Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(26)

This was the second gunshot aimed at them in two days.

She couldn’t help but think that Lord Blackwell had an enemy.

She shivered at the thought as they entered the sitting room.

Mary waited until the viscount showed her to a settee before saying, “You’re your father’s heir, aren’t you?”

He gave her an odd look as he sat down in a chair to her right. “Yes, of course.”

She inhaled, but really there was no delicate way to ask the question. “If you died, who would inherit the earldom?”

Lord Blackwell’s eyes widened, but before he could reply, the sitting room door opened to admit two maids bearing tea.

For a moment both she and the viscount were quiet as the maids laid out the tea—they’d brought some lovely little custard tarts as well—and then they left.

“My cousin, Richard,” Lord Blackwell replied as soon as the door was closed again. “But he wouldn’t do what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” Mary asked neutrally as she poured the tea.

“That he’s the one shooting,” the viscount said flatly. “Richard is a bit of an ass, but he wouldn’t try and kill me. Besides, he’s a terrible shot.”

“Assassins can be hired,” she replied as she handed him his dish of tea.

His eyebrows winged up. “Good Lord. How are you aware of that?”

“I did grow up in St Giles.” She sat back with her own tea.

“Point,” he said and took a sip. “But I doubt that it’s me they’re trying to shoot.”

“My lord—”

He waved a hand irritably. “Please. Call me Henry. You’re my fiancée now. Not to mention that I’ve kissed you.”

She hesitated with her hand hovering over the plate of tarts and darted a quick look at his face. Had he been one of the boys at the orphanage, she would’ve called his expression mulish.

She chose a tart and placed it on a delicate china plate. “Very well, Henry, though I must point out that the kiss was quite fleeting.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” he said, his voice deeper.

“One might even conclude that it doesn’t count as a kiss at all,” she mused. She lowered her eyelashes demurely as she bit into the tart, waiting breathlessly for his response.

There was a moment of silence during which all she heard was the pounding of her pulse.

Then Henry set his teacup firmly on the table, rose, and moved to the settee next to Mary. He took her teacup and plate out of her unresisting hands, placed them aside, and drew her into his arms.

He kissed her.

He took possession of her lips without any sort of hesitation, parting them and running his tongue along the inner edge of her bottom lip.

Mary stifled a moan as pleasure burst through her body.

She’d wondered if what she’d felt with that first kiss might just be an oddity. Something that couldn’t be replicated.

But it hadn’t.

It was he—Henry.

He slid his tongue into her mouth, moving forcefully even as he angled his face against hers, his arms pulling her close against his chest.

She felt taken. Captured. As if he commanded her at the moment.

As if he could do anything to her.

His hand was at the back of her neck, and he bit gently on her bottom lip before letting it go.

When next he thrust his tongue inside her she suckled it—and this time she couldn’t stifle her groan.

She’d never thought a kiss could be so erotic. Could engender such urgency in her.

She wanted to spread apart her legs. Wanted to invite him to touch her wherever he might want.

The mere thought made her hot.

Then suddenly she was thrust back against the settee and he left her.

She blinked at him, now sitting in the chair.

“Someone’s at the door,” he hissed.

She just had time to straighten before the door to the sitting room opened and Lady Angrove and Jo came in, followed by a man wearing the bobbed wig and black dress of a vicar and a large, pink-cheeked woman.

“My dears,” Lady Angrove said, hurrying over to Mary and Henry. “I’ve just been informed that Lane was shot whilst you were out riding! I don’t know what London is coming to with these young gentlemen taking to drink at all hours of the day. Why just last month, Mrs. Tremble-Bull saw a trio of drunken youths staggering down the street right in front of her house on Grosvenor Square and it was one in the afternoon.” Lady Angrove took a deep breath. “But I do hope you are unhurt, Cecilia?”

“I’m quite fine,” Mary replied. Thank goodness the older woman was so loquacious. It had given her a bit of time to compose herself. She daren’t glance Henry’s way, for she knew she’d blush horribly if she did.

She could still taste him on her tongue.

“Thank the Lord for that!” exclaimed Lady Angrove as Jo took a seat right beside Mary.

The other girl leaned toward her and whispered, “Oh, I’m so glad that you and the viscount are getting along!”

Mary glanced at her, knowing full well that a blush was negating any sort of protest she might make. As she met her sister’s laughing brown eyes, Mary had the most ridiculous urge to giggle.

She was suddenly very glad that she had a sister—and that her sister was Jo.