Page 6 of Submitting to the Widow
His father before him had been a banker and East India agent who’d kept a townhouse in London, the one on Berkeley Square which Stephen now called home. The elder Forsythe had spent little time at Hawkshead, the family estate except for obligatory holidays. And Stephen could hardly blame him. His mother had made life a living hell for anyone intrepid enough to venture into her immediate presence. Stephen had used his many years of education as a convenient excuse to stay away as well, and now he was his own, albeit solitary, man.
He suddenly stopped in a clearing and circled slowly before settling on a fairly flat stump that wouldn’t do too much damage to the trousers Murray had pressed just that morning. He collapsed his long, lanky frame onto the low seat and settled in to sit, stare, and think.
He needed to think about the list of four names he’d been given by Captain Eleanor Goodrum. He’d had to pledge to find out the whereabouts and situations of each and report back anything nefarious he could find about their background to the fearsome woman before she’d agreed to give him the name and address of the current holder of his damned journal pages.
The first name he was already familiar with - Squire Harold Pinchot, a wealthy landowner whom Stephen had met, albeit through correspondence only, a number of years earlier. He’d been charged, without merit he claimed, with the murder of the town laundress. Pinchot had sent all the way to London to demand Stephen represent him before the local magistrate.
Stephen had been puzzled at the time as to why he’d sent for him. However, he’d replied with his regrets and a list of possible barristers in Bath the man could contact. And that had been the last he’d heard of the man. He’d assumed the charges had been dismissed, but maybe he’d look up Henry Pullman, the current justice of the peace in Bath. Surely he’d remember the details of an infamous Combe Down murder case.
Another man on the list, James J. Hawkins, the owner of Combe Quarry, had died the year before, and his son, Hawkins II, now managed the business.
That left Dr. Bartholomew Smythe, the local physician, and the owner of the local cloth mill, Samuel Pryne.
Stephen had to admit he was curious about what Captain El wanted with the men, but no matter her motives, he was certain he wouldn’t want to be a person of interest on any list connected to El Goodrum.
Now that he’d sorted through his options, he had a plan. He’d send Murray around to check on Dr. Smythe and Pryne, and then he’d meet Henry for a pint at the Saracens Head in Bath for the full story on what had happened to the mysterious Squire Pinchot.
But before that, he had a score to settle with a certain Indian baroness. He’d make her wish she’d never threatened him with exposing his journal pages.
* * *
The soundof the brass knocker falling against the heavy oaken front door of the manor created a shock that traveled from Jane’s breastbone all the way down to her lower belly.
Stephen Forsythe must have come to a decision. She tried to ignore the buzz of expectation threading through her limbs but found it hard to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest and racing to the door without her.
She took deep breaths and waited for Raj to announce him. “Mr. Stephen Forsythe,” Raj intoned, emphasizing the “Mr.” a little more loudly than necessary.
He walked past Raj as if the servant did not exist and came directly to Jane’s side.
“What have you…?” Jane’s words died in her mouth when he wordlessly took her hands in his and kissed the back of each in turn. When he took her long middle finger and suckled the digit deep within his mouth, her quim exploded with sensation.
Without warning, he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and sat with her on his lap on the chaise longue at the end of the tinkling waterfall in the conservatory.
She waved frantically behind her back, hoping Raj and the other servants would realize it was time to leave her alone with the surprisingly adept barrister.
Jane’s dark eyes fixed on his intense green gaze before breaking out into an unladylike giggle. “It looks as though you’ve decided to earn the return of your journal pages.”
“I live to serve, milady,” he said, before carefully turning her and reverently moving her legs to either side of his hips till she faced him, their heads close together. The delicate silk of her gown rucked up to either side of her hips, exposing lengths of lightly tanned thighs. When he rubbed his hands gently from the inside of her knees to the apex of her thighs beneath her skirts, the muscles in her legs tensed and she trembled.
His hand brushed lightly over her mound. and a single finger trailed through her cleft. He withdrew his hand and thoughtfully sucked her nectar from his fingertips. After running his tongue over his top lip, he seemed lost in thought for a moment and then moved close to her ear to whisper, “You were naughty this morning and pleasured yourself. You didn’t wait for me.” He licked his fingers again. “There will be consequences later.”
She stiffened when he moved his face closer to hers and then gasped when he began brushing butterfly-soft kisses across her forehead. She closed her eyes involuntarily but could still feel his intense, wide-eyed gaze on her.
Suddenly, his mouth was close to her right ear, and he whispered, “Open to me, Jane. Open your mouth.”
“Why…?”
He silenced her with reverent, soft kisses to each of her eyelids.
Back at her ear, he demanded this time, low but insistent. “You must open to me, Jane. I have to be inside you to taste and feel what it is you crave. I have to know you, Jane, and we don’t have much time.”
Jane opened her mouth tentatively, with a huff of warm breath.
He took her tongue and organ of taste captive, sucking insistently and pulling her close until her breasts pressed against his practical woolen waistcoat. Absently, she realized through a haze of need that his pocket watch pressed against her lower belly.
When he took control of her nipples with his thumbs through the slippery thin fabric of her morning dress, Jane gave out an involuntary moan and regretted the sound immediately. If Raj thought she was being mistreated… That thought blew entirely out of her mind in the next searing seconds.
They were pressed so tightly together, they seemed to move as one. She couldn’t tell where she ended or where he began. The scents they both gave off in the heat of tight proximity were like points on a compass, showing her the way to what she craved.