Honestly. She considered it a triumph of fortitude akin to surviving a shipwreck, perhaps, that she had managed to stop kissing him at all.
He had gathered her into his body as though she belonged to him. As though he already knew the fit and feel of her. And she had gone with the ease of a concubine reporting to a sheik, but with perhaps considerably more enthusiasm. This shocked her. She’d thought sincerely that no part of her was beyond her control, and yet there she was. Not after the lessons she’d learned about men, every one of them the hard way.
But doubtless every woman who kissed him felt that same sense of destiny. Because of a certainty everything about him seemed expressly designed to get a woman to go boneless with surrender, from those green eyes to his long, hard body to the way he smelled—which, if she’d been asked to describe it in a single word, would best be described as “need” for how it made her feel.
Perhaps she should view him as something a daring woman ought to treat herself to just once in life—but just a very little, like a sip of absinthe. He dazzled; he impressed. He was even admirable. But there was nothing about him to suggest he was more than a man of appetites.
So perhaps it was good to get the kiss over with, because the wondering about it could stop. She could confirm to herself: yes, it was very good. And yes, it would be insanity to be naked with this man, because she’d never be the same again. What a relief to know that.
But the way he had touched her.
She had only to revisit it for the quicksilver shiver of pleasure to pour down her spine. The wonder. Tenderness, shot through with demand. Possession.
And hard slam of his heart against hers.
All for her. All for her.
Why did it seem, in the immediate aftermath, that things like that kiss were the entire point of life and everything else sort of just milled around it?
It was all an illusion, of course. The kind designed to perpetuate the species. It did not mean more beyond that moment. He was right. She did know the pleasures that could be had. And he was probably right that it would be outrageously good between them.
She could also, thankfully, recognize heartbreak on two legs.
She would sleep easier knowing she’d done the right thing.
Wouldn’t she?
Hadn’t she?
“Quiet’s over,” Delilah murmured.
Mrs. Pariseau had returned, followed by Delacorte and Cassidy, all dutifully in well before curfew. All filing in to speak with Delilah and Angelique first, because they wanted to, because they were happy here. And this was a good life, a fine life, and she was happy knowing it could go on as always.
“You might have to resort to duplicity, sir.” Exeter sat on one side of his desk in his offices on Garland Street, near Bond, and Lucien occupied a chair opposite. Exeter had yet to offer him tea, because he was a cheap bastard even though his services came dear.
Lucien rather admired this, actually.
“You mean, make an appointment, lie about who I am to get in. Or sneak into the place, like a thief, corner him in his library, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve a fine grasp of the word ‘duplicity,’ sir.”
Lucien scowled at Exeter but without conviction. Time spent with the man was a bit like spending time with sand down one’s trousers. His loyalty was as unwavering as his benign contempt, which Lucien suspected was more after the fashion of affection. Somewhere between them had grown a begrudging respect, much the way grit irritates an oyster into forming a pearl. They each had their strengths and knew it. Their relationship dated back to before Lucien had been hurled into the Thames.
They both knew Lucien had too much pride to attempt to trick his father into seeing him.
It was a matter of getting the duke alone for a few minutes of his time, because there were things he needed to say. A request he needed to make.
But the Duke of Brexford was seldom alone. He traveled with a phalanx of servants when he was on horseback; otherwise he rode about in some enclosed carriage. His pursuits and hobbies seemed to involve crowds of people—the theater, his clubs—presumably so he could enjoy a ceaseless warm bath of admiration and awe. He was conservative in his revelries, however; unlike his son, he did nothing to excess.
Other than that he was at home, at least for the season, and home was St. James Square.
“What if... What if, Exeter, you send a note over, with a card, telling him that the head of a successful importer would like to discuss business opportunities with him. Send him round a copy of our profits and losses and projected earnings. Tell him that a representative of the company will be in in London for only a short time but hoped to discuss it with him in particular, as he is known to be canny indeed about where he troubles to invest.”
“Tell him... thetruth,sir?”
“The truth.”
“Unorthodox.”