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It was bittersweet, this coming together when both knew it might be a while before they saw each other again. While she may not know details, she had gleaned enough information to realize that Colter was involved in some sort of espionage, and could only imagine that it entailed danger.
So there was this night with him, a night that may very well be their last. She clung to him with fierce emotion driving her reactions so that when he told her to get on top she did so without question, straddling him as he directed her to do.
It was so erotic, the slow slide of her body onto his, the exquisite intrusion sending shudders through her as she began to rock against him. In the gloom, she could see the sheen of his eyes watching her. That she was in control while he watched was exciting, too.
With her knees bent and legs folded on each side of him, she set the pace, lifting enough to tease him, her head tilted back, loose pale hair like a silken cloud down her bare back, the brush of it against her shoulder blades like a caress. Slowly she lowered her body until she heard him groan. His hands moved to her breasts, his fingers cleverly arousing her so that she gasped as heat spiraled through her veins again.
“Here, love,” he said softly when she rocked against him with almost frantic urgency. “Like this.” And he taught her the motion, his skilled hands tutoring her so that the point of quivering tension was stroked in a far different way than he’d massaged her before. She strained against his hand, learned that she could adjust the level of pleasure herself. With his whispered instructions in language that was direct but not obscene, he taught her about her own body.
“You’re made for pleasure,” he murmured. With a wicked smile she could barely see in the dusky shadows, he ran his hands from her breasts over her rib cage to the flat of her belly. “And that’s the sweetest part of it, love, that this is the way it’s meant to be. You like that, don’t you? Yes, I see that you do. God, you drive me crazy. I want to make love to you all night when you look at me like that, your eyes half-closed and that teasing smile on your mouth.”
She wanted to tell him that she loved the way he made her feel, loved what his hands were doing—and that she loved him. But all that would come out was a husky moan.
The wagon rocked on its wheels as the world exploded around her and she contracted around him in wave after wave of heated bliss. Then he was rolling over with her beneath him, his mouth on hers as he took her with sweet, fierce possession.
And Celia thought hazily that she heard him whisper her name when he lay at last atop her, spent, his arms around her as if she would flee, murmuring soft endearments. It was reassuring and comforting.
He left early the next morning, abandoning the warmth of the surprisingly comfortable bed they’d shared after a last kiss that only made her feel worse. She turned her face away to the wall so he wouldn’t see her tears. Neither of them had slept much, but made love again and again, drawing comfort from each other, and Colter had been more tender than ever before, as if to soothe her fears—or say a final farewell.
24
Jacqueline hadn’t slept for two days. Sick with worry, she had finally dozed off when word came that Northington had returned to London.
Sitting up on the lounge where she lay, she burst out, “Where is Celia? Oh, Jules, tell me he has her with him and that she’s all right…Oh no, don’t shake your head at me, when you know I want the truth—”
“My love, be strong,” Jules said, crossing to her and going on one knee beside the low lounge. “He claims not to know where she is. The Runners say they cannot find her, that she was last seen with him, but they cannot be certain it was really her.”
A choked sob hung in her throat, and she shook her head wildly. “But the note…it just doesn’t sound like her to go off without telling me. I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it! He has to know—he was with her. I saw them at the opera together…Oh, and there was another man, if only I could remember his name.” She stared beseechingly at her husband. “Do you think this has anything to do with the robbery?”
“It’s possible.” Jules squeezed her hand tightly. “We have to have faith she’s all right, my love. She did send a note—”
“No, no, it wasn’t right, it just wasn’t right! Oh, won’t anyone listen to me? Celia wouldn’t have written it that way, wouldn’t have just disappeared like that unless there’s something terribly wrong.” She drew in a shaky breath. “No one seems to think the robbery that took place while we were at the opera is important since nothing of value was taken. But Lily says that Celia’s trunks were searched, and that Janey is no doubt part of the blame. Oh God.” She bit her lip, stared at her husband as if he could magically produce Celia and whispered, “I have a terrible feeling that, despite what the police say, the two things are somehow connected.”
Jules didn’t believe her. Oh, he didn’t say it aloud, but it was plain from his distracted patting of her hand and murmured comfort that he thought she was wrong. Despair was an ache. She’d failed Celia, failed Léonie. Northington must know where she was. Why wouldn’t he tell anyone? She had to know—and she intended to know.
Lying back on the lounge, she murmured, “I’m distraught and need to rest, Jules. Please be kind enough to send Hester to me with a soothing drink.”
“Yes, yes, my dearest, I will. Right away!”
Once Jules had left the room, Jacqueline rose from the lounge and went to her cherry writing desk. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped a new pen into the inkwell and began to scrawl a note, pausing twice to think before she continued.
When Hester arrived with a cup of hot milk and butter, she was told to post the note at once by messenger.
“Give him a coin to assure its swift delivery,” she added, and the maid nodded as she left with the sealed note.
Tomorrow, Jacqueline thought, she would ask Northington herself.
“My lord Northington is not in,” the butler said once again, his face impassive as he regarded Jacqueline with an air of polite curiosity, “as I have told you, my lady. Please leave your card and I will—”
“No. He may not wish to speak with me, but I wish to speak with him, and I will not accept a refusal.” She peeled off her gloves with abrupt, angry motions, eyeing the butler with determination. “I have faced much worse things than an irate viscount, and I will not be intimidated. Tell your master that I will not go away until he answers my question. He’ll see me.”
After the barest of hesitations, the man inclined his head and withdrew, leaving her standing in the entrance hall instead of showing her to a parlor. She would not be shunted off to wait in a closed room, but intended to remain visible until he relented.
A few moments later, Northington descended from the upper floor, an expression of mild interest on his handsome face.
“My lady Leverton, I’m afraid your visit is futile. I cannot answer your question because I have nothing to tell you.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, “you do. I am not a child, sir, and will not be fobbed off. I hear things, and I know that you are not quite what you seem.”
