How to Distract a Duchess (How to #1)(25)
Author: Mia Marlowe

“No rest, eh? Is that a complaint?” she asked.

“Never.”

He decided seeing wasn’t quite as good as tasting after all and took her delightful berry in his mouth once more. He suckled till she made that noise again, the low growl of contentment with an edge of desire, before he released her nipple. Then he pulled her close to him, snugged up against his side.

As close as Adam and his Rib, he thought drowsily. He peered over his cheekbones at the top of her tousled head, now resting in the crook of his shoulder. Surely Eve was no more glorious than this woman. Though I’d wager a good deal less stubborn.

“What are you thinking?” her voice floated up to him, small and surprisingly timid after the abandon of their love-making.

He ran his hand down the length of her spine and stayed to dally with the dimple above her round bottom. “Actually, given our most recent occupation and current situation, my thoughts are surprisingly ecclesiastical.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s foolish really,” he said.

“Foolish or not, you can tell me.”

“Being here nak*d like this, makes me wonder how Adam and Eve felt. I mean, there Adam was, with none but the animals for company, all alone in an empty world and then suddenly he sees someone he recognizes without being introduced.”

“I suspect the Almighty provided the introductions,” she said with the practicality he’d come to admire.

“No, I’m inclined to think Adam saw Eve and knew right away who she was. Blood of my blood and bone of my bone and all that. Something in him called to her and she answered.” Trev dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. “And then, even in an empty world, suddenly he wasn’t alone anymore. I was just wondering if it felt . . . well, something like this.”

She was still for a few moments. Then she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “I think it must have felt exactly like this.”

Trevelyn breathed deeply and realized, against all odds, he was happy. It was totally illogical. After all, his father, whom he’d never been able to please, had now disowned him. He was planning a burglary with naught but a duchess for assistance. And then a ransom that even with supreme good luck, stood little chance of success, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from turning up into an idiot’s grin. He was happier than he’d ever been in his entire life.

“You know,” she said, teasing the hairs whorled around one of his n**ples, “even given, as you put it, our previous occupation and current situation, I don’t think it’s at all strange that your thoughts should turn spiritual. I mean, the way we lift each other out of ourselves, the giving and receiving of pleasure is no small thing. When we’re joined, it does almost seem supernatural. What we’ve shared has something of the Divine Spark about it.”

His grin grew even wider and a definitely more wicked. “Maybe that’s why you kept saying ‘Oh, God!’”

She snatched her pillow and pummeled him with it. At first he could only raise his hands in self-protection, he was laughing so hard. Then he found his own pillow and made a good bout of it, whacking her delicious bottom. Finally one, or maybe both, of the pillows burst open. A flurry of white feathers fluttered around them, coming to rest on their bare bodies, tickling their skin and catching in their hair.

Trevelyn threw down the empty casing and grabbed Larla around the waist. They collapsed together on the bed in a giggling heap.

He loved her laugh. It was no girlish twitter. It was the sound of a woman completely pleased with the world. He realized, with a great sense of accomplishment, that he was responsible for it. When he first met her, he’d have been satisfied just to make her smile. Now she was laughing like a fool and he loved it.

They rolled together on the bed and, as luck and superior strength would have it, Trevelyn managed to end up on top. His h*ps rested between her splayed legs. He took his weight on his elbows and looked down at her.

She was flushed with pleasure and the green depths of her eyes sparkled. Her little pointed tongue flicked over her top lip and she blew a stray feather away, her belly quivering beneath him.

Trevelyn stopped laughing. He could watch this woman for the rest of his life, he realized with a start.

“What is it?” she asked, obviously sensing his change of mood.

He lowered his lips to hers and took his time about kissing her. All the while his tongue made love to her mouth, his mind churned furiously.

This cannot be good, he told himself with sternness. You’re needed as soon as possible on the Indian sub-continent. A whole string of operatives are waiting, looking for some direction from London. There’s no permanent place for a woman in your life just now, old son. A romp, yes. A romance, emphatically no.

And yet the kiss went on, deepening and draining. He felt his soul pouring itself into her, seeking her secrets and loving all of them.

Love? Where in the name of perdition did that come from?

He pulled back from her sharply.

“Larla, I—” Trev caught himself before the words spilled out of his mouth. Suddenly, he knew what Larla meant, at least to him. Beloved. He laid his head between her br**sts, too much a coward to meet her gaze.

He loved her and he shouldn’t have her. The life in India ahead of him was too uncertain, too full of potential danger to include a wife. It wouldn’t be fair. And maybe he couldn’t have her even if he offered. Hadn’t she proclaimed in no uncertain terms that she’d never marry again?

“Oh, God,” he said.

This time, Trev figured, the words counted as a prayer.

* * *

The night was more than half-spent when Artemisia and Trevelyn reluctantly left his well-used bed. They dressed in near silence in the moon-washed room. Trevelyn assisted her with her laces without being asked, and she helped him tie his cravat in a fashionable knot.

Just like an old married couple, she thought absently. But most old married couples don’t lark about breaking and entering, do they?

“I counted at least six servants in the ambassador’s townhouse. It won’t be easy to slip passed them unnoticed.” She adjusted her bonnet over her hastily swept-up do. “Have you thought about how we’ll do it?”

“Not to worry, madam.” He cavalierly offered his arm. “A Deveridge always has a plan. Do you still ride?”

“Not nearly often enough, but yes.” She switched to a whisper as they entered the hall. The common room below was empty, but she reasoned they may as well begin as they meant to continue this night. Stealth was the watchword. “Remember, Mr. Beddington started out as my pony.”

“So he did.” He chuckled softly as they made their way down the stairs. He helped her avoid the third step from the bottom.

“Squeaks abominably,” he whispered. “I keep a horse in the stable out back. We’ll have to ride double. It may be hard on the nag, but frankly, there’s nothing I’d rather have between my knees than your well-rounded bottom.”

His words sent a rush of remembered pleasure over her. With a sigh, she pushed the sensation aside. The time for love games was done. Now they played for keeps.

Trevelyn saddled the sturdy-looking cob, mounted him in a fluid motion and held a hand down to Artemisia. She used his booted foot in the stirrups as a step and sidesaddled herself before him. He wrapped an arm about her waist and snugged her in tightly before chirruping to the gelding to urge him into a brisk trot.

Artemisia leaned back into Trev’s chest. He planted a quick kiss on her neck as they rounded a gas-lit corner. She’d had very little sleep the night before and only a few snatches amid their lovemaking this night, but she was too excited to be sleepy.

Every fiber in her body hummed with well-being and the after-glow of pleasure. Surrounded now by his strong arms and sharp male scent, Artemisia wished the ride to the ambassador’s townhouse was much longer.

After all, if they were successful tonight, if they recovered Mr. Beddington and used him to free Mr. Shipwash, then Trevelyn would be off to India at the first opportunity. Her chest ached. She wondered if he’d miss her, even a little, but she couldn’t ask him.

“You realize that we can’t actually give the key to the ruffians holding Mr. Shipwash,” Trevelyn said as their destination came into view. “We’d be signing the death warrants of all your father’s contacts.”

“Then what is your plan?”

“We retrieve the key and substitute it with a decoy. Chances are the kidnappers don’t know exactly what the key is. They only know it was important enough for your father to send it to safety.”

Artemisia nodded. Her father would counsel the same, she was sure. She just wished she didn’t feel so responsible for her assistant’s abduction. If she’d never masqueraded as Beddington, none of this would have happened.

“But we will still free James,” she said emphatically.

“Of course,” Trev said. “We’ll have all day tomorrow to come up with a substitute and I will make the exchange for you at St. Paul’s tomorrow night.”

“But Felix said I was to come alone. I mustn’t call in the authorities, they said.”

“No, Beddington is to come alone. And since no one but we knows who Beddington really is, there’s no reason I can’t be him for the exchange. They’re expecting a man, after all.”

Trev reined in the horse and guided him down the narrow alleyway behind the ambassador’s row of townhouses.

“But, this is my responsibility,” she said.

“We’ll discuss it later.” He slid from the saddle and then lifted her down lightly. “Other matters are more pressing at present. Come.”

Instead of approaching the rear of the ambassador’s home, Trevelyn led her to the adjoining townhouse. He tried the door, which was locked, and then worked to jimmy open a window.

“You are aware this is the wrong house,” she whispered.

“Yes, but it works to our advantage. This whole row of townhouses is built just like my father’s pied de terre. There’s a little known design flaw about them.”

A strained look passed over Trevelyn’s face that had nothing to do with his exertions with the window. It occurred to her that Trev had never mentioned his father or mother. She knew very little about his home life, save that he was the second-born of twins. She supposed that made him as expendable in the currency of progeny as a first-born daughter when one is hoping for a son. Not that her father ever said so in so many words, but the fact that he had raised her as if she were a boy spoke volumes about his secret hopes.

And his disappointments.

“These residences share a common attic.” Trevelyn winced as the window frame budged only fractionally. “We can enter here, make our way to the attic and then into the ambassador’s residence from the garret.”

“What if the people who live here catch us?” Artemisia asked.

“Take a peek in the window.”

In the pale moonlight, Artemisia saw only ghostly shapes dotting the room. The furniture was all draped in white muslin to protect it against the sooty London air, a sure sign the owners were not in residence.