Page 20 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

He reached out his hands and caught her shadowy form by the upper arms before she ran into him, prompting another gasp. “Was that—was that meant to be a…bird call?” he asked.

“A magpie, yes.” She tipped her chin up and the bit of light that had managed to make its way into the room from the windows glittered in her eyes. “But I confess, I don’t really know what they sound like. I read up, as I told you before, so I know they often mimic other noises—other birds, I suppose. But what their natural call might be, I couldn’t—”

“Harsher. More grating.” His own voice was low and rough, but he held out little hope she’d take any hint from it. “Thoroughly unpleasant to the ear.”

This time he felt her breath catch, rather than heard it, and her whole body went still. “Oh.”

“Have you had a chance to look for the book?”

She shook her head. “I’ve only just managed to get away from the dancing.”

He wasn’t surprised the countess was a desirable partner. She certainly could be charming enough. And with her in that red dress, even a gentleman would look for any opportunity to draw her lithe figure close.…

“No matter,” he said, abruptly releasing her and setting her a little apart. “I think it’s best if I look and you return to the party. I don’t want to make Dulsworthy suspicious of your behavior.”

Her lips parted on a tiny huff of sound that might have been intended for a laugh. “No, that wouldn’t do, would it?”

“Is this room the most likely place for him to have laid it? Has he a sitting room off his bedchamber, for instance?”

Though he was no longer touching her, he felt her bristle. “I wouldn’t know, Major Stanhope. Lord Dulsworthy and I are not on such intimate terms as that.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest—” he began.

But in truth, he had. For reasons that he was beginning to fear lay far beyond the scope of his usual investigations, he wanted—needed—to know whether she and Dulsworthy really did intend to marry. Whether they were, in fact, already lovers.

Never before had a vague, incomplete dossier troubled him quite like Lady Kingston’s did.

“Where else might he have stashed it?” he asked, trying to shift the subject.

“I—I suppose it’s possible he tossed it in his phaeton on his way home—we’d been out driving that day. Or palmed it off on a servant when he returned to the house.”

Damn. Perhaps he’d shed his borrowed livery too soon.

“It’s—it’s so unlike him to be careless,” she murmured.

Less and less did Langley think the man’s behavior was a sign of carelessness, but he still did not know the meaning of it. “Then it seems most likely to be in this room. You go enjoy the supper, make up some excuse for your absence. I’ll light a candle and have a look arou—”

The door rattled in its frame, as if something had fallen against it. Then someone whispered—or thought he whispered—drunkenly, “How ’bout here?”

A feminine giggle, followed by somewhat quieter words in a voice he could have sworn belonged to the woman he’d passed on the stairs. “Ohhhh. You’re an eager one! But upstairs…” she pleaded.

Langley pictured her pulling the man along the corridor with her, in search of some hidden place for a tryst, a theory confirmed when the door rattled again as if the man’s weight had been lifted from it. Langley dared to let himself breathe.

Then the latch clicked and the man said, “I’m not waiting for a proper bed.”

Lady Kingston flailed in the darkness and, finding his arm, gripped it and whispered frantically, “What are we going to do?”

They could hide, of course. The drunken couple would be too busy to bother noticing they weren’t alone in the room. Of course, that would mean crouching with Lady Kingston in the darkness, just feet away from whatever went on between the other two. Waiting. Overhearing…everything.

The list of things a man and woman might do, even without a proper bed, was long.

“Kiss me,” Langley said, throwing his arms around her again.

When the door flew open, the faint light of the corridor would illuminate just enough of the two of them, locked in an apparent embrace, to persuade the couple they needed to look elsewhere for a trysting spot. Not enough that he and Lady Kingston could be identified. He hoped.

“I beg your pardon?” Within the circle of his arms, she grew rigid but did not struggle. “Did you say—?”

“Kiss. Me.” He almost growled the command the second time, no opportunity to explain his plan as the door swung inward.