Dark lashes shuttered those eyes. "Nothing."
Her heart stuttered to a halt. So that was to be the way of it. One mad step toward her, then two steps back. Ianthe tilted her face away, suddenly angry with him, even if she did not truly have the right. After all, was she not keeping her own secrets?
She had forgotten herself. It was all too easy to find herself falling for her own act. Far too easy to believe his. His reluctance only reminded her of the precise nature of this assignation.
Lucien wanted revenge. She wanted her daughter back. As soon as Louisa was safe, Lucien would be free of her. Today might have felt like an odd softening between them, but the truce was questionable. Ianthe could not afford to make any mistakes, not now.
So be it.
Ianthe lifted her eyes to his. Lucien's hot amber gaze asked a question, one she didn't think she could answer. There were no easy answers here. "Fuck me," she whispered again, instead of asking about his scars.
There was a long moment of hesitation, as though Lucien fought his way through the same doubts. Then he turned his face toward her breasts, his gentle onslaught overwhelming. The press of his body between her thighs only reminded her of what had happened in the library.
No place for doubt here, nor for the heart-burning truths she fought her way through. Passion flared between them as Lucien set her body alight with his hands and mouth—slow, gentle licks, stoking the flames between them. Soft gasps sprang from her lips, and a low groan of need came from his. For this one moment, she could pretend this man was her lover, in both heart and mind, and not just body.
When he claimed her, it was a sweet joining. Lucien moved slowly, as though afraid to let the moment go, but she wanted more. She wanted mindless, passionate oblivion. Body clenching around him, she dug her nails into his upper arms and drove him to a breathless release. This time she couldn't share in it, no matter how hard she tried.
Afterward, they lay still for long moments, her body quivering as she lay curled in the hollow of his body and his arms. Occasionally he'd stroke his fingers against her hair, twisting a strand of it around his finger contemplatively. This intimacy was one she was unaccustomed to. Just pretend, she told herself as her eyes grew heavier and sleep finally, finally began to beckon.
"Who is Louisa?" Lucien whispered in the darkness.
Stillness leached through her body. She must have called the name in her sleep. Finding no way of answering that, Ianthe shut her eyes and pretended, despite her stiffening limbs, to be asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
'The first use of a Sclavus Collar came about in 1789, between two occult colleagues–John Davis, and Genevieve Huston–who were working to combine their wills. The idea was to meld their power and thus create greater works of sorcery requiring strength beyond what either of them had, however, when Mrs. Huston set the collar on Mr. Davis, she discovered that she could also bend his will to hers through the ring controlling it.'
* * *
– Origins of the Order of the Dawn Star, by Thaddeus O'Rourke
* * *
Drake slipped out of his muddy coat and slid into a new one. He was exhausted and had spent half the night hunting London, trying to locate the sorcerer who had used Expression.
His lover, Eleanor Ross, waved his mail at him. "I think you need to read this."
"Not now," he replied tersely and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I need to find our young sorcerer before he demolishes London."
"This is important." Eleanor held up one envelope in particular. "A young man was paid a large amount to deliver this personally. Drake, my psychometry is picking up all kinds of readings on it. It makes me feel urgent, as if something bad is going to happen. I'm practically itching. The rest can wait, but I don't think this one can."
Taking the letter, he examined her face. Eleanor wasn't prone to dramatics, and she had a minor talent in premonition. She'd never been wrong before.
Drake slit the seal. The writing was almost childlike, but very careful, as if someone had taken their time with it.
* * *
There is a young male sorcerer I was introduced to this morning, who is wearing a Sclavus Collar. His name is Sebastian Montcalm, though I have not heard his name listed in my copy of the Order's registry, which I searched this afternoon. His mother holds the ring to his collar, and he has admitted that she makes him do bad things. He is a good man, who wishes to escape his slavery. I have no one else to tell, though I trust—and hope—that you can help him.
Please help him.
* * *
Yours in confidence,
A concerned friend.
* * *
