"He said to tell you that there's a carriage waiting at the rear entrance and that you're to come to him as soon as you are ready. Would you like a breakfast tray?"

"No. No, thank you, Pembridge. I'll get dressed and be downstairs in five minutes."

Five minutes of sheer terror!

Because her files and shelves were br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with evidence that would give away the names and locations of her escapees. And Lydia was there. What if he searched the upper floors?

And why wouldn't he? They belonged to him!"/ belong to him!"And she had lulled herself into some giggling romantic stupor. Dreaming of the man's touch, when all along the blackguard had been plotting to seize her a.s.sets and overthrow her empire while she wasn't looking.

She was about to make sure that it would never happen again.

She needed to remember to add a suggestion to Unbridled Embraces: Keep your husband busy in your marriage bed and he'll never wander off and get himself into trouble.

Chapter 15.

How you talk, husband. Don't you see that I am too busy. I have a committee tomorrow morning, and I have my speech on the great crochet question to prepare for the evening.

"The Parliamentary Female," Punch cartoon Mistress of the House and Member of Parliament, 18 53 "Here's this morning's Manchester Guardian, Lord Blakestone," Skye said, dropping still another newspaper onto the library table.

His wife's three young a.s.sistants seemed to have been laying in wait for him the moment he left the visitors' parlor and started across the foyer. They had summarily shuffled him into the library, plunked him down into this very chair, and strewn the table with heaps of newspapers.

That had been ten minutes ago, and they were still feeding him tea and pots of coffee, and one delicious pastry after another.

h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, he'd come to the Adams to pack up the visitors' parlor, but he'd barely gotten the chance to breathe.

And just as he was about to bellow in protest, he heard a voice in the library doorway that brought him to his feet.

"Good morning, Lord Blakestone."

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, she'd grown even more beautiful in the few hours since he'd left her peacefully sleeping in his bed. Though her face was flushed now, her eyes wide and bright, and her hair swept up into a loose knot instead of fanned out across his pillow.

"Good morning... Miss Dunaway." He'd almost called her wife, but her a.s.sistants didn't yet know what had pa.s.sed between them last night. He would leave it to their mistress to break the news.

"Look who's here, Miss Elizabeth!" Jessica said, as though the woman had trouble with her hearing.

"I see that, Jessica. " His wife smiled at him, a businesslike show of trust.

Or a flat-out lie.Because as he took another look around him at the chirpy behavior of his wife's efficient a.s.sistants, he saw the sudden flash of a pantomime.

Three amusing clowns.

Three agile dancers.

Three sleight-of-hand jugglers.

And their beautifully inscrutable ringmaster.

Of course, Elizabeth hadn't had time to tell them that he knew about the bank fraud charges and the other activities that pointed back here to the Adams. They might have been protecting her. Working in concert to keep him from getting too close to Elizabeth's secrets.

"Thank you for taking such good care of his lordship, ladies." Elizabeth gave them all a pointed smile. "I'll handle him for now."

"Is that a promise, wife?" he asked after the young women were well out of earshot. "You'll handle me?"

But it must not have struck her as witty. She was frowning at him.

"Why are you here, Blakestone?" The subject was obviously as tender now as it had been the night before. Pursed lips, clipped words, brows drawn together.

"To clear my things from my makeshift office in the parlor."

"Why?"

"Because I won't be using it anymore."

"Why?"

"Because you'll be sleeping at the Huntsman with me until I can... we can temporarily hire a town house."

"Why didn't you just wait for me?"

"I did wait, love." He couldn't help his smile as he left his place at the table to be closer to her. "I watched you sleep for nearly an hour."

"Why?" She blinked at him, feathering those thick lashes that he'd marveled at that morning, watching her flawless cheeks begin to flame.

"I couldn't help myself." Could barely contain his l.u.s.t for her at the time.

Or now.

"So you finally grew bored and made a beeline for the Adams. My Adams!"

Hers, his, theirs. Such a p.r.i.c.kly obstacle. But how to state his position clearly enough so that she would trust his promise not to get in her way.

At least not much.

"I was far from bored, wife." He could have watched her all day.

"Then just get it over with. Tell me that you've decided to close down the Abigail Adams, sell the building, and send everyone home to their husbands."

d.a.m.nation, he'd always wanted a wife with mettle enough not to back down from her opinions. And it seemed he got one.

"I don't recall saying anything about closing the Adams."

"No, but it's what you mean to do. As soon as you can manage it."

"At my own peril, my dear Elizabeth." He caught her around her slender waist, feeling thoroughly possessive of her parts. His wife. The fit of her shapes against his palm. "With you and Kate and the princess ganged up against me? Not to mention those three mountebanks who just left here. I'd stand a better chance as a s...o...b..ll in h.e.l.l."

For a moment he thought she was carefully weighing his words as she gazed up at him, holding fast to his arms as though to study him better. But her breathing had deepened, her pupils had darkened, the sea green of her eyes had brightened with a new kind of intimacy.

"Then I can go on with the Adams just as I have been?" She held his gaze. "You're not going to insist that I change anything?"

"Nothing at all. My word of honor."

She studied him for the longest time, doubtless weighing his word against that of every other man in her life.

She finally sighed. "I shouldn't have to thank you for allowing me my G.o.d-given rights, my lord. But I will."

She smiled and was rising up on her toes, a rosy, moist kiss on its way to his hungry mouth when his b.l.o.o.d.y conscience made him add: "Of course, my dear wife, you'll have to pa.s.s everything you do by me first."

She stopped abruptly, her eyes even wider, greener, her lips a scant inch from his. "I knew it. You don't trust me!"

She dropped back down off her toes with a huff, rescinding her kiss before she had bestowed it, a juicy plum stolen right out of his grasp.

"Madam, it's not a matter of trust."

"Ballocks!" She pulled out of his reach, her body fiercely tense, her voice a wall of calm. "You would never dare treat a man this way, would you? Insist that he clear his plans with you before he acts. Checking up on him in case he does something foolish. Is that what you think of me? That I'm incapable of making a rational decision?"

He opened his mouth to deny her accusation, but he knew she was righ 't - h e wouldn't have questioned a man's logic. Not on the surface.

What a b.l.o.o.d.y mess.

And what a lot of dancing he was going to have to do around this subject.

"In truth, Elizabeth, you're one of the most rational people I've ever met."

"So I'm your model of rationality? How frightening for you. To be surrounded by lunatics." She folded her arms against her chest, daring him to continue, when he'd so much rather take her up into his embrace.

And then the answer came to him. A truth.

"Think about it, Elizabeth. The greatest leaders in the world seek counsel from others. Good Lord, the prime minister has a cabinet to advise him. The queen has her privy council. In fact, I'm the current chairman of the board of the Huntsman; I never act alone."

She narrowed those l ashy eyes at him. "So you're offering to be my privy council?"

Now there was an enchanting proposal. "As privy as you'll allow me, my dear wife."

She studied him to the whispered beat of her dainty foot tapping beneath her skirts, her hands ba l led into fists and jammed against her hips. And the blush that looked so fine on her cheeks.

"Let's just say, for example, husband, that I want to offer a new cla.s.s to our schedule at the Adams. Let's call the cla.s.s 'How to Be a Scantily Clad Music Hall Dancer.' According to your rules, I would then convene a meeting with you, my privy counselor, and we would discuss it between us. Say you advise against it. But I think it's a marvelous idea. What then? Who wins? You or I?"

The minx. "Neither, madam. We obviously don't have enough information."

"And so?"

"We would then consult a solicitor, perhaps the Lord Mayor, the prime minister, the Times."

"And receive a resounding no! That's not fair." She flicked him a dismissive frown.

He caught her hand and turned her, hungry for her. Overwhelmed by this new realization that she was his wife. His unkissed bride.

"It might not be fair, my dear..." He slipped his hands around her waist, shaped them over the gentle rise of her bottom, trying to refocus her thoughts toward him, toward them, on this morning after their wedding night. "... But in this case, we would both agree that London is not yet ready for their ladies to learn how to be scantily clad music hall dancers. Am I right?"

"Possibly." She frowned down at his shirtfront, then fussed with a vest b.u.t.ton, tapping it, tapping away her reluctance. "In that particular case."

"And so the Abigail Adams avoids a scandal and your den of subversion survives to protest another day." He lifted her chin, lifting her gaze to his, exposing the soft ivory length of her throat to his fingers. And then to his mouth.

She tasted of roses. A garden. Bent her petals for him to kiss more lushly.

"Oh, my!" She grabbed fistfuls of his jacket, his arms, and used that to pull herself closer to him. To his mouth. To moan against his cheek. "That's... so... nice. Oh, Ross."

"So you see my point, wife." Now this was much better. With his bride trembling in his arms, offering herself to him, belly to groin, his mouth trailing over her skin wherever he could uncover it. "We work together. You and me. A team. Elizabeth and Ross."

"Don't you mean Ross, with Elizabeth in the back room?" She drew a long, sighing breath that ended in her bright, whispering laughter breaking just under his ear. "Or in the cellar?"

Christ, she was magnificent! "In the bedroom, wife. In my bed."

"That would keep both of us occupied and out of trouble." She was trailing the cool tips of her fingers along the back of his neck, riffling through his hair, ringing his collar, blowing little bursts of air against his temple.

"With any luck, we'd never get anything done." Her touch had stolen his will, and his remaining air, else he would have done more than growl out his pleasure. He leaned back hard against the bookcase and drew her with him, sinking into her glorious exploration.

"You smell of cinnamon, Ross." Her nostrils flared as she nibbled at the underside of his chin.

"Your... a.s.sistan 't... Ah, h.e.l.l!" He'd endured the p.u.s.s.yfooting, gut-knotting restraint long enough. Tossing away all sense of decorum, he filled his aching arms with his bride, caught her hips between his bent legs, then pulled her belly tightly against his groin.

"Ahhh, there it is again, Ross." She was looking up at him from beneath her fawn-colored brows, the sultry vixen, fragrant with honey and steamy vanilla. "That hard place of yours I've suggested wives must become well acquainted with."

"You seem well acquainted." Downright possessive, with the pressure she was wielding against him. A rolling motion. A music hall dancer.

She shook her head gravely, wetting her lips with her tongue. "Not well enough at all, husband."

Dear Lord, would he live through this long day? Would he survive the restraint? Would he make it to their bed without taking her here on the floor of the library, or there on the table? Right here against the wall of bookcases?

"May I take that as an invitation?" May I take you, wife? Swallow you whole, drink at your lips, drown in your bosom?

"We have to start somewhere, Ross. Someplace." She pulled away from him just slightly, but only to stagger him breathless as she reached up to put her fingers flat against his mouth, as though trying to memorize their shape.

"That's a good place, wife. Very good." His muscles had long ago seized up in his arms, in his thighs as they gripped her around her lithe hips, ach i ng with the dizzying need to mount his own exploration of her mounds and valley. But this was a busy, bustling library.

And he wanted to strip her to her bare skin. Rip off his own clothes. Naked love.

"Now, husband, for that kiss." Then his thoroughly bewitching wife smiled like a wily cat, rose up the rest of the way on her toes.

He was beyond waiting, beyond starving for a taste of her. As she wrapped her fingers indelicately in his hair and pulled him closer, Ross cradled the back of her head with his hands, covered her full mouth with his own, then dove deeply into her kiss.

Plunging into her softness, then nibbling, tugging, dancing with tongues and teeth.