The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match Page 16

  “Langdon,” she murmured, her small hands closing over the back of his much larger ones to press him closer.

  “Yes, love.” He kissed the curve of her ear, the rose scent of her skin surrounding him.

  Any pretense of bathing her forgotten, Langdon smoothed his palms over the curve of her midriff and stroked the soft dark triangle between her thighs. Grace moaned and pushed against his hand, twisting to reach his mouth with hers, her fingers gripping his forearms.

  Water sloshed, spilling over the rim of the tub and onto the floor.

  Reluctantly, Langdon took his mouth and hands from her. “I want you in my bed.” He stood, water streaming down the length of his body, bent to pick her up, and stepped out of the tub. He set her on her feet and she leaned against him as he grabbed a linen towel and wrapped it around her, rubbing it over her wet skin. Then he did the same perfunctory drying job on himself before leaving the damp towels on the water-soaked floor and lifting Grace once again.

  “You are always carrying me.” Her lazy, passion-husky voice held amusement.

  “I like carrying you,” he told her as he stalked into the bedchamber. “I like touching you.”

  He strode swiftly across the room to toss back the coverlet on the high bed and lay her down on the sheets, immediately covering her body with his.

  “I like having you under me in bed.” He brushed openmouthed kisses over her face.

  He wedged a thigh between her slighter, softer ones and stroked his hand down her throat, over the sweet high curve of her breasts, the indent of her waist, and the hollow of her belly button, until he unerringly found the softest part of all. She was hot and wet. More than ready for him.

  “And I like being inside you.” He knew his voice was raspy, guttural, that he couldn’t smoothly speak sweet words and give poetic compliments. It was all he could do to carefully nudge against her, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she immediately surged upward. Her hands tightened around his shoulders, her mouth urgent as she pulled him closer, and he gave in, thrusting forward until they were locked together.

  She cried out, tightening around him, and he stilled, breathing hard. Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer, her mouth urgent on his, and he began a pounding rhythm that in moments sent them both spinning over the edge.

  Langdon lay on his back when they could breathe again, Grace tucked against his side with her head resting on his chest, just below his chin. Her damp hair smelled like roses where it brushed across his lips and her arm hugged his waist. One slim, bare thigh was draped over his, her soft skin silky smooth against him.

  He’d never felt this level of driving passion and need to possess with any other woman before Grace.

  How was he going to let her go when the King was caught and their masquerade ended?

  “Was she injured?”

  Langdon chewed a bite of succulent roast game hen before answering Carmichael. “Thankfully, no.”

  “Good.” Carmichael nodded in satisfaction, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin.

  Langdon took advantage of the pause in their conversation to scan the Young Corinthians dining room. It was brimming with agents and club members alike, some fresh from the card tables while others looked to be fortifying themselves for a long night ahead. Footmen bustled back and forth between tables, busily serving various courses from the massive sideboard along the far wall.

  He knew all of the agents in the room were most likely discussing details and status reports concerning Corinthian cases. Each man there worked endless hours to ensure the safety of the country, becoming intimately involved with, yet detached from, the lives of those on both sides of the battle.

  Langdon could recall that world. Professional comportment and a keen sense of justice had allowed him to operate as a Young Corinthian without forming any sort of attachments. He lived in a different world now.

  “And the Queen?”

  Carmichael’s question drew Langdon’s gaze back toward their table. “Now, she is interesting,” he began, setting his fork and knife down. “I would swear upon my father’s grave that she is one of us. A member of the peerage, that is.”

  “And why is that?” Carmichael asked, taking a sip of wine.

  Langdon lifted the linen napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “Some things can be bought. But others?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Not one person in the world lives who has the ability to teach such …” Langdon paused, eager for Carmichael to understand him. “Such bravado as that which is innately present in members of the ton.”

  “Present company excluded, of course,” Carmichael commented dryly.

  Langdon smiled. It felt good to be on familiar ground yet again with his superior. “Of course.”

  The man nodded with approval. “Anything else about her that would be good to know?”

  “Unfortunately she was draped in costume from head to toe,” Langdon replied, settling back in the heavy oak chair. “Does not give you much to go on, I know.”

  “Strictly speaking, no it does not.”

  A footman approached and waited until Carmichael gestured for him to clear their plates. Both men paused as the man saw to the finished meal and left.

  “From time to time, noble families find themselves in need of funds,” Carmichael continued. “For most, such a state is cured through marriage or other, more common means. And then there are those who go about replenishing their coffers in much more creative ways.”

  Langdon himself knew of many families who had resorted to unsavory matches or ill-advised business investments in an effort to sustain their privileged way of life. But partnering with a criminal organization?

  “Sounds a bit far-fetched,” Langdon suggested, waving off the returning footman.

  Carmichael countered Langdon’s instruction and beckoned the man forward. “We will take our brandy here, thank you.”

  The footman bowed and noiselessly disappeared.

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Carmichael answered Langdon. “But there are some for whom nothing is more important than money. Not morals nor common decency, even. I will look into it.”

  “Grace knows something of that,” Langdon added. Her father gambling her away certainly qualified the bastard for such recognition.

  The footman returned with a second man. “My lords,” he said, making way for his companion to place a cut-crystal glass in front of each man, then shooing him off before pouring. He returned the stopper to the top of the decanter and bowed before turning away.

  “ ‘Grace’ is it now?” Carmichael asked. His face remained unreadable, no hint of innuendo in his eyes.

  But Langdon knew his superior never asked a question simply to make conversation. Carmichael was as careful and precise with his words as he was with everything else in his well-ordered universe.

  Langdon could lie. And he wasn’t entirely sure that Carmichael wouldn’t prefer a fabricated explanation to the knowledge that one of his agents was in love with a woman intimately tied to a Corinthian case.

  Yes, he could lie. And he probably should.

  Still, he would not.

  “I love her, Carmichael.”

  His superior’s face remained fixed. In fact, Langdon would have wondered if the man had heard his confession at all if not for the slightest intake of breath that registered in Carmichael’s chest and puckered his waistcoat for a split second.

  “I know,” he finally answered, reaching out and taking his glass in hand. “The change in you is palpable. Let us drink to your good fortune.”

  He raised his glass in salute.

  Langdon only stared at his superior, dumbfounded by the man’s words.

  “This is where you raise your glass, too, Stonecliffe,” Carmichael instructed.

  Langdon obeyed, the clink of cut glass ringing softly.

  He took a drink of the brandy. “How did you know?”

  “Rising to my rank within t
he Corinthians was not an easy task,” Carmichael answered, slowly rolling the glass between his hands. “The job requires many things, including knowing your agents inside and out. You are not the first man under my command to fall in love.”

  Langdon watched the brandy in Carmichael’s glass slowly revolve. “And you? Have you ever known love?”

  He could not say why he’d asked the question. But now that he had, Langdon desperately wanted to know.

  The glass stopped.

  Langdon looked up at Carmichael, whose face appeared to be a shade paler than it had been a moment before.

  “I have,” he answered simply. “Unrequited love, that is. She was promised to another and did not return my affection.”

  Langdon sipped his brandy, thankful for the liquid heat of the liquor and its momentary distraction. “I am sorry, Carmichael—I should not have pried.”

  “I would not have answered you if I did not want you to know,” he explained, his color returning to normal. “My experience makes me uniquely qualified to oversee the Young Corinthians. I have no attachments to speak of, and all the inducement needed to keep things as they are. As it turns out, a broken heart can be quite useful.”

  He took up his glass again and knocked back the remaining contents with one swift swallow. “Does she love you?”

  “I cannot say for sure,” Langdon replied, still considering Carmichael’s admission.

  “But you suspect she does?”

  Only a handful of agents during Langdon’s time had left the organization to pursue a life outside service. And he knew Carmichael had attempted to convince every last one to reconsider.

  “Is this where you tell me leaving the Corinthians in favor of a life with Grace would be a colossal mistake?” Langdon asked, avoiding Carmichael’s question.

  The older man chuckled low in his throat, as if he realized he’d been caught. “So you have heard of my methods?”

  “Do not take this the wrong way,” Langdon said somewhat sheepishly, “but your methods are legendary.”

  “Perhaps. Nevertheless, do me a favor and answer my question anyway,” Carmichael replied, his countenance settling into an expression of quiet confidence.

  He clearly had a strategy in mind.

  “Yes,” Langdon answered simply. “Yes, I believe she loves me.”

  Carmichael’s chin lifted at Langdon’s words. “Ah. In that case, do not let her go. Ever.”

  Langdon stared at Carmichael, struck speechless for the second time in as many minutes. He looked at the man’s empty glass. Then back at the man. “You are not foxed, are you?”

  “No, Stonecliffe, I am not drunk.”

  “Then why would you suggest such a thing?” Langdon pressed, feeling as if he stood on shifting ground. “You know what it would mean. It is nearly impossible to maintain a happy marriage when working as an agent.”

  Carmichael leaned in and rested his elbows on the table, suddenly appearing fatigued. “Of the men I’ve asked to forsake a life outside of the organization, do you know how many have stayed?”

  “No. It isn’t something we are encouraged to discuss,” Langdon replied, still attempting to decipher Carmichael’s strategy.

  “Precisely,” his superior replied gravely. He slowly twisted the signet ring he wore on his left hand, the movement absentminded. “Nearly eighty percent continued on with the Corinthians. And of those, almost all have risen to become integral members of the organization. They have little in life but the Corinthians. As for the twenty percent who left the brotherhood? They went on to marry, have children, fight with their wives, spend money, lose money …”

  Langdon watched his superior wrestle with what to say. “They loved and were loved. Unlike those men who chose to stay.”

  “Precisely,” Carmichael repeated. “I could lose my position for what I am about to say. Perhaps even my head. But I will not willingly keep one more man from happiness. Stonecliffe, see the Afton case through. Then grab on to your Grace and never let her go.”

  Grace smelled Imogen before hearing her. The woman’s lilac scent drifted on the chilled breeze and tickled her nose.

  “It is not polite to sneak up on someone, Imogen,” Grace said, looking up from the book she was reading. She closed the leather-bound volume on her lap and turned in her seat to look at her friend.

  Imogen pursed her lips and bustled across the garden, her puce muslin gown billowing about her ankles. “Whoever said I was reaching for polite?”

  Grace laughed at the woman’s reply, mainly because she knew it was true. “Well, you have me there.”

  “And here is one more question for you, my lady,” Imogen offered as she sat down and carefully arranged her morning dress. “Why are you sitting outside on a day such as this? The breeze is positively arctic and the sun has made an appearance. It is as if Mother Nature cannot make up her mind. I believe I will both freeze to death and acquire more spots on my skin than my father’s old nag Matilda.”

  “Spots? Oh, freckles. Come now, Imogen,” Grace playfully chided. “We are not the sort to allow a bit of brisk air to dampen our spirits. And as for spots? I rather like them.”

  “Bite your tongue!” Imogen implored, adjusting her bonnet so that it sat lower on her brow. “Men prefer a woman with a milky complexion. You should know that.”

  Grace had obtained quite a few freckles since coming to stay at Aylworth House. And she could not remember Langdon complaining about them. Not when his tongue had traced a trail from her ear to her toes. Maybe when he’d opened her legs and kissed the very core of her? No, not then, either.

  “Perhaps I do not care what men think,” Grace answered, her nipples tightening at the memory of making love with Langdon.

  Imogen’s mouth formed a charming O of understanding. “None of my protectors have been men who prefer women with much of a will. Lucky you.”

  You have no idea, Grace thought to herself.

  She leaned over and retrieved the parasol she’d tucked underneath the bench. “Mrs. Templeton insisted I bring it outside. She never mentioned anything about using it, though.”

  “Naughty girl,” Imogen teased, taking the lace parasol in her hands and opening it. She twirled it this way and that before finding the perfect angle. “There, that is much better. Now, what news, Wicked Widow?” Imogen asked, her perfectly plucked eyebrows wriggling with innuendo. “Have Madame Fontaine’s creations come in handy of late?”

  Grace realized she’d not put the garments to the test yet. Langdon did not seem to care what she wore as long as it was easily removed. “Oh yes. Please do tell Madame I am most thankful for the help.”

  “You can tell her yourself when we visit her next,” Imogen replied, pulling her cashmere shawl tightly about her shoulders. “Which will not be far off, I think. I’ve need of a new riding habit and a morning dress or two.”

  A pang of sadness poked at Grace’s heart as she realized there might not be a next time she’d venture out with Imogen. Once Langdon took over the Kingsmen, there would be no reason for Grace to remain at Aylworth House.

  There would be no reason to remain at Aylworth House.

  Of course Grace had thought about her future. She still very much wanted a quiet life in the country with Mr. and Mrs. Templeton. Only she now required Langdon as well.

  What was the likelihood the leader of England’s most powerful crime organization would be willing to retire at the zenith of his power?

  “Why do you suddenly look so sad?” Imogen asked, unwrapping her shawl and spreading it over both her lap and Grace’s.

  Grace attempted a smile, but her lips would not cooperate. “I wonder, Imogen … to your knowledge, has any woman ever spent the entirety of her career with one protector?”

  “Oh heavens,” Imogen breathed. Her eyes widened and she dropped the parasol dramatically. “You’ve not fallen in love with the man, have you?

  Grace shook her head adamantly.

  “Say the words,” Imogen demanded,
ignoring the open parasol as the breeze caught it and sent it slowly sailing across the lawn toward a hydrangea bush.

  Grace shook her head a second time, reluctant to out-and-out lie to her friend.

  “You’ve broken the most important rule, my lady,” Imogen nearly wailed. “A woman never—ever—falls in love with her protector. Ever.”

  “Is it really so wrong?” Grace asked, aware her tone bordered on desperate. “After all, wouldn’t love only improve upon the relationship between the woman and her protector?”

  Imogen took Grace’s hands in hers and squeezed. “To the best of my knowledge, not one woman has ever spent the entirety of her career with one protector. And do you know why? Because ours is not a world in which ‘relationships’ exist—not in any real sense anyway. These men already have enough relationships to fill the Tower, my lady. What they want in a mistress is not love. Affection, yes. And sex. And their egos stroked along with other bits and bobs. But not love.”

  “And if a man says he is in love?” Grace pressed.

  “He is lying,” Imogen answered, her expression pained.

  Langdon had yet to say the words to Grace. There had been a few instances when she’d wanted to tell him she’d fallen deeply in love with him. But she’d held back—out of fear or pride, who knew.

  Perhaps it did not matter why now.

  “Surely you do not know the heart of every last man on earth,” Grace suggested, positive that mathematics was on her argument’s side.

  Imogen bit her bottom lip as she considered Grace’s question. “Well, no, I do not. But tell me this: if your man is in love with you, and you are in love with him, then what will happen?”

  “Well, we will marry …” Grace had not realized until that very moment that she’d been looking at her life with Langdon as though she was still a lady and he was not a criminal, but a lord. “That is not right, is it?”

  “Do not think on what is right or wrong,” Imogen instructed as the parasol blew by. “You will marry, and then?”

  Grace closed her eyes and focused on the sun’s warmth upon her face. “We will marry and move to the country—far away from London and its sordid memories.”