The Masterful Mr. Montague by Stephanie Laurens Page B

back, she tilted her head, searched his eyes. “You’re going to try to distract me, aren’t you?”
    His lips quirked. “It had crossed my mind.” Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over hers, lingered just long enough to hear her breath catch, to sense her hunger leap to meet his, then murmured, “Are you going to let me?”
    She pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck. “By all means—you have my permission to try.”
    Just don’t expect to succeed . Barnaby heard the words she didn’t say—the challenge she didn’t utter—but for his own peace of mind, he had to try.
    He gave it his best shot.
    Drawing her into a heated exchange, into a heated melding of their mouths, an increasingly ravenous duel of lips and tongues that swelled and grew to consume them both, he orchestrated the moments, with consummate skill drew each fragile instant out, until they were both panting and yearning, hungry and desperate.
    Clothes were shed, but by his dictate. Wanton and delighted, she held to her permissive stance and let him lead, let him manage the reins as he would and devote himself—to the top of his bent—to his aim of distracting her.
    Utterly. Completely.
    In this world, and on that other plane.
    His hands roved her body and made her arch and moan.
    He allowed her—nay, encouraged her, knowing the exercise to be enthralling to her—to explore his body and fill her senses with him, and she seized the chance and immersed herself in their passion.
    Together they pushed and strove to extend the long moments of worship, of reverence and delight, of pleasure and fraught joy, but the escalating beat of passionate need could not be forever denied.
    They came together in a rush of fire and heat, the sensual cataclysm of bodies and souls so familiar, so gloriously reliable yet never to be taken for granted.
    Joined and urgent, now desperate in their need, together they rode, together they climbed, together they reached the pinnacle’s peak where ecstasy found them, wracked and bound them, then flung them into the void . . . to where love lay waiting to wrap them in bliss, and cushion them, cocoon them, as they spiraled back to earth.
    To the haven of each other’s arms, to the comforting sound of each other’s ragged breaths, of each other’s thudding hearts.
    To the soul-easing closeness of their intimate embrace.
    Later, when they’d disengaged and settled in the bed, and Penelope snuggled deeper into his arms, Barnaby brushed a kiss to her temple. “I promise to tell you when next Stokes and I have some case you and Griselda can help with.”
    He felt Penelope’s lips curve against his skin. Blindly, she patted his chest. “Thank you.”
    Her limbs lost what little tension they’d regained; he listened as she sank into sated slumber.
    Somewhere amid the glory, reality had broken through and he’d realized that he and Stokes had no option but to find a solution to their ladies’ need—to re-involve them in suitable investigations as and when such investigations arose.
    It was that, or have them striking out on their own—and he didn’t need to think to know what he thought of that. The sudden lurching of his heart at the mere idea provided all the incentive he needed.
    So he would do as he’d promised.
    But he didn’t have to like it.

Chapter 3
     
    V iolet walked into the kitchen the next morning to find Tilly already busy setting out Lady Halstead’s breakfast tray. Violet smiled. “Good morning.” Scanning the tray, she added, “Nearly ready?”
    She routinely accompanied Tilly upstairs to wake Lady Halstead and hold the door, then help her ladyship sit up in bed.
    “A good morning to you, too,” Tilly sang back. “And yes, almost there. Just the toast—ah, thank you, Cook, dear.”
    Tilly was a tallish, raw-boned, middle-aged woman, her brown-gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, her large hands capable as they set the two slices of toast into the toast rack,