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HAMPTON COURT is a royal palace, thirteen miles from London, erected by Cardinal Wolsey, and presented by him to his royal master, Henry . . . The palace and grounds, which are well worth the attention of the stranger, are very accessible, on polite request to one of the officers of the establishment.
—Cruchley’s Picture of London, 1834
Some eternity later, Longmore was trying to lead Sophy out the way they’d come. She loitered, gawking up at windows and down narrow passages and staring at closed doors as though looking hard would let her see through them.
“You’d have stayed the night if I’d let you,” he said.
“I was only trying to learn as much as I could,” she said. “Persuading your sister to return to London isn’t going to be easy. I need to understand as much as possible.”
He hadn’t wanted to understand any more. Lady Durwich’s revelation, coming on top of Sophy’s speech about Clara, had left him seething. He’d had to get out of that cozy apartment or break something.
He no longer wished he’d killed Adderley. Death was too good for him. He needed to be beaten to a pulp, all his beauty smashed away forever. He needed to hurt for the rest of his days, for the way he’d hurt Clara.
“I was better out of it,” he said. “Women discussing feelings. Not my favorite thing. More useful to talk to the palace officers and servants. Clara seems not to have been very confiding, except with Lady Durwich. But Davis talked to a gardener about local inns, and he recommended the Bear at Esher. We need to be on our way.”
“I know,” she said.
“Well, then,” he said.
“I’m coming.”
“You’re dawdling,” he said.
“I’m thinking,” she said.
“You can’t walk and think at the same time?”
“Are you always so impatient?” she said. “But why do I ask?”
“We’ve lost hours,” he said.
“Not much more than your sister has,” she said. “She couldn’t travel in the storm. She spent the night at an inn. She has to rest her horse, you said.”
“She has a day’s start of us!” he said.
“I don’t think we should set out when you’re so upset,” she said.
“I’m not upset,” he said. “And even if I were, it wouldn’t affect my driving.”
“You’re extremely upset,” she said. “It’s what I said about Clara, isn’t it? And what Lady Durwich said. And now you want to kill somebody. Or hit somebody. And we can’t afford your picking fights, because if you’re arrested—”
“I’m not going to be arrested,” he said.
She moved to get in front of him, forcing him to stop. She grabbed his lapels. “Listen to me,” she said. “I’m going to take care of your sister’s problem.”
“You!” he said. “This can’t be fixed. I was deluded to think it could be. That blackguard ruined my sister deliberately. It wasn’t even lust, confound him. It was cold-blooded—”
“I’ll take care of him,” she said.
“You’re a female! A shopkeeper! What the devil do you think you can do?”
“You’ve no idea what I’m capable of,” she said.
“Lying, yes. Acting, yes. Spying, yes.”
“You are a spoiled, aristocratic blockhead,” she said. “You know nothing about me. You don’t know what I’ve lived through. You’re a child. An infant. A spoiled, temperamental overgrown baby who hits people when he can’t get his own way. You—oof!”
He’d wrapped his arm about her waist, pulled, and brought her up hard against his chest.
“A child, am I?” he said.
Sophy squirmed, but it was like struggling with a brick wall. He ducked his head under her hat brim and his mouth found hers, and by the time she remembered to draw back, it was too late, because he was kissing her. This time he was doing it more determinedly than before.
She could feel it all the way down to her toes.
She clenched her hands. She could do this. She could fight it. She could fight him. She made herself hit him. She beat on his chest, but it was pathetic, and even if she’d put more force into it, she doubted he’d feel it.
And then, his hard, cynical mouth was so warm on hers, and he was so big and warm and hard and . . . safe.
And she could smell him. She could smell his skin and his maleness, and it was like smoking opium. His big body and the smell and taste of him killed her willpower and her brain.
Everything gave way. Her body molded to his and her lips parted. The kiss turned dark and deep and dangerous, and everything went away except feelings. Sensations she couldn’t name swirled in her heart and made it pound and pound, then eddied lower, to the danger area, to make her hungry in a way she’d never been hungry before.
Her hands unclenched only to grasp his upper arms, to hold on because her knees were gone and she was fainting. She was conscious yet she was fainting, over and over.
He pushed her against the wall, his mouth still holding hers captive while his tongue taught her every kind of sin. She let go of him, and let herself go, letting the wall hold her up, her hands flat against the cool brick while everything else was so deliciously warm. He brought his hands up and rested them on the wall, too, on either side of her head, boxing her in, and she felt the tilt of his head change, tipping to one side as he taught her another hundred sins of kissing: the changing slant of his mouth, the press of his tongue.
She heard something but it was far away, not important.
Then it was louder.
Someone clearing his throat.
Her eyes flew open at the same moment Longmore lifted his mouth from hers and, barely raising his head, turned his gaze toward the sound.
“Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon,” a gravelly voice said.
Longmore lifted his head another few inches, but only to send a warning look toward the voice. “Can you not see I’m busy?”
“Yes, your lordship,” the voice said. “But—”
“Aaargh!” Sophy pushed at Longmore’s chest. “Curse you!” She pushed again. It was like pushing at the castle wall.
He looked down at her gloved hands, his dark eyes glinting and a corner of his mouth—his wicked, wicked mouth—turning up.
“Get off!” she said.
Longmore inhaled and exhaled slowly, then slowly backed away. It wasn’t nearly enough time for his arousal to subside, although that was the easier part. The difficult part was the thinking, because his head was pleasantly thick and warm, and he’d much rather remain in that state than return to the one he’d been in only moments ago.
Through narrowed eyes he regarded the author of his disturbance. Sophy was a very little disheveled, but it was enough. Her hat was askew and her lips were swollen and she regarded him with wide, dazed eyes.
She looked delicious.
“I was only saying farewell,” he said, his voice lower and huskier than normal.
“Is that what you call it?” she said.
“I’m leaving you here,” he said. “With her ladyship. You and she can talk about feelings to your hearts’ content.”
She yanked at the bow under her chin, and it came undone. She pulled the hat off and hit him with it. She hit him in the chest and on the arm and then on the chest again. Then she flounced away. The hat, dangling by the ribbons from her hand, bounced against her skirt as she walked, hips swaying.
“You’ll get lost in this place without me,” he called after her.
“I think not,” she said without turning around.
He shrugged and was straightening his own hat when he noticed the palace officer was still there. He stood stolidly expressionless a few feet away.
“You wanted something?” Longmore said.
The man glanced up toward a window. A dark shape was visible through the wavy glass.
“Lady Flinton’s a bit of a stickler, my lord,” the officer said apologetically. “Gets in a state about what she calls immoral goings-on. She told me to
put a stop to it.”
Longmore tipped his hat to the figure in the window.
Then he went after Sophy.
She had, as he’d expected, taken a wrong turn. He found her in the Clock Court, slapping her hat against her skirt and staring up at the Astronomical Clock.
“You said you were going to stab me if I kissed you again,” he said.
Her blue gaze, no longer dazed but cool and sharp, came down from the clock to rest upon him. “I was looking for a weapon, but they all seem to be taken.”
“Shall I take you up to the Guard Chamber?” he said. “All sorts of pikes and spears and other stabbing sorts of things hanging on the walls.”
“Yes, by all means,” she said.
