Page 89 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“But why wouldn’t that person have used the knowledge against your father earlier? Why wouldn’t he have been getting money from your father for years in return for not telling?”

“Papa was never very flush with money.”

“Maybe, but anything’s better than nothing. And there’s Feringham—he’s well off, isn’t he? Why not blackmail him as well?”

“We don’t know that they weren’t blackmailed.”

“We can ask him, but I think Feringham would have mentioned that today if he had been.”

“The most likely thing is that my father or Russell told someone,” Annabeth said. “Maybe let it slip some night when he’d been drinking. Maybe Papa even told this ‘master spy’ about it.”

“Which would indicate it was one of your father’s friends.”

“Not really. Papa was friends with everyone when he was in his cups. Or the person could have overheard him telling someone or even just talking to Russell about it.”

“Edgerton would certainly be the easier choice of villain.” Sloane paused, then said quietly, “What if it is him? Would you want him brought to trial? Make your mother face the scandal and the pain?”

Annabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “No, of course I don’t want her to face that. Oh, Sloane...”

He crossed the room to her, opening his arms, and she folded herself into his embrace. “I hate this so. Learning all this about Papa and Uncle Russell...it’s horrid. I wish I’d never heard any of it.”

“I know.” He held Annabeth close to him, bending his head down to rest against hers. “I’m so sorry, my love.” He had tried to protect her from it, and he had failed miserably at every turn. That knowledge burned within him. Sloane tightened his arms around her, murmuring, “My love, my love.”

Annabeth pulled back a little, looking up into his face. Her eyes were huge and bright with tears, her mouth soft and inviting. “Kiss me, Sloane.”

He went still, her words so much what he wanted to hear that he thought he might have imagined it. “Anna...” He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted to do as she said, to kiss her until the rest of the world went away, to drown himself in her love. “No. I can’t. You’re not thinking. This isn’t what you want.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.” She went up on her toes and pressed her lips softly against his.

They were warm and soft and tasted like springtime and sweet cherries and all the good things he’d almost forgot existed when Annabeth hadn’t been in his life. Then she opened her mouth to his and the world seemed to spin around him, pulling him down into his endless hunger. He kissed her back, his arms tightening around her, squeezing her to him. Her body was soft and pliant against his, stoking his desire. He slid his hand down her back, curving over her bottom and pressing her against him, wanting her to feel how much he wanted her, aching to satisfy that want. Annabeth made a soft little murmur and moved against him in a primal way that sent his hunger rocketing.

He pulled his mouth from hers in a last desperate attempt to control the situation. “I would be a scoundrel to take advantage of you in your vulnerable state.”

She looked at him, a tantalizing little smile forming on her lips. “I’ve always had a fondness for scoundrels.”

Her words were like a spark to tinder. Sloane stood still for a moment longer, in a last futile battle with his body. He knew Annabeth was not for him, knew she was right in saying he always hurt her, knew that this time with her was quickly coming to an end and he would never see her again. But was it so wrong to have this one last moment with her, to take this pleasure and happiness with him into a bleak future without her? Could he not just give in? After all, Annabeth was a woman who knew her own mind.

“Make love to me, Sloane,” Annabeth said softly. And he was lost.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SWINGING HER UP into his arms, Sloane carried Annabeth into the adjoining room. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her head on his shoulder. He could feel the soft brush of her breath on his neck, teasing his desire even higher. Sloane shoved the door closed with his foot and set Annabeth down on her feet by the bed.

He ached to let the storm of his passion loose, to rip their clothes off and tumble down onto the bed in a wild cataclysm. But more than that, he wanted to savor making love to Annabeth, to take his time and make the moment last. This was what he would have of her for the rest of his life, and he hungered for her love more than he hungered for the satisfaction.

Slowly he unfastened her clothes and slipped them from her body, tossing her pelisse onto the chair and following it with her dress. His eyes roamed down her, taking in the swell of her breasts beneath the camisole and the dark circle of her nipples that showed through the thin material, the narrowing of her waist and the rounded contour of her hips.

“What about you?” Annabeth murmured, her hands going to the buttons of his waistcoat.

“We’ll get to that.” He smiled sensually. “But first I must look at you.” He brushed his knuckles across her nipple, and it tightened. “You are so beautiful.”

“As are you.” She returned the smile, but let her hands drop to her sides. It was a small gesture, but one that shook him, a subtle giving herself up to him that betokened love and trust, an untrammeled openness to passion.

Sloane swallowed, pausing for a moment to leash the wild hunger within him. He tugged her down to sit on the bed, then knelt and removed her stockings, sliding them slowly, his fingers stroking her legs. He had done this the first time they made love, and somehow that memory made the pleasure almost bittersweet, knowing this would be the last time.

He removed the remainder of her undergarments, revealing every inch of her in the same slow, delicious way, and she lay back on the bed, linking her arms behind her head, the glow in her eyes conveying that his gaze stirred her as much as the sight of her stirred him.

Sloane pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside, removing the rest of his clothes without taking his eyes from her beauty. Bending over her, he stroked one hand down her body, exploring each dip and curve, running a finger along the hard line of her breastbone and cupping the softness of her breasts. His fingers slipped between her legs, and Annabeth opened to him. Her eyes were hot and hazy, and she moaned a little as he stroked her intimately.