Page 29

TWENTY-TWO

I do wish that you would sit down, Slater,” Ursula said. “Watching you pace back and forth like a caged lion is making me nervous. I have already sustained a fair amount of stress today.”

They were in her study. She was seated on a stool in front of the fire, drying her hair and drinking the medicinal dose of brandy that Mrs. Dunstan had poured for her.

There had been very few words spoken in the hansom.

Slater had locked one arm around her and virtually imprisoned her.

For the most part he had simply repeated her name and asked her over and over again if she was all right.

She had assured him each time that she was fine while secretly taking comfort in his strength and the warmth and the scent of him.

She was accustomed to being alone but in the aftermath of the near disaster she had to admit to herself that she was very glad of Slater’s company. The sense of intimacy would not last but at the moment it was a blessing like no other.

The moment they walked into the front hall of her town house, Mrs. Dunstan had taken charge, ushering her upstairs and into a warm bath. By the time she emerged, the early dark of a winter night had settled on the city.

She had put on a dressing gown and descended the stairs to the study to dry her hair in front of the fire. She had been shocked to discover that Slater was waiting for her.

She had hesitated in the doorway. The comfortable, loose-fitting dressing gown with its long skirts and full sleeves was quite modest. Indeed, the fashion journals considered such gowns suitable attire for ladies to wear downstairs to breakfast. But there was no escaping the fact that there was a suggestion of intimacy about a dressing gown.

The style, after all, had been inspired by the French.

She had walked into the study, thrilled not only by Slater’s presence but by her own daring. The burning look that Slater had given her had warmed her as nothing else could have done. She had unwrapped the towel that bound her wet hair and sat down on the stool in front of the hearth.

Mrs. Dunstan had brought in a tray with a light supper of hot vegetable soup, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and bread. Slater had spoken little during the meal. He had helped himself to some of the cheese and bread and devoted himself to prowling the small space while Ursula dined.

It was not until Mrs. Dunstan had removed the tray that Ursula realized that the expression in Slater’s eyes was the heat of controlled anger, not desire. He was in a dangerous mood.

“I’m making you nervous?” he asked. “How the devil do you think I felt when I realized Rosemont’s shop was on fire and there was no sign of you anywhere?”

Ursula adjusted the towel around her shoulders and reached for the brandy glass.

“Very well,” she said, trying to acknowledge his point with grace. She swallowed some brandy and set the glass aside. “I do comprehend that you may have been somewhat startled by the fire.”

“Startled?” Slater closed the distance between them with two long strides, reached down and hauled her up off the stool.

“ Startled? Madam, I was teetering on the brink of madness when I saw you emerge from the alley door. It’s a wonder I’m not being fitted for a straitjacket and booking a room in an asylum at this very moment. ”

Her own temper flashed like lightning. “I am very sorry you are so overset by recent events, Mr. Roxton, but I would remind you that I am the one who nearly died today.”

“Good Lord, woman, don’t you think I realize that? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you understand?”

“It’s not as if I intended to end up in a house fire.”

“You should never have gone to that shop alone. If you hadn’t mentioned your destination to your housekeeper—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

“It was a perfume shop, for heaven’s sake, a place that Anne had evidently visited any number of times.”

“Exactly. And I would remind you that Anne Clifton is dead. What were you thinking?”

She opened her mouth to answer him but she never got the chance. He yanked her hard against his chest and kissed her with a fierceness that stole her breath.

The kiss was not meant to summon her response, nor was it an exploratory kiss intended to woo her and invite her into greater intimacy.

This was a lightning strike of a kiss, meant to lay waste to any thought of resistance.

It was a claiming, conquering kiss, a kiss fueled by a wildfire of desire and demand.

Slater branded her with the kiss as though he was intent on marking her as his and his alone.

The kiss ignited her senses.

After a stunned few seconds, an electrifying thrill arced through her. She was consumed with a deep, aching urgency, a need that matched the primal forces she sensed in Slater.

She wrapped her arms around him and threw herself into the sensual battle. He responded with a shuddering groan that reverberated through every fiber of her being. The towel around her shoulders fell to the floor.

Without warning, Slater broke off the kiss and set her a few inches away, his hands locked around her forearms.

“Don’t move,” he said.

His low, husky command sent another wave of shivery excitement through her.

He released her, crossed the room to the door and turned the key in the lock.

The ominous clink of iron-on-iron rang like a distant thunder in the small space.

When he paced back toward her, yanking at the knot of his black tie, the dark promise in his eyes sent a delicious shiver of anticipation through her.

By the time he reached her the strip of silk dangled around his neck. He stood still, not touching her. She knew that he was waiting for some sign.

Fingers trembling, she reached up and undid the first button of his shirt.

That was all he needed. He clamped his hands around her waist, lifted her up off the ground and sat her on the edge of her desk. Before she realized his intention, he pushed the skirts of the dressing gown up over her knees and moved between her legs.

“Slater.”

She did not say anything else. Torn between shock and a rush of feverish excitement, she could not find any more words.

He anchored her with one hand wrapped around the back of her neck and kissed her again.

She arched into the embrace, tightening her legs around his thighs.

She savored the exotic drug that was his scent, a mix of sweat, soap and the unique essence that was Slater.

No other man had ever clouded her senses in such a way.

And then he was undoing the fastenings at the front of the dressing gown.

The layers of velvet and lace fell apart at his touch as though made of clouds and mist. There was no corset or camisole to bar his way.

When his palm covered her breast she closed her eyes and turned her head into his shoulder to suppress a small cry.

“Half of London wonders why I have not shown any interest in forming a liaison with a woman,” Slater said. His thumb and forefinger tightened gently around one nipple. “I have asked myself the same question from time to time. But now I have the answer.”

She looked up at him through half-closed eyes and kissed his throat.

“What is the answer?” she asked, astonished by the sultry sound of her own voice.

He moved his hand from her breast to her knee. Deliberately he eased his palm up under the skirts of the gown, along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and found the hot, wet place between her legs. She took a sharp breath, shivering in response to the intimacy.

“I was waiting for you,” he said. “I just didn’t know it until I met you.”

“Slater.”

This time she said his name in an aching whisper because she could barely speak at all now.

She slipped her hand inside his partially open shirt and flattened her palm on his chest. She could feel the hard, sleek muscle beneath his warm skin.

He stroked her, drawing forth a response that took her by storm. His touch had a shattering effect on her senses. An unfamiliar tension built inside her. When he tugged on the sensitive bud at the top of her sex, her nails turned into small claws on his chest.

He slipped two fingers gently inside her. She caught her breath, instinctively tightening herself against the sensual invasion. The clenching action only served to ratchet up the tension.

In the early days of her marriage, before she had discovered the weaknesses in Jeremy’s character, she had enjoyed his kisses and thought herself content with the physical side of marriage.

Jeremy had been nothing if not charming and he had accounted himself an expert lover.

But even at the dawn of their relationship when she had still been in the giddy, hopeful phase of love, she had never experienced the level of excitement that gripped her now.

Perhaps it was the result of having very nearly perished in the fire. Perhaps the doctors were correct—maybe widowhood took a toll on a woman’s nerves. Whatever the reason, her reaction to Slater stunned her.

“I cannot take any more of this torment,” he said against her throat. “I need to be inside you. I need it more than I have ever needed anything in my life.”

He opened the front of his trousers, freeing his heavy erection. She was shocked anew when she looked down and saw the size of the man.

But before she could decide what to do next, he pushed her knees wider apart, gripped her hips with both hands and thrust hard and deep into her wet heat.

Instinctively she clenched herself around him but he withdrew and plunged back into her, again and again until she was breathless and desperate.

Without warning the coiled tension that had tightened her lower body was released in a series of deep waves.

She was not sure what was happening. She tumbled helplessly over a seemingly endless waterfall. She clutched Slater’s shoulders and hung on for dear life.

Slater gave a muffled roar. He thrust deep one last time.

But instead of pouring himself into her, he pulled free.

In the next instant his climax ripped through him.

She felt the hot stream spill across her bare thigh, heard his ragged breathing and sensed the shuddering tremors that pounded through him.

When it was over he braced himself with both hands on the desk on either side of her body and leaned over her, his eyes tightly closed. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead and dampened his chest.

“Ursula,” he said. “Ursula.”

An eerie hush descended on the study. Ursula knew that when reality returned, nothing would ever be the same—not for her.