Julian frowned. “You do not have to lie any longer, Ester. Or to disguise your motives. I am well accustomed to such reactions—”
“I mean it!” Ester cried, sitting forward in the bed and seizing his hand. “I am not a liar… at least… not when there is no necessity… that is to say…”
She floundered and then clutched at the end of his glove. He clamped one hand over the other to prevent her from removing it. She glared at him defiantly, and then seized the collar of his shirt and pulled him to her, kissing him hard on the lips.
Julian’s reason exploded.
He lost all sense of time and place, forgetting the day of the week and where he was. All that mattered was the feel of the warm lips against his own. They were soft, indescribably soft. She drew back, or tried to, but Julian pushed forward, taking her face in his hands. His fingers caressed her cheeks, then traced a path down her swan-like elegant neck. The kiss deepened for both of them, their bodies sinking together on the bed.
Julian's body acted of its own volition. He slid closer, crushing his chest against her breasts. The thin fabric of her nightdress clung to her like a second skin, damp from the remnants of her feverish night, molding to every soft curve. His fingers toyed with the neckline of her gown, brushing along the lace-edged border where her pale skin met the translucent fabric, tantalizingly close to the swell of her breasts.
Ester gasped softly beneath him, her breath a whisper against his lips, her eyes fluttering closed as her hands ventured boldly to his waistcoat, fumbling with the buttons. Her urgency matched his, each movement feverish, as if time itself had conspired against them. Julian knew he should stop, that the gulf between them—station, scandal, and superstition—loomed large. Yet the sensation of her beneath him, her warmth and fragility, made him reckless, tearing through the barriers of propriety and caution.
“Julian…” Her voice was a sigh, her lips trembling as his name passed through them like a prayer. He moved down to kiss the delicate hollow of her throat, feeling the soft pulse of her heartbeat beneath his mouth. Ester shuddered beneath him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as though she might anchor herself to him.
He lifted his head, and their eyes met again, his breath hitching at the sight of her, flushed and desperate, a fallen angel in disarray. Her nightdress had slipped further down her shoulders, revealing more of her alabaster skin. The fabric clung suggestively to the curves that teased him with every breath she took.
But then came a knock at the door of the anteroom. Ester leaped away from him, scrambling backward on the bed. Julian sighed.
“Not now!” he shouted towards the outer door.
Ester jumped at the sudden noise. The anteroom door opened and Julian heard familiar footsteps. He jumped to his feet, straightening his shirt and waistcoat hastily. Crammond entered the room.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. But the gentleman insisted.”
Julian ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. The intercession had left Ester looking as though she were terrified of something. Perhaps the notion of being discovered in a compromising position? Then the butler’s words hit him.
“Gentleman? What gentleman?”
“The same gentleman who was scheduled to meet with you yesterday, Your Grace. A message was sent asking if he could attendtomorrow. That istoday. He has obliged and awaits you.”
“Ah, say no more. He always was the impatient type. Let Kingsley into the study and tell him that I will be down shortly,” Julian remarked off-handedly with a wave.
Crammond nodded, then pivoted on his toes sophisticatedly and left the room.
Julian turned, his gaze locking with Ester’s, a sardonic twist on his lips. “Pray, excuse my butler’s behavior. Before your arrival, the conventions in this house were quite—”
“Kingsley?”
Her interruption sliced through the air, an unmistakable edge that made Julian’s ears prick up.
“Ah, yes, the Viscount of Kingsley. An old friend of mine and a partner in many of my ventures. He is my eyes and ears in London, the face of our enterprise. Without his counsel, I would be lost.”
For a fleeting instant, he could have sworn that he noticed a shadow of desolation flit across Ester’s eyes. But then, her expression transformed, radiant with a smile so brilliant, he couldn’t help but mirror it.
“I do not know the gentleman personally. It sounds like he is a good friend and trusted ally,” she chimed.
“…He is that,” Julian replied, wondering at the reaction and then thinking that perhaps he had simply imagined it all. “Would you mind terribly if I went to speak to him for just a moment? I will return forthwith.”
“Nonsense, Julian. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your affairs. Take as long as you need. I must confess that I still feel somewhat weak. A few hours of sleep will do me the world of good.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Julian left the room at Ester’s insistence and against his better judgment. He frowned as he closed the door of the anteroom and walked along the hallway, heading for his private study. Kingsley would have requested to await Julian there and was the only house guest who would be permitted such an indulgence. Julian protected his privacy fiercely.
But Ester’s reaction was curious. He would have said that she was alarmed at the hearing of Kingsley’s name. No, not alarmed…dismayed? She had subsequently tried to cover it up but Julian had caught the initial reaction before she could mask it. What could be the cause of it?
Kingsley was a good man, one of the very best. He had been a loyal friend to Julian since early adolescence, sticking by him when others would not. They had fought battles together at Silverton Hill, the school in the borderlands between England and Scotland that both had attended. Wars against all who would belittle or even bully Julian for his refusal to be withouthis gloves. If Kingsley were a man of lesser morals, a cad or a rogue, then Julian might suspect him of being complicit in the scandal that Ester was trying to hide from.
