And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (28 page)

L
ater that night, James climbed through the back parlor window of Lord Arthur Cynster’s house. “Thank you,” he whispered to the shadowy figure who had opened the window and waved him inside.

“If you want to thank me, just make sure Henrietta gets through this, happy and alive.” Mary closed the window, locked it, paused, then amended, “In reverse order will be perfectly acceptable.”

Wrapped in a thick robe with a shawl knotted about her shoulders, without further words she crossed to the door, opened it, glanced out, then impatiently beckoned him to follow.

James made his way across the room, stepped quietly into the corridor, and shut the door. Mary held a finger to her lips, then proceeded to lead him through the silent house. Into the front hall and up the main stairs, she walked confidently but made little sound; James did his best to emulate her, praying they wouldn’t encounter any members of the household on some midnight excursion.

Mary led him around the gallery, then down a corridor; she halted outside a door, glanced at him, and tipped her head toward the panels. “That’s her room. Everyone’s been in bed for an hour, so she might be asleep. Make sure she doesn’t scream.”

James inwardly frowned. Before he could respond, Mary blithely went on, “I assume you can find your way back out?”

“Yes. Of course.” It hadn’t been a complicated journey.

“Good. You’d better make sure you leave early enough to escape notice—I don’t want any repercussions over this. Just leave the window closed—I’ll lock it when I go down in the morning.”

There really was no limit to her brassy bossiness, but she had helped him tonight, and for that he was grateful; she hadn’t had to agree, but beneath her self-assured schoolma’amish arrogance, James sensed she really was anxious over Henrietta, and he could find no fault with that.

Closing his hand about the doorknob, he inclined his head.

With a regal nod, Mary glided on and away.

He didn’t wait to see where she went but turned the knob, opened the door, slipped through, and quietly closed it behind him.

Although no candle burned, there was enough light to see. Two wide windows were uncurtained, and moonlight washed across the polished boards to lap about and across a large tester bed. The head of the bed and the pillows remained in shadow, but even as he started across the floor, James heard a rustle, then saw the covers move.

Mary’s admonition about making sure Henrietta didn’t scream blared in his mind.

“James?” Henrietta sat up; instinctively holding the sheets to her chest, she peered past the spill of moonlight into the gloom beyond. “Is that you?”

Even as she whispered the words, the thought that it might not be him, the fear of who it might be instead, flared in her mind but was immediately doused by some rock-solidly sure part of her that—somehow—knew beyond question that the indistinct figure shrouded in gloom was James.

“Yes.” He walked into the moonlight and crossed to the bed.

She looked up at him, drank in the sight. He halted beside the bed and looked down at her in the same way—as if just seeing her, setting eyes on her face, looking into her eyes, was an end in itself, a balm to both mind and emotions. They both took the minute, used it, then she held out a hand. “I’m glad you came.”

He closed his fingers firmly around hers. When she tugged, he obliged and sat on the side of the bed, facing her. “I had to see you. I needed to speak with you. I asked Mary to help me, and she let me in.”

Henrietta smiled fleetingly. “I must remember to thank her.”

His gaze rose to her head, to the bandage still circling it. “How’s your head?”

“Sore where the ball grazed, but otherwise it doesn’t hurt.” Curling her legs beneath the sheets, leaving her hand in his, she shifted closer, propping on her other arm, letting the covers slide to her lap. She was wearing a fine lawn nightgown; regardless, she had no reason to hide from him. Leaning closer, head tipping, she murmured, “Indeed, otherwise, I’m perfectly all right.”

Because she was watching, she saw the shadow that passed across his face. He drew a tighter breath, then met her gaze. “That was just luck. Pure luck that you leaned forward.”

She held his gaze, gripped his hand tighter. “True, but fate took a hand and . . . I’m still here.”

His voice lowered. “
We’re
still here—as I see it, as I feel it—there’s no longer any me or you, only we and us.”

She studied his eyes, then her lips lifted. “I’m glad you feel that—think that—because I do, too.”

A minute ticked by while they simply looked at each other, while they drowned in each other’s eyes, marveling anew, reveling again in the connection, in the power of what now bound them.

The flaring intensity peaked. Moved by it, compelled, she shifted, fluidly coming up on her knees to lean closer; placing her hand on his shoulder, she tipped her head and set her lips to his, and kissed him.

She parted her lips and drew him in, then let the kiss spin out, and he kissed her back; releasing her hand, he raised his and gently, so gently, framed her face, careful not to press against her wound, and held her steady, balanced on her knees before him, so the kiss could extend, could stretch and evolve, so they both could savor.

So they could calm their inner demons, exorcise their fears, and through the caress, through the intimate sharing, be once again assured—of the other, of them.

That they were still there, were hale and whole and still together. That their joint future was still there, theirs to claim, waiting for them to own it.

Her lips supped from his, then his from hers. Passion and desire swirled in the darkness, subtle flames licking over their skins, teasing their senses, tantalizing their nerves.

Tempting them.

Eventually, she drew back; breasts rising, she filled her lungs on a slow, deep inhalation, then, eyes locked with his, mere inches apart, she murmured, her tone low, a blatant, sultry, unequivocal invitation, “You are going to stay, aren’t you?”

His lips softened, fractionally curved. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “That would be my preferred option.”

She laughed soft and low, and drew him down to the bed.

Drew him into her arms as he tipped and they rolled, and passion swelled. But in instinctive accord they caught it, reined it back. Tonight was theirs—no threat could reach them, no would-be murderer touch them, not there. They had no need to rush, and much more reason to loiter.

To linger, and savor, and rejoice.

James had rolled to his back, had settled her atop him. Cradling her head in one large hand, he looked up into her eyes. “We’ll have to be careful not to hurt your head.”

“We will be, and we won’t.” Settling her elbows on his chest, she stared down into his eyes, then seductively smiled. “Just kiss me.” As she bent her head to teasingly brush her lips over his, she murmured, “Make love to me.”

He needed no further invitation; cupping the back of her head, he waited, let her play and script the kiss for several heartbeats, then he took over and let the kiss turn hungry.

Hungry, but leashed.

Tongues tangled, dueled; their lips parted only to meld and fuse again as the exchange grew more heated. More intent.

Their breathing grew ragged; soft sounds of passion floated in the air.

Clothes fell, flew, vanished. Hands grasped, then caressed and sculpted.

Weighed and flagrantly possessed.

Their lips parted only so they could savor the other’s skin, so they could taste the other’s passion.

So they could drive each other on.

They both knew what they wanted; they both wanted the same thing. Tonight even more than previously they were in perfect accord.

In perfect empathy.

What followed was a symphony, one orchestrated by them both, with first him directing, then her conducting, then, hand in hand, body to body, skin to skin, they let passion and desire and all that flowed from the physical and emotional conflagration sweep them up and away.

Together.

As one their hearts seized as he entered her and joined them; as one they paused, senses wide, to drain every last scintilla of heightened pleasure from that critical second . . . then with flawless rhythm they started the dance, their journey to completion.

They were as one in their grasping desperation, in their giddy, reckless, passionate joy, as one with their hoarse, rasping breaths as they rode, skins damp, senses burning, for the ultimate distant peak.

And found ecstasy waiting, powerful and sure, to embrace them, shatter them, and once again remold them. To once again fuse them, but at an even deeper level, in an even more unbreakable bond.

As they tumbled back to earth, to the dark bliss of the bed and the warmth of the other’s arms, even as the golden glow of satiation spread through them both, they found each other’s eyes.

Breaths mingling, gazes locked, neither needed to ask what the other thought.

They would defy hell for this. For this joy, this passion.

This unbounded togetherness.

No one—no murderer, no villain of any stripe—would take this from them. They wouldn’t let it go. Not willingly, not even if death threatened.

They read the truth in each other’s eyes, then let their lids fall. They needed no words to repledge their troth; for this, for their chance to live with this, to devote their lives to living the promise of this, they would, unhesitatingly, stake their lives.

Nothing needed to be said. Sliding deeper into the bed, dragging up the covers, they turned into each other’s arms, and slept.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he following evening, Sir Thomas Grenville, Trustee of the British Museum and prominent bibliophile, had elected to host a gala to raise funds for the continuing construction of the new museum. Sir Thomas had had the happy notion of staging his gala in the part of the new East Wing known as The King’s Library Gallery, a completed section of the new works until that evening forbidden to any but the curators, hence assuring attendance by all those of the ton lucky enough to receive an invitation.

As most of the upper echelon of the ton was presently in residence for the Season, the event was destined by design to be the most horrendous, albeit select, crush—literally everyone who was anyone could be counted on to be there.

“It truly is the perfect venue for our trap,” Henrietta murmured. On James’s arm, she stood just behind her mother and father in the reception line; tall though she was, she couldn’t see over, much less through, the sea of heads and shoulders bobbing and nodding as those in the line ahead of their party chatted excitedly. Everyone was anticipating a highly memorable evening. Sir Thomas, an old hand at staging fund-raising events, had been extremely cagey over the entertainment he intended providing, letting speculation build and do his job for him.

As a consequence, all those invited had turned up
en masse
.

“I heard,” James said, bending his head to murmur in her ear, “that those senior hostesses who had intended to host events tonight have, by and large, cancelled them.”

Henrietta nodded. “There was no point persevering. Everyone is going to be here, and as it’s a gala, few will be likely to leave until it’s over.”

“Which, again, will presumably play into our hands.” Raising his head, James glanced around. “I can see St. Ives ahead, and Gabriel and Alathea are ten yards behind us.” He swept his gaze ahead, then back along the densely packed line of would-be revelers again. “I can’t see any of the others.”

“They’ll be here, somewhere, although with such a crowd I’m relieved we don’t have to meet up with any of them. Finding anyone will be well-nigh impossible.”

“Unless you’re watching and waiting.” James felt his jaw set. After a moment, he relaxed it enough to ask, “Remind me again—who are the ones elected to supply our façade of obliviousness?”

Henrietta glanced around, but the noise generated by the crowd was already such that she seriously doubted even her mother, directly ahead of her, would hear anything she said. Nevertheless, she leaned nearer to James and lowered her voice. “Devil and Honoria, Vane and Patience, Gabriel and Alathea, Lucifer and Phyllida, and Demon and Flick, as well as Simon and Portia, Amanda and Martin, and Amelia and Luc.” She shifted her gaze forward. “And my parents, of course—and Mary, too.” Her sister was standing on Arthur’s other side. “Plus all the older generation—Aunt Helena, Martin and Celia, and George and Horatia. They’ll all be here, and all will be playing their part.”

They’d all agreed that her would-be murderer would definitely know enough to be wary of those named. He would watch them for their reactions, possibly even be bold enough to test them, and if they showed any hint of being alert and on guard, then no matter how tempting the lure they cast, he wouldn’t step free of the crowd to pursue it. Consequently, the above-named members of the wider company who had come there that night intent on capturing the murderer would project a façade of supreme unawareness of any potential threat. That was their role—to convince the murderer that no one was expecting him to do anything so outrageous as to strike again that night, certainly not at the gala, and that therefore no one was maintaining any particular watch on Henrietta.

“So,” James said, “we have Adair and Penelope, Charlie Morwellan and Sarah, Dillon Caxton and Pris, Gerrard Debbington and Jacqueline, your cousins Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, and their husbands, and Charlie Hastings playing the part of the surreptitious watchers.”

They shuffled forward in the line and Henrietta nodded. “Along with Christian and Letitia, Wolverstone and Minerva, and other members of that special club of theirs, as well as some of their army friends, and all their wives.” She glanced up at James. “There’ll be many more watching me than the murderer could possibly guess.”

James fought not to let his inner grimness show. He was supposedly there to enjoy what was widely expected to be the highlight of the Season, with his newly affianced bride-to-be on his arm, but projecting the correct image was proving a difficult task given his preordained role in their drama.