15

'E re, 'Orace? You seen this?"

Grimsby came shuffling from the back of his shop, blinking owlishly at Booth, a jack-of-all-trades who occasionally brought him knickknacks to sell. "What?"

Booth set a printed notice on the counter. "This. Saw it in the market yesterday—lots being passed around. 'Eard about it, too, in the pub last night." Booth stared hard at Grimsby. "Thought you'd want to know."

Frowning, Grimsby picked up the notice. As he read, he felt the color drain from his face. When he saw the announcement of a reward, his hand shook; he quickly set the notice back down.

Booth had been watching him closely. "Just thought I'd tip you the wink, 'Orace. We go back a long ways—old friends need to look out for each other, right?"

Grimsby forced himself to nod. "Aye, Booth—that we do. Thank ye fer this. I don't know nothing about it, o'course."

Booth grinned. "No more'n I do, 'Orace." He saluted Grimsby. "I'll be seeing you around, then. Bye."

Grimsby nodded in farewell, but his mind was elsewhere. While Booth made his way out of the shop, he picked up the notice and read it again.

Then, "Wally!"

The roar brought Wally thumping down the stairs. He scanned the shop, then looked at Grimsby. "What's up, boss?"

"This." With one grimy fingernail, Grimsby poked the notice across the counter. His tone was disgusted. "Who'd 've thought ho ity-toity Scotland bloody Yard would take an interest in East End brats!" Leaving Wally perusing the notice, he stomped around the counter. "It ain't right, I tell you."

Which was the point that exercised him the most. In Grimsby's experience, such unnatural occurrences, things that stepped beyond the normal order of life, never boded well.

Wally straightened. "I…er, did hear a few whispers at the tavern last night—didn't know it was about this, but I heard people were asking around after boys."

Wally's diffident tone and his avoidance of Grimsby's eye didn't escape Grimsby. With a snarl, he caught Wally's ear and cruelly twisted. "What else did you hear?"

Wally hopped and wriggled. "Ow!"

Grimsby twisted a little more and leaned closer. "Were they, by any chance, asking who might be running a burglary school hereabouts?"

Wally's silence was answer enough.

Grimsby lowered his voice. "Did anyone say anything?"

Wally tried to shake his head and winced painfully. "No! No one was saying anything at all. They was just wondering about the people asking, and why, is all."

Grimsby pulled a face; he let Wally go. "Get back to the boys."

With a careful glance at him, Wally turned and went, rubbing his abused ear.

Returning to the counter, Grimsby stood looking down at the notice. The names and descriptions didn't worry him; the boys hadn't left the house, and now wouldn't, except at night. And all urchins looked the same in the dark.

It was the reward that bothered him. No one had said anything yet, but someone, sometime, somewhere, would. There were those in the neighborhood who would sell their mother for the whiff of a solid coin.

He read the announcement again, and drew a little comfort from the reward being specifically for information about the boys, not about any burglary school. As the boys hadn't been seen, not even by his nearest neighbors, he wasn't, he felt, staring at the prospect of being fingered by the locals just yet.

But the boys needed to be out on the streets for the latter part of their training. Normally, Wally would have first taken them out during the day to wander around Mayfair, growing accustomed to the layout of the wider streets, learning about possible places to hide, like basement areas and the steps leading to them. Such spots didn't exist in the East End; good burglar's boys needed to know the lay of the land they worked.

Now all that part of their training would have to be done at night, and Wally would be no use for that. Smythe would have to do it all. And even then…

No matter how set on his plan he was, Grimsby couldn't imagine Alert would want to risk the whole thing blowing up in his face.

Yet by his reckoning, they were only a week or so away from concluding their business. Despite the pricking of his thumbs, Grimsby felt reluctant to pull back—especially not with Alert holding a sword over his head.

And there was Smythe to consider, too.

Grimsby glanced again at the notice. Had he been acting on his own, he'd turn the boys out, let them find their way home, and wash his hands of the whole business. He was too old for prison, let alone transportation.

But Alert would be a problem. He was a toff, and arrogant with it.

Smythe, on the other hand, knew the ropes.

That afternoon, Penelope lolled in Barnaby's big bed, and couldn't remember ever being so content. So at peace.

Outside the windows, the gray November afternoon was quiet, dull and subdued. It was Sunday; there was little activity on the streets, a nippy breeze carrying the scent of winter keeping even the more hardy within doors.

The room was cozy, warmed by the fire burning cheerily in the hearth opposite the end of the bed. Slumped on the pillows, she snuggled under the covers, warmed to her bones and similarly relaxed, all of which owed little to the fire. The bed curtains had been loosened; although only partially drawn, they created a sense of enclosure, transforming the bed with its deep, cushioning mattress and numerous soft pillows into a cave of secret pleasures and illicit delight.

It was the pleasures and delight that had melted her bones.

After an early luncheon she'd told her mother she was going to deal with Foundling House business, then had taken a hackney to Jermyn Street. While they'd been readjusting their clothes in Lady Carnegie's parlor the previous night, Barnaby had mentioned that Mostyn had Sunday afternoons off. Barnaby had therefore opened the door to her knock—ready to welcome her, and entertain her.

Thoroughly.

"Here."

She turned to see him standing by the bed—gloriously naked—offering her a glass of sherry. Smiling in transparent appreciation, she freed one arm and reached for the glass. "Thank you." She could do with the restorative; it was early yet and, as she'd learned the previous evening—and had had confirmed over the last hour—she still had a great deal to learn.

To experience and absorb, not least about herself—how she reacted to his patently expert lovemaking and, more important, why.

She'd had no idea the activity would prove so enthralling. So engrossing. So demanding not just physically but in ways she didn't fully comprehend.

Certainly there was more than physical communion involved.

And that only intrigued her all the more.

She sipped, from beneath lowered lashes watched as, after checking the state of the fire, he prowled back to the bed.

Picking up his glass from the bedside table, he lifted the covers and climbed in beside her. His weight bowed the bed; the nearness of his hard body, always so warm, the promise inherent in his naked presence beside her, no barriers of any sort between, sent tendrils of anticipation snaking through her.

Now that she had a much better idea of what that promise entailed, the anticipation had only grown sharper and sweeter. She sipped, and savored.

Closing her eyes, she mentally stretched, reached, assessed. Her body thrummed gently, all but purring; her mind was an unusually calm sea. She truly couldn't recall any time in her life she'd felt so completely satisfied in the moment, so truly content. Even though frustration over their lack of progress in finding her missing boys irked and worried her, in this moment the frustration and worry were distant. Beyond the bed curtains, outside this room.

Within this room, within the private confines of his bed, she'd experienced not just pleasure and delight, but in their wake a deeper, more powerful sense of peace.

Beside her, Barnaby sank against the pillows, sipped his wine, and eyed her profile. She was thinking; he couldn't guess the subject, although judging from her serene expression it wasn't their case. They'd dealt with what little there was to discuss concerning the investigation before he'd got her up the stairs. With no news, no progress, no possible useful activity to occupy them, she'd been gratifyingly eager to fall in with his plans for their mutual distraction.

With his latest, more subtle direction in mind, he'd allowed his natural, dominant side to show—not completely, just enough to intrigue and challenge her; after an initial moment of surprise, he'd been rewarded with her complete and utter attention.

Exactly as he'd hoped, her curiosity had stirred.

He'd waltzed her into the room, kicked the door shut, then proceeded to waltz her to the bed, stripping her as they went.

She'd responded with gratifying eagerness, although at one point her insistence on divesting him of his shirt had caused a moment of confusion—at least for him. He hadn't expected her to filch the reins back, but she had. Even though he'd retrieved them again, later she'd wanted them back; passing control back and forth—sharing it, switching from leading to following and then back again—wasn't what he was used to, but he'd managed to adjust.

By the time he'd had her spread naked across his bed, all he'd been able to think about was sinking his by-then throbbing staff into her luscious body. As she'd been similarly urgent and insistent, wantonly writhing, seductively beckoning, he'd done just that, setting aside his wish to spend considerably longer exploring her naked curves.

In daylight. At length.

He glanced at her, sipped, and promised himself he would. Soon.

All in all, he'd judged her correctly: knowledge was indeed her price. In this sphere, it was a currency in which, compared to her, he had bottomless coffers.

Unsurprisingly, she was more adventurous than the norm. Ladies of the ton tended to invite, instigate, and then acquiesce; she did the first two, but not the third—she actively engaged, expected to contribute if not equally then nevertheless definitely to the outcome, to defining the landscape through which their passions took them, and at what rate and by what route they scaled the peak.

She was keen, applied herself to the task, and was steadily learning.

And while he preferred to remain firmly in charge, he was starting to suspect that he might enjoy at least some of the benefits of occasionally sharing the reins.

Sipping the crisp amontillado, he shifted his gaze to the fire, evaluating where on his path to a wedding they now were.

A step or two further along than they had been last night.

It was, perhaps, time to seed a few more notions into her receptive and fertile mind.

Draining his glass, he reached out and set it on the bedside table, then turned to her, stretching out beside her.

Her lids cracked open; he caught the glint of her dark eyes beneath the lush curve of her lashes.

Picking up her hand from where it lay on the covers, he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed—then drew her arm up and placed her hand on the pillows above her head.

He had her complete attention, but didn't meet her eyes. Sliding his arm beneath the covers, he set his fingers to one side of her throat, lightly tracing the curve from just beneath her ear to her collarbone.

She tensed fractionally, watching. He raised his hand to repeat the caress, easing back the covers as he did, then he leaned in and set his lips to trace the same line, and her breath shivered.

He shifted and repeated the caress on her other side; she tilted her head to give him better access, lips lightly curving as she sighed.

Moving on, he subjected her shoulders to the same exploring touch, first with his fingers, then with his lips and tongue.

The covers had dropped to lie just above her breasts. Sliding his hand beneath the edge, he closed it about one breast. He didn't try to hide his possessiveness, simply closed his fingers about the firm mound and claimed. Then he set his fingers stroking, circling the tightening nipple until it was taut, then catching and rolling it between finger and thumb.

Her breathing broke, fractured.

Leaning closer, with the back of his hand he nudged the covers aside so he could examine the flesh he was fondling. View it, study it; then he bent his head and slowly licked.

She sucked in a breath.

He settled to taste her—to fill his senses with the arousing taste of her after he'd already had her once. Twice would come, but only after he'd had his fill and satisfied his craving to explore every fascinating inch of her.

With his eyes, his tongue, his hands.

A subtle branding that she would allow because she'd never experienced it before. A branding he fully intended to deepen and reinforce the sensual link between them, making her even more unquestionably his in her mind as well as his own.

Her skin was impossibly white and fine. When cool, it felt like the most delicate alabaster, smooth yet warming to the touch; flushed as it now was, her breasts swollen and peaked, the evidence of his claiming apparent, it felt like peach silk.

Satisfied he'd adequately explored one breast, he edged the covers lower and moved on to the other. She trembled as he took possession—interesting considering how intimate they'd already been. When, after a thorough study, he suckled her fiercely, she gasped, spine bowing, her head pressing back into the pillows.

The hand holding the sherry glass wavered; reaching up, he slipped the stem from her weakening grasp; reaching farther, he set the glass down on the bedside table. The click of the base on the wood echoed in the room, an unequivocal statement of intent.

One Penelope heard. As he drew back from her breast, she reached for him. To her surprise he caught her hand; without shifting his gaze from her flushed and swollen breasts, he drew her hand up over her head, setting it alongside the other in the pillows.

"Leave them there." His voice was a raspy growl, deep and dictatorial. "Just lie back and let me…worship you."

She hesitated, studying his face, trying to determine what it was she saw there—something harder, more powerful than she'd yet en countered. Curious, she acquiesced. And tried—unsuccessfully—to cling to her earlier calm as he—with a species of deliberation that was peculiarly exciting—continued his study of her, of her body and how she responded to his caresses.

When a particularly artful drift of his fingertips down her belly made her quiver, he murmured, "You like that."

She didn't bother to nod. He didn't even check for her answer—his words had been a statement of fact. Being passive for any length of time felt strange, yet in this case…worship, he'd said, and in a curious way there was reverence involved, even if he could have said "take you," or "claim you," and been equally accurate.

The way he interacted with her fascinated and intrigued her.

He worked his way steadily down her body. Initially he would reach beneath the bedclothes to caress and fondle, then he would push the covers down, revealing the area on which he was presently concentrating to his gaze. He would study, examine, assess—then he would lower his head and taste.

The covers fell progressively lower, exposing more and more of her to his detailed examination. He didn't ask permission, not even wordlessly, just continued his exploration as if he had an unquestioned right.

As if she'd ceded it to him.

Had she?

She honestly wasn't sure—and was even less sure that she cared.

His hands…she'd earlier labeled his touch magic. Closing her eyes as beneath the covers one hard palm swept down over her hip, she struggled against a shiver. She wasn't cold—in the aftermath of his attentions, her flesh glowed—but the drift of sensations his fingers sent spreading beneath her skin was exquisite, sliding over her nerves, leaving them sensitized and eager—so eager—for more.

To feel more.

It was a type of tactile stimulation she'd never experienced before, one that seemed to open her pores to absorbing so much more, to heightening her senses so that his next touch, however light, registered as so much more.

So much more laden with feeling, with meaning. With intent.

She drank it all in as beneath the covers his hand moved down and his fingers flirted teasingly with the curls at the apex of her thighs. A moment later, his fingers slid lower still, and pressed between her thighs to stroke, fondle, caress.

Eventually the covers slid to her knees.

What followed was rather more than she'd bargained for—more intense, progressively more intimate—but she was unable to call a halt, not even demand a pause to catch her breath…because she didn't have breath left to do so, not once her tightening lungs had seized.

As they did when, the covers long gone, he parted her thighs, setting her legs well apart so he could, as he had everywhere else, examine her, then with his fingers explore, stroking, caressing—noting in a gravelly rumble what she liked, distracting her with the sound, then focusing her mind with his words—just as he demonstrated again.

She was long beyond protesting when he bent his head to sample her. To taste her, to lick and lightly suckle, until she was wild.

Until, writhing and heated, she sobbed and begged. And this time, she knew what for.

Like an emperor granting a slave her wish, he gave it to her, his wicked tongue sending her soaring over that bright edge and into pleasured oblivion.

An oblivion more pleasured, more deeply sated, than she'd previously known. She sank beneath the wave of satiation, welcomed it, and let it wash through her.

Barnaby watched her face—watched as her climax washed through her and wiped all her tension away. With a sigh she let go, sank back against the pillows, her tensed muscles unraveling, her expression relaxed, her features blank, except for her lips, which, as he watched, lightly curved.

Inwardly smiling, he drew back onto his knees, grasped her hips, and turned her over.

She flopped over readily, slumping on her stomach, settling her cheek on the pillow. Lips curving in anticipation, he eased her feet apart, and knelt between.

He started with her ankles, lifting each to explore, caress, then nibble. He didn't touch her soles in case she was ticklish; the last thing he wished at this point was to jerk her to full awareness too fast.

The swell of her calves, the backs of her knees, the long upward sweep of her thighs, he paid dutiful homage to all, and she sighed and let him.

Let him trace the globes of her bottom, kiss and lick his way over their swell and the indentations at the base of her spine. He spread his fingers across the back of her waist, then ran his hands upward, with his lips and tongue tracing the line of her spine, pausing to examine her shoulder blades, until eventually he reached her nape.

Pressing aside the hair he'd earlier released, he touched, caressed, then set his lips to the sensitive skin, and lowered his body to hers.

Covering her.

He nipped, then set his teeth to the tendon at the side of her throat as he pressed his hands into the mattress, sliding them beneath her so he could fill them with her breasts. Closing his hands, he kneaded, then found her nipples and tweaked.

His erection, hot and as hard as iron, rested, throbbing, between the globes of her luscious bottom. From the tension that had flooded her, infusing her limbs as he released her right breast and reached down to lift her right leg, grasping her knee, drawing it up and wide, opening her to him, she'd guessed what he intended even though he doubted she knew exactly how—he could imagine her brain buzzing with questions, ones she thankfully had neither breath nor time to pose.

He made sure of the latter, releasing her knee, drawing back and reaching between them to position the blunt head of his erection at her entrance. Immediately he eased into her—just a little, just enough to answer her first questions.

Shifting so that his weight was more on one arm and he was no longer squashing her into the bed, he returned his hand to its position at her breast, claiming it anew. His weight kept her pinned, kept her other breast pressed to his other palm. Lowering his head, he caught her earlobe and nipped, then pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath as he flexed his spine—and slowly, deliberately slowly, savoring every inch, sank into her.

Beneath him she shuddered. Her eyes were closed; concentration had claimed her features.

He pushed deeper, feeling her body give and let him in, then embrace him. She closed around him tightly, wrapping his erection in slick, scalding heat.

His breath tangled in his lungs, strangled in his throat.

Then she moved beneath him, pressing back, instinctively seeking more. Opening a fraction more for him.

He seized the invitation and thrust deep, hard, and heard her whimper—not in pain but in pleasure. The sound slid through him, sank in and set its claws, fraying his reins so he had to stop and close his eyes and hold his breath, until he had some measure of control again.

When he did, he slowly withdrew, then thrust powerfully in again.

Again she caught her breath on a sob.

His lips cruising just beneath her ear, he murmured, "You like that, too."

Her only answer was a tiny but blatantly demanding wriggle of her bottom.

He laughed, a short guttural sound, and obliged. Drawing back again, he settled to ride her—slowly, each thrust measured both for power and depth, exquisitely tuned to enhance her pleasure. She writhed and begged, tried to urge him to go faster; he didn't listen, just adhered to his plan, all the time wielding an absolute control he knew better than to let her weaken.

He would much rather have had her on her knees before him, naked, her lush derriere pressed to his groin as he thrust into her welcoming heat, but that, he'd realized, would be going too fast.

She might well have welcomed the novel position, and he was starting to suspect she was unlikely to be shocked—not to the point of retreating—no matter how forcefully he took her, but he had to remember his purpose, his plan. He couldn't answer her questions all at once; he had to leave the heavier-gauge ammunition in his locker, at least for now.

Just as well—God only knew what she might provoke if she tried to take the reins from him in any more dominant position. Even now, although he had her trapped and more or less at his mercy, she fought him for control, squirming beneath him, and when that didn't work, using the muscles of her sheath to distract and control him.

He gritted his teeth and increased the pace, using his weight to subdue her and thrusting deep, kneading her breasts as he did—until she climaxed on a scream—the first he'd wrung from her.

The sound snapped his reins; on a groan he buried himself to the hilt within her, again and again, until release poured through him on a searing tide, and swept him, his conscious mind, before it, flooding him with bone-deep pleasure as he let go and pumped his seed into her.

Racked, shattered, he collapsed on top of her, too weak, too exhausted, too sated to move.

As soon as he could summon the requisite strength, he rolled to the side, holding her to him, resettling her against him, her back to his chest.

His hands now loose about her breasts, he could track the swell of her ribs as she fought to regain her breath.

After a moment, she lifted one arm, reached back, and ran her hand down his flank, a gentle, patting, stroking motion that testified to her thoughts—her thanks.

He nuzzled her nape in response, his own form of wordless thanks.

But as soon as he'd caught his breath, he murmured, "So that's what you could enjoy whenever the mood strikes you."

Her answering chuckle was the definition of sultry. "Whenever? Surely I'd need you to achieve the desired result."

"True." That was precisely what he wanted her to realize. Lifting his head, he set his lips to her ear. "But as I'm here…"

With one hand he resumed fondling her breast, while he skated the other down, splaying it across her lower belly and pressing lightly as he moved suggestively behind her—reminding her that he was still inside her. Recalling the pleasure she'd derived from that.

As if she needed reminding. Suppressing an altogether unnecessary shudder—he patently didn't need further encouraging—Penelope was finding it hard to believe that she'd lived so long without comprehending that pleasure this deep, this warm and satisfying, existed. That with the right male, she could indulge to this extent, to where glory seemed to sing through her veins. That the simple joy of intimacy could be so intense.

With the right male; presumably that was why she'd never before felt inclined to explore in this direction. Barnaby Adair was different—to her, different in so many ways. She didn't think him weak or unintelligent, not even less intelligent than herself—and she felt a secret thrill at his size relative to her. He was so much bigger, hard, stronger, yet they seemed to fit together, not just intimately but in other ways, too; she'd grown used to having him, a wall of masculinity, hovering at her shoulder.

Which was quite a turnaround, given her usual reaction to large hovering males.

"It's rather remarkable, when you consider it"—his voice, relaxed and deep, floated past her ear; she sensed he was speaking as much to himself as to her—"that we deal so well together." His fingers drifted across her breast. "Not just in bed but beyond it—in society, and even through our investigations."

He paused, then went on, his tone pondering, "I actually enjoy talking with you—and that, I have to confess, isn't the norm. Your mind doesn't revolve about fashions, or weddings, or babies—not that I imagine you never think of those things, but you don't feel compelled to discuss such matters with me, and instead have other ideas, other concerns, ones I can share."

Penelope stared unseeing across the room, conscious not just of the warmth of his body cradling hers, of his hand idly stroking her breast, but of that other warmth that dervied from shared thoughts, shared endeavors.

"You're not, thank heaven, shocked by my work." He paused, then went on, "Then again, I'm not shocked by yours."

She chuckled, then said, "We do seem to be rather complementary."

He shifted behind her, reminding her of that. "As you say."

She laughed at his dry tone, but her thoughts—driven by his—claimed her. They did seem to have a natural meeting of minds, one she—and it seemed he, too—had found with no other. They were from the same select social circle, one whose strictures neither he nor she felt overly bound by, yet that similar background made it easier for them to understand each other, how the other would react in any situation.

A slow swell of warm pleasure rolled up and through her, and she realized he was moving, very gently, within her. Realized he'd got his second wind, so to speak.

She glanced at the window; even though it appeared fuzzy, the light had faded even more. Ignoring the passion already wreathing through her, she forced herself to say, "I have to leave. We don't have time."

Her disappointment colored her tone.

In response, his hands tightened, holding her in place; he withdrew, but then thrust more forcefully in again, surprising a shivering gasp from her.

"We have time." He withdrew and thrust again, hands gripping more definitely, anchoring her before him. "And then you can leave."

A lick of delight slid up her spine. Her lips curved, but she forced out a sigh. "If you insist."

He did, delighting her thoroughly once again before he allowed her up, allowed her to dress, then escorted her home to Mount Street.

Smythe appeared in Grimsby's rooms late on Sunday night. Grimsby looked up—and Smythe was there, filling the doorway to his private chamber.

"Gawd almighty!" Trapped in his ancient armchair, Grimsby clapped a hand to his heart. "Give a bloke some warning, or you'll likely be the death of me."

Smythe's lips twitched; walking in, he snagged an old straight-backed chair, swung it around so the back was facing Grimsby, then sat. "So—what's the problem?"

Grimsby pulled a face. He'd left a message at the Prince's Dog tavern, the only known way to contact Smythe. He had no idea when Smythe would get the message, much less when he would comply. "We've a spot of bother." Shifting to reach into the pocket of his old coat, Grimsby hauled out the printed notice and handed it to Smythe. "Rozzers have got the word out."

Smythe took the notice and read it. When he reached the announcement of the reward, his brows rose.

Grimsby nodded. "Aye—I didn't like that part, either." He went on to relate how he'd learned of the notice, and what Wally had told him. "So it's too dangerous to take the boys out to train, leastways not during the day. I'm not about to ask Wally to do it—last thing we need is the rozzers catching him with two of them, and then coming around here and nabbing the lot of them."

Smythe was gazing into the distance. He nodded.

Grimsby waited, eyeing him, unwilling with Smythe to push.

Eventually, Smythe murmured, "You're right. No sense risking the whole, and I've no wish to be caught with the little beggars, either." He refocused on Grimsby. "That said, I'm not inclined to let a prime job like this lapse—and I'll warrant you're not, either, not with Alert's interest in you."

Grimsby scowled. "You got that right. He'll hold me to it no matter what. But with lads only partially trained, you're bound to lose some—well, that's why we have so many to begin with, but still." He nodded at the notice in Smythe's hand. "I'm thinking you should show him that, just so he can't later say he didn't know, or didn't understand what it means, that we can't fully train the boys as expected."

Smythe studied the notice again, then rose. "I'll do that." Tucking the notice into his pocket, he looked at Grimsby. "Who knows? Alert may have some idea—or some way of learning—who set the rozzers onto his game."

Grimsby shrugged; he didn't get up as Smythe walked out. He listened to Smythe's heavy footsteps descend the stairs, then heard the shop door shut.

Blowing out a breath, Grimsby wondered if he'd imagined it—Smythe's unvoiced suggestion that if Alert learned who was stirring up the rozzers, interfering with his game, he would make that person regret it.

Then Grimsby thought of Alert—and decided he wasn't imagining at all.

An hour later, Penelope settled down to sleep. She closed her eyes. She was in her own bed, in her own room in Calverton House in Mount Street, the same room in which she'd fallen asleep for fully half her life. Yet tonight she felt something was missing.

Something warm, hard, and masculine curving along her back.

She sighed. In lieu of his presence, she let her mind drift back over her blissful—bliss-filled—afternoon. Spending the entire afternoon in bed with Barnaby Adair had proved a very satisfying experience.

A horizon-expanding experience; she'd certainly learned more about desire, about how he evoked hers, about how she responded. And how he responded to her.

Lips spontaneously curving, she reflected that she was learning in leaps and bounds. And what she'd learned…was starting, to her surprise, to reshape her view of life.

She hadn't anticipated any such thing. Hadn't considered it possible that desire, the pursuit of it, the study of it, would lead to any fundamental rethinking on her part. Her views had been set in stone, immutable—or so she'd thought. Now…

Despite the stubborn streak that made it difficult to admit a change of mind, inside, in her mind, she had far fewer reservations over considering changing her stance—considering if her life might be better if she did. After her blissful afternoon, it was difficult not to question whether she'd been overhasty in thinking she didn't, and never would, want some relationship with a man—even a long-term one. She knew she didn't need such a relationship to be happy and satisfied with her lot, but the question wasn't whether she needed it, but whether she wanted it. Whether such a relationship might offer benefits sufficient to tempt her to risk it.

Benefits such as the deep-seated contentment that still rode her veins. That was something she'd never felt before, but the glow was so rich, so warming, so addictive, she knew that if the chance offered, she'd opt to keep it in her life.

She didn't entirely understand its source; it was part physical intimacy, part a different level of sharing, part the joy of being close—that closely joined—with another being with a mind so like her own. A male who understood her far better than her own sex ever had.

He understood her wants and needs—understood her desires, both the physical and intellectual, better than she did. And he seemed to truly revel in exploring those desires, his complementary ones, and her body.

All of which contributed to the pleasure he conjured, the pleasure she felt when she lay in his arms.

All of which was so very much greater than she'd ever imagined could be.

Her initial notion of indulging until she learned all, then calmly walking away, no longer fitted.

She had to reevaluate.

To reconsider her plan and change it. But change it to what? That was the bigger question. How far in altering her position should she go—was it safe, in her best interests, to go?

Did she even have a choice—long-term liaison or marriage?

There were numerous long-term liaisons in the ton, but none involved ladies of her age and social standing. Given who she was, and who he was, any attempt at a long-standing affair was going to be seriously messy, at least until she reached an age where society deemed her truly on the shelf. In her case, that would be at least twenty-eight—four years more.

She tried to imagine breaking their liaison and then waiting four years before resuming it…the notion was risible, on more than one count.

Which left her with one option. Marrying him.

Considering the prospect, she still couldn't see that marriage per se had anything to recommend it, not to her; the potential risks far outweighed the likely benefits. The reasons for her long-standing rejection remained sound.

However, when she added Barnaby Adair to the scales, the result was far less clear.

Marriage to Barnaby Adair. Could that be her destiny?

For long minutes she stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine, to pose and answer questions, to see how such a marriage might work. They were both considered eccentric already; while a union between them was guaranteed not to conform to the customary pattern, the ton wouldn't expect it to.

Marriage to Barnaby Adair might possibly be a union she could live within; being his wife would most likely not impinge heavily on her freedoms, as being the wife of any other gentleman would.

Provided, of course, that he was amenable, both in allowing her, once she was his wife, the freedom to be herself, and, of course, in wanting to marry her.

Would he be amenable?

How could she learn if he was?

Many minutes later, when sleep finally crept over her, those questions were still circling, unanswered, in her brain.