planning to gut me with that toothpick while you're at it?" The voice, one that she had imagined for weeks, echoed out now. It contained a thick London twang to some of the notes, yet there was also at play within it a pleasant lingering country air to the man's voice, that Margot knew she would never place. How strange to finally confront him, when this was what she had been envisioning for such a long time, and now she felt unprepared.

From behind her, Margot heard Silvester move, she hoped he would be sensible enough to have brought with him a pistol, the problem was where that might have been dropped when they descended into lust-filled scramble just a few hours previously.

"Yes." Margot steadied her hand. She knew not to step too close to him. The threat was the main thing, that and keeping him from gaining another key. She could make out more of the man's build, and the faint outline of his face. He was taller than her, but not by much. His hair, stuffed under a hat, looked to be a pale brown, and from what she could tell he seemed to be in his late twenties. His build was stockier than Silvester's, and his movements jumpier—fighting him would not be an easy task. The features of the man were harder to make out though, and he stepped into the shadows, determined to shield himself. Wildly, she wondered if perhaps this might even be Ashmore's heir, and what had happened to her sister… but she dismissed the thought as foolish. What advantage could the new duke gain from such antics? "You killed Ashmore. The Runners are looking for you."

"You don't even know my name. It's your word"—there was an insulting tone to the man's voice as he spoke, judgement for her ringing out in every word— "against anyone else's. Do the Runners really know the whole of it? Down to every last key?" The query stopped her, as Margot, like Ashmore before her, had been reticent to reveal too much of the mystery.

"Not against mine." Silvester stepped closer, crossing to stand at the foot of the bed, closing the distance and blocking any attempt the man might take at making at an exit. "As an earl, I do have a small amount of authority. And I think I will be believed."

"Suppose that's why you've fucked him."

Unable to help it, Margot shuddered at the crudeness, hating that such a man might have any insight into what had occurred between Silvester and herself. In that moment he dropped the clock and charged at her. The scream she uttered came unbidden to her lips, and she struck out at his reaching hands, catching one and sending the precious key flying across the room, to slide unseen under the bed. As she scrambled against the attacker, the man grabbed at her knife, bending her hand backwards and snatching the weapon from her grip. Then his hands pulled her struggling body against his frame roughly, and the weapon she had hoped would be her protector was turned and she found it pressed against her own neck.