As though she could read the yearning etched on hisfeatures—when had he lost the ability to give none of his thoughts away?—she looked back toward the residence and quickly straightened. “She’s moving about. Or someone is. It appears light, probably lamplight, is bobbing down the stairs that lead to the entryway.”
Small windows at two levels lit up and then descended into darkness. The glow finally brightened the windows on either side of the door. As though the illumination was wielded by a sorcerer with the ability to conjure, a coach came down the quiet street and stopped a short distance away.
Grabbing Marguerite, Bishop ducked down, shielding her, although with his coat around her, she was probably more invisible than the sleeves of his shirt. Thank goodness for his dark waistcoat and trousers. Peering through the foliage, he watched as a footman hopped down, raced to the gate, unlocked it, and swung both sides open. The vehicle was already moving before he jumped back on board.
“She’s going somewhere,” Marguerite whispered, her breath skimming along his throat from where she was tucked up against him, and he didn’t know if he’d felt anything as sensual in his entire life.
“Or someone else is leaving,” he said.
“Must you offer an alternative to everything I suggest?”
“You would lose all respect for me and my deciphering abilities if I didn’t take on the role of the devil’s advocate.”
“You assume I have any respect for you at all.”
“I don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t.”
He felt the light touch of her lips along the underside of his jaw before she straightened and movedquickly away from him, causing leaves to rustle in her wake. “Where are you going?”
“I’m trying to see if it’s her or someone else.” She’d made it to the edge of the gate by the time he caught up with her. “It’s her.”
“It’s a woman in a hooded pelisse. It could be a friend, a sister—”
“We need to follow.”
The good news was that they didn’t need to pass in front of the gate in order to retrace their steps back to his coach, which fortunately was facing in an advantageous direction. He gave his coachman the orders to move into position and follow at a discreet distance the coach that would soon be leaving the Mallard residence. As he climbed in and took his seat opposite Marguerite, he could feel the excitement thrumming through her and found himself wishing he was the cause of it.
What respectable only-a-few-days-a-widow went out in the dead of night?
As the carriage clattered through the streets, Daisy knew her thoughts should be focused on determining an array of possibilities that would satisfy that question, but her mind seemed suddenly unable to concentrate on anything other than the feel of Bishop’s bristly jaw against her lips a few minutes earlier. Had he commented on her brushing them over his skin, she would have lied—complete honesty be hanged—and told him that it had happened accidentally, that she’d lost her balance when she’d made to move away from him. Much as she had that night of the nipple incident. Not that she could refer to it as such to him. The settee incident. Much better.
But thus far she’d been spared the inquisition and, therefore, had run her tongue over her lips several times as though she could still taste his saltiness, feel the softness of his skin hovering beneath the bristle, waiting for a closer inspection. Nestled within his protective embrace, she’d inhaled his bergamot and orange fragrance deeply into her lungs and discovered a hint of dark scotch and leather. While she’d never enjoyed the flavor of scotch, she’d always liked the scent of it, so manly and bold. It suited him.
While she knew now that they were back in the carriage that she should hand over his coat, and she’d already absorbed all the warmth it could provide, she couldn’t bring herself to give up this little piece of him. She didn’t want him messing with her senses or her sensibilities, and yet she was powerless to stop him from breaching her defenses.
She yearned for another kiss and more. To be on his lap, to have his hands stroking her. It was a struggle to remember he was a client and this matter was business. To demonstrate her professionalism. When all she wanted was to climb all over him.
He’d pulled the curtains again to protect her reputation, but a lamp had been lit so they could see each other with a bit more clarity. She almost asked him to remove his waistcoat and cravat, loosen a few buttons, so she could pretend he was sitting on his bedchamber settee waiting for her.
She lifted the curtain slightly to gaze out. “I don’t recognize where we are.”
“My coachman will know, and he’ll remember the route should you need to traverse it later.”
Releasing the curtain, she studied the manner inwhich the shadows played over the contours of one side of his face while the light toyed with the other. Was there a single environment in which he didn’t appear devilishly handsome? “Is that the reason you didn’t let him go when he took me to the Cerberus Club? He warned me that you would.”
“It would take too much effort to train someone to follow my exacting standards. It’s the reason Perkins has no fear of finding himself on the street. I’m not as concerned with obeyance as I am with competence. Besides, I find a bit of rebellion a good thing, a sign of an independent thinker. I value a man—or a woman—who can anticipate what I need before I ask for it.”
His voice had gone low, his eyes dark, and she wondered if his needs at that precise moment matched hers.
The carriage began to slow. Once more she glanced out, as did he. They were on a street of terrace houses, and the vehicle had settled into a crawl. Because she was facing forward, she could see the coach they’d been following had stopped in front of a building and a woman was being handed down. “It’s her. It’s Mrs. Mallard.”
Once they were past the coach, he said, “I saw which residence she went into, but I couldn’t see who opened the door to her.”
He let the curtain fall back into place, as did she. “What now?” he asked. “Do we bang on the door and confront her? And accuse her of what exactly?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll come back tomorrow, discreetly ask around, perhaps knock on the door as a flower seller or something. Discover who lives there. See if I can uncover anything else that might prove useful in our quest.”
“You don’t want to go into hiding to see how long she stays?”
