"Mmm, yes. OhAmbrose…"
Hearing his name, the wobble in her voice, turned something loose inside him. He thrust to the hilt, embedding himself so fully that her nest feathered his stones. "Like that, do you?" he growled. "Hard and deep? Will you come with my cock inside you?"
"I'm almost there," she gasped. "Make me come,please."
Groaning, he shoved in and out of her lush, tight hole. His thumb found her pearl, diddled it in time with his thrusts, and she went mad, thrashing beneath him. Faster and faster he rubbed her, fucking her harder and harder. Just when the heat threatened to consume him, she went rigid, her back bowing off the table. He covered her mouth, swallowing her scream and feeding her his own guttural shout as her pussy squeezed him. Hard contractions that demanded his seed, that made him shoot hotly over and again in a release that seemed to have no end.
He didn't know how much time had passed before he had the strength to rise on his elbows. Breathing heavily, he looked upon the face of his lover. Her hair lay in tangled skeins over the table; her lips were red and swollen from his kisses. Her eyes glowed with satisfaction and wonder, an expression he'd never seen from her before. His chest puffed with pride as did—astonishingly—his cock. Her gaze widened for he'd not yet parted from her.
He twisted his hips gently, and a purr escaped from her lips. He brushed his knuckles against her silken jaw. In that moment, with their bodies tucked so perfectly together, it didn't matter that he was a policeman and she a baroness, and they were entangled in an affair that could lead nowhere.
"Trust me, Marianne?" he said, giving a lazy thrust.
Her gaze grew dazed, a peachy flush spreading over her skin.
"I'll… I'll think about it," she whispered.
He told himself not to push his luck. He'd satisfy himself with that answer for the time being. Because in that moment, there was a wealth of satisfaction to be had, and he set about demonstrating that—for these stolen moments at least—he was the man to give it to her.
20
"Time to get hometo the missus. You leaving soon, Mr. Kent?"
Ambrose looked up from the report he was writing. John Oldman—known universally as Johnno—had poked his head through the doorway of Ambrose's cramped office at Wapping Street headquarters. One of the four of Ambrose's crew, the waterman had a cap crammed atop his curly auburn hair and a grin on his freckled face.
"Be a while for me yet, Johnno. Sir Dalrymple wants this report on his desk by morning," Ambrose said.
"Overstuffed goat's still breathing down your neck, eh?" Johnno said with sympathy.
To say the least. Since Ambrose's return, Dalrymple's behavior had grown increasingly malicious. A big case that Ambrose's team should have handled had been given to another Principle Surveyor. In lieu of chasing down criminals, Ambrose had been assigned to making spurious revisions to reports. But two wrongs did not make a right; Ambrose was not one to encourage insubordination.
"Enjoy your evening, Johnno," he said simply.
"Plan to. Lizzie's ma has the bairns for the night, so we've the house to ourselves." Winking, the waterman hitched his satchel higher onto his shoulder. "If you got yourself a wife, sir, you'd have a reason to go home."
Not so long ago Kent would have agreed. His vision of contentment had involved a cozy cottage and his better half waiting for him inside with a hot meal and a smile. What spurred him to finish up his work now, however, was a burning impatience to investigate a solicitor's murder. All so he could protect the enigmatic, aristocratic woman whom he desired beyond all reason... and who refused to trust him.
After their scorching encounter at the dressmaker's—he still couldn't believe that he'd made love to her in ashop, for God's sake—he'd escorted Marianne home. During the carriage ride, he'd attempted to learn more about her troubles. He'd asked point-blank if she was in danger: did she know of anyone who might try to frame her for the solicitor's murder? Tight-lipped, she'd given him nothing. When he'd persevered, she'd said sharply, "Don't push me, Ambrose."
At the townhouse, she hadn't invited him in.
Though he'd been frustrated, he'd understood her well enough to know that she needed time and space to come to a decision about him. Given the tenuous truce between them, he'd decided not to push her further. In the meanwhile, however, he was not a man to sit idly upon his thumbs. He'd already learned the names of Leach's clerks and the places most likely to find them. Tonight, he'd begin his own inquiry.
"Stop bragging, Johnno, else I'll find a reason to keep you here," Kent said mildly.
"Good night to you, then, sir." Tipping his cap, the waterman strode off, whistling.
Ambrose finished up his accounting of his crew's activities and placed the ledger atop the neat pile on his desk. He glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight in the evening: time to seek the answers to his questions. Pulling on his greatcoat, he departed the office and hailed a ride from one of the boat men. The craft glided westward toward the City, the stars glittering pinpricks in the velvet sky. With the cool night air against his face and the dark water running beneath him, Ambrose let his thoughts unfurl.
Something was taken from me,Marianne had said.I'm owed, Kent. And I want what's mine.
In the past two days, Ambrose had dug up information on Reginald Leach; what he'd discovered reinforced his belief that the solicitor had been blackmailing Marianne. Leach had made his name on discretion and flexible ethics: if you had enough money and needed a messy situation taken care of, Leach was your man. Bastard children, duels gone wrong, murders done in a fit of drink or rage … for the right price, Leach could sweep anything under a carpet of legal protection.
Ambrose wouldn't put it past the unscrupulous bastard to hold a woman ransom with some ill-begotten piece of knowledge. Nor did he think it surprising that Leach had wound up dead. Marianne wasn't the only one Leach might have been extorting. The solicitor had collected a great deal of dirt on London's most powerful men—any of whom might be willing to kill to keep a secret silent. What information had Leach held over Marianne?
As the boat slipped beneath London Bridge, Ambrose puzzled over the coincidence which bothered him most. Why had the client who'd hired Bow Street to watch Marianne—who'd suspected her of being an anarchist—usedLeachas the intermediary? Who was this supposed lord of the realm, and why had he wanted Marianne monitored?
Even Coyner had admitted that there was no solid proof of Marianne's involvement in an anarchist group. The evidence against her was purely circumstantial. Though her behavior could admittedly be outrageous, Ambrose was beginning to see it was by design: it wasn't anarchy she was after, but something specific. Something precious had been taken from her; why else her desperate actions, the pain in her eyes?
