The rising tide rolled over her and a piercing, delicious sensation rippled out from where his hands touched her. The waves of pleasure radiated all the way to the tips of her ears and her toes, leaving her panting.
“God, Saffron,” he said, smoothing her clothing back into place. “You do not know how much I want you.” He took a shuddering breath, then stepped away.
Her eyes fell to the prominent bulge tenting his trousers. She was not innocent. Three years spent pinching her pennies, seeking any deal with the butcher, grocer, and others in less-than-savory areas of town to prolong her funds, had opened her eyes. She’d seen men taking women against tavern walls, moaning and thrashing. Her torrid romance novels haddescribed the act in detail and had kept her awake at night imagining what it might feel like to be with a man.
She’d had no idea.
But despite how pleasurable it had been, she couldn’t push aside how scandalous her actions were.
“I… cannot do this,” she said, edging her way to the door. “We are not wed.”
She was not opposed to the idea of marriage if it meant saving Angelica from marriage to Canterbury. It was clear they were compatible on some level, and it would allow her to support her family. Even if he remained a recluse, she didn’t mind living outside of London.
Then Leo scowled. “I am not the marrying kind.”
His words stung more than she’d expected, but she forced her emotions aside. “You do not wish to produce an heir?”
He snorted. “I never wanted to be Viscount Briarwood to begin with. Besides…” He stepped closer and smirked. “We do not need to be married to enjoy each other’s company.”
She gave a startled sound and fled his office as if he’d thrown a bucket of cold water over her head, then flew through the halls of the house. She’d never been so close to a man who wasn’t a blood relative. A man who looked at her like a woman and not a piece of furniture, or an extension of her sister or aunt, and he was not interested in marriage.
At least she’d finally experienced what her romance novels described.
Her skin still burned from where he’d touched, and her body thrummed with pleasure.
No wonder the ladies swoon before him.
She flushed at the memory of their bodies intertwined on top of his desk. Despite knowing she had truly ruined herself, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Leo had brought her something she hadn’t even known she’d wanted.
“It will be fine,” she said, pausing in front of a suit of armor to fix her torn stockings. The deal they had struck complicated her plans, but not irrevocably. She had already come to play the detective.
The only difference is that I am searching for both a thief and a painter.
No matter what she’d promised, it was in her best interest to continue her investigation alongside what he had tasked her to do. Thanks to Leo, she had a list of attendees to analyze and interrogate.
First of the Ravenmore suspects on her list was Simon Mayweather, Leo’s cousin. She could imagine the charismatic man taking up his time painting. He had the casual, artistic air of a man who kept secrets.
Second was the Lady Olivia Allen, the beautiful widow of the late Earl of Allen. Saffron had never met the woman, but rumor held she was a collector of artwork. She also had a reputation for being mysterious and coy. Leo had suggested at Lady Jarvis’s ball that women were not generally accepted as painters by the Royal Society of Arts. Could Lady Allen have chosen the alias Ravenmore to tweak the noses of the upper elite?
Third and fourth were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. She’d learned through talking to the housekeeper that both were late additions to the event. One or both could be Ravenmore. She did not know enough about them to judge if that was likely.
Then there was Leo himself. As much as she didn’t want to believe that he would keep such a secret from her, it was Leo who had put her on to the idea that Ravenmore was an alias. She would not remove him from consideration until she was certain he was not the painter.
There remained a chance that the artist was someone else attending the auction, but she would not consider them without cause until she had ruled out the others.
She slowed her steps as she approached the front entrance, comporting herself into the genteel lady she had to project to the world. Her head tilted higher, and she schooled her expression into one of mild interest. The act was tiring to keep up, but she had learned over the years that she could not show her real self without facing derision. She checked her coiffure in the reflection of an ancient Roman shield mounted on the wall, tucking a few curls back into place. Then she scowled at herself. Whom was she trying to impress?
“I know what I am doing,” she said to her reflection.
A footman standing by the door smothered a laugh. She hurried past him before she embarrassed herself further and arrived in the entryway to find Mrs. Banting arguing with Leo’s butler, Sinclair.
“It is not proper,” the housekeeper insisted. “The ladies with maids cannot stay in the rooms in the east wing. I will not be responsible for any more injuries on that staircase. We will have to move the paintings.”
Paintings?
Sinclair shook his head. “Let’s not forget the gentlemen and their valets. Would you subject them to that staircase instead? My lord was quite clear on this matter. We are not to touch the items for the auction.”
Like a bloodhound scenting a trail, Saffron leaped into the conversation. “May I be of assistance?”
