Regardless of how desperately he wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her breathless, before carrying her to the nearest bedchamber, where he could bed her to his heart’s content.
“Arden.” Winchelsea’s voice pierced the thoughts weighing down upon him then.
Precisely the reminder he required. He could not stand here like a dolt, mooning over Miss Montgomery, while Winchelsea looked on. Nor could he continue making love to her with his eyes. This was precisely why he had been evading her for the last three days. Well, this and his own inherent weakness. He was drawn to Miss Montgomery, and there was no denying the all-consuming spark of attraction he felt whenever he looked upon her.
Or thought about her, for that matter. But that too, was neither here nor there. Lucien could control himself. He simply had to exercise his restraint. And perhaps find an accommodating bed partner to distract him from his recklessness.
What was she doing here, for Christ’s sake? He had not been warned an invitation had been issued to her as well. By God, had she hired a hack? The thought vexed him immensely, but he battled his indignation and irritation, for neither was wanted, or needed, at the moment.
“Winchelsea,” he greeted, inclining his head and performing an abbreviated bow in the direction of the blue-eyed curse, who haunted his every errant thought. “Miss Montgomery. I did not expect you.”
She had risen from her seat at his entrance, but she did not offer him a curtsy in return. Instead, she executed her strange half-bow. “Your Grace. Nor was I expecting you.”
He supposed they were even on that score. But quite lopsided on another. This was one of a few times she had paid his title deference, and it was not lost upon him. Odd though it was, he had to admit he rather missed her ordinary daring.
Was it his fanciful imagination, or had she grown more beautiful since that night in his study? Her cheeks were stained a pretty rose pink, her dark hair caught in a becoming Grecian braid, with wisps of curls framing her heart-shaped face. How had he failed to notice how delicately her brows were arched?
Her tongue wetted her lower lip.
And he knew she was not as calm and serene on the inside as her placid expression would suggest.
When he was seated in the chair at her side, facing Winchelsea, he could not help but note the manner in which his superior’s gaze lingered upon Miss Montgomery. He thought of her responsiveness to him when they had been alone. Thought about the ardent manner in which she had kissed him, the way her hands had clawed at his shoulders first, and then his hair. The way she had opened her legs and wrapped them around his hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, while he sucked her nipples.
And he wondered. He wondered how long she and the duke had been alone before his arrival. He wondered if she had taken note of how prodigiously tall Winchelsea was, even taller than Lucien himself. The man was more beast than man, truly. He wondered why Winchelsea had issued a separate invitation to her. He wondered if Winchelsea had cornered her against his desk, taken her mouth as his own…
Christ!The mere notion made him ill.
And bloody furious.
He clenched his jaw tight. Beyond Winchelsea’s sumptuously appointed study, it began to rain. A thorough, soaking rain, pelting the street outside, rattling against the windows. Lucien flicked a glance over the expensive carpets and all the dark leather and gilt. This was his first time at Winchelsea’s residence, and he could not help but question the timing. Would he have been invited at all, if not for Miss Montgomery? More to the point, preciselywhathad Miss Montgomery been up to for the last few days while he had been isolating himself?
He had imagined she was keeping to herself, studying her maps and making her lists. But it occurred to him now he had never inquired after her whereabouts. He had not concerned himself with what she was doing, or with whom she was doing it. He had simply taken for granted she would remain within Lark House.
He was a fool. Doubly, it would seem.
“The Nightingale,” Winchelsea said, bringing Lucien’s attention back to where it belonged.
The Nightingale was the name of the contact the Emerald Club kept within England. Lucien had read the entirety of Miss Montgomery’s notes. Twice.
He raised a brow. “What of him?”
“We need to discover his identity,” Winchelsea elaborated. “Miss Montgomery feels the unearthing of this villain will prove essential to our ability to stave off attacks on our London railways.”
Lucien turned toward Miss Montgomery. Their gazes clashed, and he saw everything reflected within hers for a brief, shattering moment, until she seemed to gather herself with a deep breath. Her lashes lowered, and when she tipped up her chin and met his gaze once more, he saw nary a hint of the vulnerability she had shown him merely seconds before.
He remembered every touch. The way she tasted. The sounds she made. The way her body had come to life against his. For as long as he lived, even if he never touched her again, he would never forget.
And he would be lying if he said he did not feel a stab of jealousy at the realization she had been sitting alone with the Duke of Winchelsea, formulating a plan without him. It hurt more than his pride.
“Is that so, Miss Montgomery?” he asked her directly, refusing to allow her to look away. “What else have you been telling Winchelsea in my absence?”
Inferring he was going to divulge the boundaries they had crossed together to Winchelsea was wrong, and he knew it well. But he would also be a liar if he claimed he did not enjoy the subtle lifting of her brows, the widening of her eyes, and the parting of her lips. Her spine stiffened. Her shoulders straightened.
Her full, lush mouth tightened then. “I related to Winchelsea the affable manner in which we have been able to coexist as partners of the Special League,” she said formally, her tone bright. “I also told him how very grateful I am for the manner in which you have welcomed me, Your Grace. You have been sowarm, so caring and solicitous. Indeed, without the guidance of your dexterous hands, I would never have been able to find my footing here so well.”
Her words were laden with double entendres, the minx. He had riled her enough she had almost spilled their secrets then and there before Winchelsea.
Almost, but not quite.
