Page 71 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
“Perhaps I’ll hire that Thanatos fellow. If only it were so easy to contact the dead and have them tell us who did them in. Have you ever been to a séance?”
“No. I think it’s all rubbish. He’ll take her money, and she’ll be none the wiser. Widows are often taken advantage of.”
“Women as a whole are.”
He knew that well enough. After shifting his leg over hers, so her thigh pressed against his cock, he nuzzled the soft spot beneath her ear. “I do hope you don’t think I’ve taken advantage.”
“Of what? My lustful cravings?”
He imagined she felt his wide grin forming against her silken flesh. Had he ever known a woman so comfortable in her own skin? Was it because she’d been raised by a spinster, untethered to a man, who had encouraged her to engage in a dalliance? Because she’d had no father to dote on her and warn her about men’s tendencies to misbehave? Or was it simply her nature to accept and face reality?
He’d always sought to create a fantasy atmosphere for the ladies who came to him, to pamper them and to make amends for the other men in their lives, the men who had caused them to knock on his door. To spoil them as he’d wished his mother had been spoiled, had deserved to be. But all Marguerite required of him was brutal honesty. “Speaking of lustful cravings, I might die if I can’t have you again.”
Her answer was to nudge him gently onto his back, straddle his hips, and take possession of his mouth asthough it were in need of conquering. She tasted of strawberries and chocolate. She tasted of decadence.
She wrapped her slender hands around his wrists, moved them so they rested on either side of his head on the pillow, and had her way with him. He could have broken free of her hold—easily. But he was held in place by more than skin and bone. He was shackled by the realization that no other woman had sought to give as much of herself to him as she did.
She was unrelenting fire, causing his body to burn wherever she touched. Her knees pressing against his hips. Her feet resting against his legs. Her sweet, sweet, heated core rubbing against his cock as she undulated over him, kissing his neck, his jaw, his chest, his mouth. Whatever she could reach without relinquishing her hold on his wrists.
Then she moved her hands up until their fingers interlocked, lifted her hips, and enveloped his cock in molten velvet. With a low groan of pure ecstasy, he slid his eyes closed.
“Look at me,” she ordered.
How could he not obey? Anything she asked of him, he would have granted at that moment. She rode him as though her life depended on it. He felt as though his did. When had he ever been this dependent on another—for pleasure, for a place to set down burdens, for a chest in which to store secrets, for a key to unlock dreams.
Dreams that didn’t involve retribution, anger, and winning. Always winning.
She was not for the future. She was for only now. Living for the moment because she was correct. They were short on clues. Disaster and a rope could be waiting for him at the end of this journey. But he would take the sight of her eyes turning a deeper hue of blue with him. The sound of her gasps and mewls. Her lax mouth. Her breasts bouncing with her energetic movements. The drop of sweat disappearing into the valley between.
The hunger in her eyes. The ecstasy that glowed around her when she arched her spine, tossed back her head, and cried out, “Bishop!”
Her glorious release was enough to send him hurtling over the abyss, growling her name, a benediction and a curse, because at that moment she owned him, body and soul.
Breathing heavily, lethargic and spent, he welcomed her sprawling over him. Her fingers loosened their hold on his. He stroked her back, once, twice, before succumbing to the depths of slumber calling for him.
Chapter 21
Daisy was relatively certain when Bishop awoke and discovered her gone, he was not going to be happy with her. Might even be cross enough to never again drizzle chocolate over her. She’d enjoyed that far too much, but later as she’d begun drifting off to sleep, languid and satisfied, she’d noticed the stethoscope resting on the credenza and been struck with the notion that perhaps the séance was to be held tonight—after all, wouldn’t they want to know who the murderer was as soon as possible?—and if she could get close enough to the house, she might be able to decipher precisely why Widow Mallard would go to such bother to discover who had murdered her husband.
She’d wanted to divorce him, had been fearful of him. Why care anything at all about him after he was gone?
They had no children. She was bound to inherit everything. Based on the residence alone, Daisy was fairly certain the widow would find herself with the means to live without cares or financial worries. Her life would entail relative comfort and ease.
Perhaps she merely wished to know to whom she owed her liberation.
The carriage had been waiting to deliver Daisy to her office and rooms. However, she’d instructed Bishop’s coachman to bring the vehicle to a halt on a side street in the same spot he had the night before, when she and Bishop had spied on the Mallard residence. Then she’d ordered him to wait, out of sight, until she returned. He’d not hesitated, only too keen to follow her directions, relatively certain his employer would praise him for “seeing to your needs. He thinks well of you, he does.”
She very much doubted Bishop was going to be as pleased as the coachman believed, but she would do all in her power to mitigate his anger, so he didn’t take his frustration out on his servant. Although she suspected most of his irritation would be directed at her. Discovering something tonight would certainly go a long way toward lessening his upset with her.
It had been a mistake to get physically involved because it was a distraction. Because she could no longer view him as a client. She knew every dent and hollow of his body. She knew how glorious it felt to have him buried deeply inside her. Saving him had become personal, because it was the only way to save herself the heartbreak of losing him. Even if he wanted to call things off once they had their proof, she could eventually accept the separation. What she couldn’t accept was a world without him in it.
Flattening herself against the wrought iron fence where a slender bit of darkness hovered, a narrow path that the streetlamps didn’t illuminate, she crept over the pavement toward the gate. Not wanting to take the time to return to the residence in order to change into darker clothing, she’d located one of Bishop’s blackouter coats and was wearing it over her frock, its hem falling to her midcalf. Along with his hat that she’d donned over her pinned up hair, the attire allowed her to blend in with the shadows. In the deep pocket of the coat rested the stethoscope. Periodically, she skimmed her fingers over it, because for some reason it increased her confidence and courage. Perhaps because it symbolized that first night when they’d acknowledged their attraction, when they’d given in and kissed. The night she’d realized he wasn’t a scoundrel at all, and she’d desperately wanted all of London to know the same. More so now, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops:You don’t know him. You don’t know him as I do.
She was only a few steps from the gate when a hansom cab came to a stop. Flinging herself back, she ensured she was beyond reach of the streetlamp as well as the lamp hanging from the side of the cab. A man climbed out, a man she’d spoken with only that morning. Thanatos. He seemed a little taller, perhaps because he’d been crouched in his doorway, as though fearing the sun. But even straightened, he was not nearly as tall as Bishop, probably came to his shoulder, if that. He strode with confidence to the gate, shoved open the wrought iron door, and slipped through, pulling it closed behind him.
It hadn’t been locked. The widow was expecting him then. For the séance? Daisy supposed this hour might be the best for calling up spirits. Hadn’t one of the ghosts visited Scrooge at the last toll of midnight? That time had only just passed.
The hansom in which he’d arrived had departed, taking the extra illumination with it. Daisy neared the gate and watched as Thanatos strode up the drive. Shecould see a pale light shining through the entryway windows and a strip of brightness where the draperies in the front parlor didn’t meet completely.
