He scooped up the poker from the rug. Looked at it, then at her. “That’s quite a swing you harbor.” Without comment, he went to the fire and stirred the embers to life. He set the poker in the stand and took up a scone. “They’re cold.”
“Shall I send for more?” she said with a too-sweet smile.
“No need.” He bit into a tender, flaky, buttery taste of heaven, despite its having cooled. “Good God. Who’s the cook?”
“Mrs. McCaskle’s sister.” Her unreadable gaze settled on him for a long moment. “You being here at this hour is highly inappropriate. Not to mention being in my bedchamber.”
He whipped up a serviette and dabbed the crumbs from his face, then stalked over to her. He took her by the upper arms and shook her gently. “How am I to convince you to marry me when you haven’t made the slightest attempt to reach out? Seven days!” He planted a hard kiss on her soft lips. They molded beneath his. Groaning, he ran his tongue over the seam of her lips and, to his greatest relief, they parted. He dove in, and any semblance of reserve vanished in a heated rush. His heart pounded with the depth of her reciprocation. He reveled in her response for several minutes.
Finally, he forced himself to pull his mouth away and rested his forehead against hers.
Her rapid breaths were fire, searing his skin. “How did you get in?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
“I used my key.”
“Your key. Of course. I should have known.” She broke his hold and went to the settee and dropped down.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She let out a sigh. “About what?” Her demeanor was not an encouraging sign. Her gaze sharpened on him. “You’ve remembered something, haven’t you?”
Harlowe strolled back to the fireplace and leaned against the mantelpiece. “A couple of things. I wish to talk to you about them.”
The firelight heightened the glow in her softened gaze. “All right. I’m listening.”
“I attended the Chancé Salon.”
Her features firmed, but she held her pragmatic tongue.
“The widow has a collection of art. Two of my paintings hang there. I needed to see them.”
“They triggered—”
“Maybe. Perhaps. But it was something else.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I was coming out of “the museum” and I heard the widow talking to a man. They mentioned the Althenaeum Order.”
He glanced over and caught her staring in the fire with a grimace. “Whatisthis Althenaeum Order? I heard it mentioned myself.”
Ice sloshed through his veins. “Where did you hear—”
“The Martindales’ soiree a few weeks ago.”
“I know I can’t remember everything, but I don’t think the Althenaeum Order is the sort of organization discussed in polite society.”
“I don’t know any specifics. Dorset and I sat out our set on the terrace. You might remember that particular night? My slippers were shredded.”
He definitely remembered. Only he hadn’t recalled her telling him she and Dorset had been sitting on the terrace. “Go on,” he growled.
“There were two men in the gardens. I didn’t see them. Their voices were too low for me to recognize.”
Harlowe considered that a blessing. His trepidation was palpable, tangible. His hands shook. On unsteady legs he moved next to her and dropped down. “Did they see you?”
“Of course not. I told you they were too far away for me to even hear much of what they were saying. I asked Dorset about it at the time.” She shrugged. “He didn’t know anything. After that, we went inside, and I came home… I mean… I went back to Kimpton House.”
“Dorset.” Dorset was at Chancé’s. Dorset was at the Martindales’. Perhaps he warranted a closer study.
She turned an amused smile on him. “Do not tell me you are jealous, my lord.”
“Dorset was soused tonight.” He sounded almost petulant to his own ears. He’d had no idea he was so immature.
