No sooner had the thought formed than he felt her strength returning, her shaking subsiding. As she pulled away, it was with painful reluctance that he let her go.
Relief lent a wraithlike quality to her beauty. “Thank goodness it’s only you.”
“Whom were you expecting? And what the devil are you doing up here?”
“I became lost and . . .” Her expression turned instantly wary. “Did you follow me?”
The accusatory note propelled him back a step. “I saw you miss the landing on the staircase. I tried to catch up and stop you.”
“You could not have.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
She thrust her chin forward. “I am saying I have been standing in this corridor a sufficient length of time for you to have reached me long before this.”
“I was waylaid by well-meaning acquaintances wishing to inquire after Melinda’s health.”
“Oh.” Her stance lost something of its stubborn heft, but only momentarily. As a solo baritone filled the theater with menacing tension, her eyes narrowed within their halos of golden lashes. “If you ask me, they had an odd way of showing their concern.”
The statement sparked with rancor. With a huff she started past him. He caught her arm and stopped her. “Are you speaking of the Lewes-Parker twins?” He couldn’t help grinning at the thought.
“You may wipe that smile off your face. Do you not find them a trifle young for you?”
Now he laughed outright, albeit beneath his breath to prevent the sound from carrying into the nearby boxes. “They are distant cousins whose father and brother happen to be next in line for the Barensforth title—a title the family would very much like to acquire. But in the event I do not meet my demise before producing an heir, their next preference would be for one of the twins, Edwina or Emily, to become my countess.”
“I see.” One bare shoulder lifted in a show of indifference belied by the crease above her nose and a blush even the shadows could not conceal. “So which is it to be?”
“Neither.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t bother to explain that he would rather leap off Pulteney Bridge into the Avon than endure a lifetime chained to either of his vain, impossibly shallow cousins.
Instead he stepped closer and said, “What I cannot help wondering is why it should matter to you. As it so clearly does.”
“It doesn’t. Not at all.” But the protest sounded forced, halfhearted. Her gaze locked with his, and her eyes grew large and liquid, swimming with fathomless desires that mirrored the carnal images racing through his mind.
Putting a hand beneath her chin, he tilted her face up and bent his head, touched his lips to hers, and experienced an inferno of pleasure that spread havoc through his loins. When she didn’t resist and, in fact, released a purring sigh against his lips, he put his arms around her and deepened the kiss, prodding his tongue past her lips. She met the gesture shyly, tentatively, but no less thoroughly as her tongue swept his and entered his mouth.
Their surroundings melted away, leaving only satiny heat and licking flames of mutual desire. Somehow they had swung about until Laurel’s back was against the wall. She didn’t seem to notice or care but clung to him, her arms wound tightly around his neck, her lips pressed urgently to his, until an abrupt burst of applause broke them apart with a jolt.
An aria had ended; which one, Aidan couldn’t say. His thoughts were heavy, drowning in lust, yet at the same time spinning with the shock of how readily they had lost control and in such a public place, where anyone might have exited a box and witnessed their display.
The same sense of alarm held Laurel’s eyes wide. Her kiss-reddened lips fell open. “Oh, I . . . Good heavens.”
He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
Her skirts raised a hiss as she let him propel her to the stairs. She seemed dazed, as disconcerted by their brief passion as he felt. It was more than the mindless urgency of the moment continuing to affect him. It was how she had felt in his arms, how her lips had responded to his kisses. Like Virgo, ablaze and glorious in the night sky . . . and a virgin.
Was it possible that this widow had never been kissed? Never been loved as a woman was meant to be?
Partway down the stairs, he brought them to a halt. “Laurel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Please, let us not discuss it.” She looked everywhere but at him. “It was a lapse, nothing more. I must find my way back to Lady Devonlea’s box. They all must be wondering what happened to me.”
“Will you answer one question first?”
Fresh panic washed over her features; he half expected her to bolt. “How can you kiss me like that, and return to George Fitzclarence? What do you see in him?”
She shook her head, looking half- guilty, half-bewildered. “Nothing. I am not returning to Lord Munster. He simply happens to be occupying the same box as I.”
Apparently, not all of tonight’s acting was to be confined to the stage. Aidan pushed out a breath. “I see.”
They continued down. As they turned onto the lower level, his curiosity once more took control of his tongue. “Then answer me this. When I found you, you were ready to jump out of your skin. Why? What frightened you so?”
“I had become lost.”
“Yes, you already said that.” Detaining her at the foot of the stairs, he refused to give ground. He placed his fingertips beneath her chin and raised her face to a nearby circle of gaslight. “Why not tell the truth—for once?”
Laurel’s heart swelled to clog her throat even as her stomach plunged in dismay. She wanted to launch herself back into Aidan’s arms and give in to every temptation . . . to kiss him, to trust him.
To tell him the truth.
What truth? What had been real about her encounter with the stranger, and what distorted by her imagination? Because he had spoken French, her suspicions had immediately turned to the scientist Claude Rousseau. But no, this man had not worn spectacles; his features were different from Rousseau’s and his stature greater.
No, it could not have been Rousseau.
And now she considered it, perhaps the stranger’s agitation had arisen from his being lost, and when his attempt to communicate with Laurel had met with in-comprehension, his frustration had surged.
With tonight’s performance conjuring images of murder and ghostly vengeance, was it any wonder she might perceive a threat where none existed? And the name he had spoken—Simone de Valentin. Perhaps here, too, she had been mistaken in what she heard. Her proficiency in French had never been much to boast about.
“Well, Laurel?” Aidan’s query caressed her cheek like a warm summer draft, but his fingers held firm beneath her chin. He seemed prepared to wait the rest of the night rather than let her evade his question.
“There . . . was a man.”
He startled her by lurching closer and tightening his hold on her chin. “What man? Did he hurt you? Insult you? Tell me what happened.”
His sudden fierceness unnerved her. His eyes blazed with it. His lips became pinched and drained of color.
“He did nothing,” she hastened to assure him.
His piercing gaze held her for another moment, then softened. His hand fell away. “He must have done something to leave you so distraught.”
She shook her head, trying to remember exactly what
had
happened, and why the brief incident had filled her mind with the horrific images of her recurring nightmare. “He wore a cape with the hood up, and I could not see him properly. I believe he might have been lost as well. He seemed overset, but when he spoke to me, I could not understand the words.”
“Why not?”
“He spoke in French. It is not a language I mastered as a child.”
“Then what happened?”
She thought back. Footsteps had sent the stranger scurrying away. An instant later, Aidan had whispered her name. “Then you came,” she said, suddenly filled with the conviction that whenever she most needed him, somehow Aidan would be there to rescue her, just as he had been on that day in London.
He studied her for several pulse-tripping moments, his gaze lingering over her lips before sinking lower. Surely he witnessed the labored rise and fall of her bosom as she struggled to breathe. But each gulp of air filled her with his scent, his taste. Her lips burned with the imprint of his kisses; her mouth tingled for the return of his tongue.
His hand rose, and with his forefinger he traced the gold chain hanging around her neck. At the heat of his touch against her bare skin, her heart thrust wildly against her ribs; her nipples tightened to peaks straining to be touched.
“Come,” he murmured. “We’d best get you back before people begin to talk. Before I give them more reason to talk.”
Those words left her feeling giddy and slightly afraid . . . afraid she would not have had the strength to resist temptation. Reluctance and relief warred within her as they arrived outside Lady Devonlea’s box, and she stepped alone through the velvet curtains to endure the remainder of the night without him.
Laurel rose early the next morning, dressed in a walking outfit, and set out from her lodging house in treelined Abbey Green to nearby Stall Street. From there she took a hansom to Milsom Street, looking for the confectionary shop Lady Devonlea had recommended the night before. She wanted to purchase an assortment of marchpane treats like those served at the theater last night, to bring to Melinda later in the day.
Before going to Fenwick House, she would attend a luncheon at Lord and Lady Devonlea’s home in Queen Square. George Fitzclarence would be there as well, and after last night Laurel felt certain that with careful persuasion she could obtain more information about his activities. Victoria had been correct; the man responded with singular zest to flattery. With any luck, Laurel might even guide him into revealing what he had done with the missing documents.
She hoped they would be joined today by the sort of individuals to whom the earl had alluded last night. Collaborators of the New Age, she herself had dubbed them. As then, a swarm of butterflies crowded her stomach at the thought that she might be plunging in over her head.
The morning sunlight stung her eyes. She had tossed much of the night, plagued by fitful nightmares that had begun with her happy and secure in Aidan’s arms, but soon gave way to the cold fear of fleeing down an endless, inky black corridor.
Again and again, cloaked figures had jumped out to terrorize her and shout incomprehensive threats. Awakening in a cold sweat, her fists balled around the crumpled bedclothes, she had wondered if such dreams were dredged from events in her past, or if they signified present-day fears . . . such as her unreasonable attraction to a man she had been warned not to trust.
Upon reaching Milsom Street, she exited the cab. The sun lit up the painted storefronts and flashed its cheerful reflection in the windows. Continuing on foot, she read the colorful signs as she went and stopped to admire a silk bonnet here, a lovely cashmere shawl there, only to find her enjoyment of the day diminished by lingering anxiety, like an ill-intentioned presence hovering at her shoulder.
Having located the confectioner’s shop, she purchased a package of marchpane and another of almond puffs for Lady Devonlea and tucked them into the straw basket she carried. With more than an hour yet before luncheon, she strolled southward on Milsom, continuing to peek into the shop windows in an attempt to dispel her worries.
Near the corner of Quiet Street, she peered into the tidy confines of an office space and gasped. Pulling back, she considered hurrying away, then shaded her eyes with her hand and looked inside again.
Seated in an armchair before a sturdy mahogany desk, Aidan leaned comfortably back, one leg crossed over the other, what looked to be an open ledger book balanced on his knee. He seemed to be studying whatever lay written on the pages, while across the desk, a young man in spectacles and a severe black suit coat spoke rapidly. Occasionally he reached across the desk to point out some detail in the ledger.
Laurel now noticed the stack of ledgers occupying the desktop between the two men. Across the room from them, a wooden counter topped in marble stretched along the wall. A group of patrons consisting of several smartly dressed gentlemen and a woman in mourning crepe waited in the open area at the center of the room.
Laurel stepped back. The sign above the window read BARCLAYS BANK.
Minutes passed while Aidan flipped through the first ledger, then chose another. He scribbled notes on a writing tablet and occasionally spoke to the clerk without glancing up. As he leaned over the book, Laurel’s gaze was drawn to the strong angle of his neck and the set of his shoulders, to the determined lines of his chiseled profile. . . .
The sun growing warm on her back, she pondered what could snare the fascination of this known gambler, drinker, and womanizer. An investment? The Summit Pavilion, perhaps?
He snapped the book closed and stood. The clerk stood as well, nodding a brisk bow. They exchanged a few words, and Aidan turned to the door.
Backing away from the window, Laurel stepped into the path of a pedestrian. Waving at the curt advice to look where she was going, she whirled and scurried across the street, nearly colliding with a wagon pulled by a lumbering draft horse.
“Are ye blind or just daft?”
Waving off the driver’s shouted expletives, she stepped into the recessed doorway of a milliner’s shop, taking no notice of the bonnets displayed in the window.
As she watched, Aidan exited the bank, glanced up and down the street, and walked the short distance to the corner. A moment later, a handsome cabriolet pulled up and blocked her view of him. When the vehicle pulled away, he was gone.
Laurel took no time to analyze the impulse that had sent her hurrying to the corner. Seeing no sign of Aidan walking on Quiet Street, she deduced that the cabriolet must be his and he had climbed inside. A little way down the street, the carriage came to a stop where an overturned cart had spilled its burden of empty milk pails across the road.