“Do you have an appointment?” The prim man seated behind the desk looked as though the closest he’d come to being on board a ship was walking over a puddle.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, Griffith amended in his head. If there wasn’t paperwork and management on land, captains and their crews would have to deal with it themselves, and that was the last thing Griff ever wanted to do.
Good thing he was on his way to becoming a duke, where paperwork and management seemed to be the entirety of the position, tossing in a few awkward moments in ballrooms for a little added fun.
You’re being ridiculous again, he chided himself.
“We’re looking for a sailor,” Griffith announced. Della stood at his side, despite his trying to shield her from most of the men they’d passed on the journey.
Of course they’d stared, no matter how much he tried to block her with his body. Even catching a glimpse of her was bound to make anybody’s eyes start out of their sockets.
“Well,” the prim man said, a trifle less primly, “this would seem to be the place to find one.”
Della leaned forward, placing one hand on the desk to address the man. “It is actually one sailor in particular. A Mr. Henry Wattings, he was aboard the Royal Lady three years back. And perhaps the Righteous Lady six months ago?”
The man was shaking his head no before she had even finished her words.
“You haven’t heard all of it,” Griffith said, feeling a fierce desire to punch the man in the nose. His usual reaction, to be honest. “I am the Viscount Stanbury, heir to the Duke of Northam, and the family is quite desirous of locating this particular sailor. So if you could scurry on back through your records perhaps we won’t have to involve the House of Lords in the investigation.”
Griff had no idea if the House of Lords would care or be allowed to become involved in such a situation, but he suspected this desk worker didn’t know either. Or if he did, he certainly wouldn’t argue the point with a duke’s heir.
“Let me check.” Apparently the duke’s heir mention did work after all. “Three years ago, you say?” The man rose, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose. “You can wait in this office while I take a look. The Royal Lady?”
“Yes,” Griff confirmed.
The man nodded and walked through a small door behind his desk.
Griff gestured to two chairs in the corner. “It appears we will be stuck here for a moment, unless our assistant is a lot more adept at unraveling naval paperwork than anybody I’ve ever seen.”
Della smiled in reply, going to sit down in the farther chair. It was reminiscent of a chair Griff might have seen in his own captain’s quarters, if he cared about making a good impression on his men. Or more accurately, if he cared about making that kind of good impression on his men; his preferred method included a focused mission, clearly defined goals, and the tools needed to achieve them. Not fancy chairs.
But at least she would be comfortable for the next few hours.
She had to admit to liking it when he got all aggressively masterful. Even though that made her a thorough hypocrite; after all, she definitely did not like it when he focused that masterful aggression on her.
Or perhaps she would, given the right circumstances.
He caught her eye and smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made it seem as though he knew what she was thinking. He probably did; she hadn’t been very shy about what she wanted. And what she didn’t want, she recalled, thinking of the night before.
He had to know she had changed her mind, but he also had to know her well enough by now to realize she would have to be the one to tell him. And she would. As soon as they had gotten some sort of news about Sarah’s Henry, and Della could see the crease of worry leave her friend’s face.
And she had taken care of purchasing a method to prevent adding a sibling to Nora’s life. As well as some soft-soled shoes.
So many things to take care of.
“Well.” The man had returned, easing himself back into his seat, putting a binder on his desk. Whorls of dust rose into the air, proof that the Naval Office did not consult these records often.
The man withdrew a large handkerchief from his inside pocket just in time to sneeze. Della wished some of her pupils were as prescient.
“I believe we have a record of your Mr. Wattings,” the man said, opening the binder and pulling out a yellowed slip of paper. She and Griffith both leapt out of their seats, going to either side of the man, whose eyes widened in alarm behind his spectacles.
“Uh,” he began, touching his fingertip to the paper, “Mr. Wattings was last at this address near Timber Wharf.” He looked up, first at Della and then at Griffith. “Surely this will help locate him.”
“That’s at the docks?” she asked. Griffith nodded in confirmation. “So if we go there to this address it’s likely someone will know where he went?”
Griffith straightened, holding his hand out to the desk clerk. “Thank you for your help, Mr.—?”
“Hastings,” the man replied. He took Griffith’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Yes, you are welcome. I do hope you find your missing seaman.”
Griffith clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, making him jump. “I will be sure to mention how helpful you’ve been to the House of Lords.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The man looked awestruck. Della would not point out that speaking to the entire House of Lords about one desk clerk was not a thing that was usually possible.
“And, my lady, I need to get you home, it is getting late.”
Della narrowed her eyes before she glanced at the clock on Mr. Hastings’s desk. It was late. How had she lost track of time?
Being in his undeniably intoxicating presence was probably the reason, a sly voice said inside her head.
She inclined her head to Mr. Hastings before exiting the room, Griffith close behind her.
He stepped in front of her to begin the descent down the stairs, Della appreciating the consideration even though it was not necessary. Her whole being felt as though it had been zapped by some kind of kinetic energy. They had a clue about where Sarah’s husband could be, and it only took pretending to be his betrothed—not a difficult assignment—for it to happen. She couldn’t keep herself from waving her hands in the air in her excitement. “We’re so close! Henry could be home with Sarah tonight!”
He paused on the stairwell in front of her, turning to meet her gaze. His expression was serious, and her stomach fluttered.
“Have you thought of what you’ll do if it turns out that Wattings is—?” He paused, waiting for her to fill in the word.
She bit her lip. Then raised her chin and replied. “I can’t believe that a love so true could die. I won’t believe it. Not until I see absolute proof. Until then?” She tossed her head. “Until then, he is alive.”
And she strode past him on the stairway, keeping up a brisk pace until they reached the bottom.
I can’t believe that a love so true could die.
Had he only just realized that underneath the bright acerbity of Lady Della’s personality was a romantic? A hopeless one at that?
And why did that make him feel just slightly better about the world?
Although knowing she was a romantic should make him run far, far away. What would happen if—no, forget that, when—she fell in love with him?
Because she would fall in love with him.
He knew he was irresistible. But unfortunately she was as well—he was unable to resist the allure of her, no matter the danger of coming too close to her flame. He would get burned. They would both expire in some lustful fiery conflagration, and he would die a happy man.
He beckoned to a hackney, then opened the door for her to get inside, wrinkling his nose as he followed after her. Judging by the smell inside, the cab had apparently been egalitarian in its ridership, having borne a horse or two to their eventual destination.
Or the cabby was just not that clean.
She met his gaze, her wry smile acknowledging the odor.
“It’s a good thing I am not fussy,” she remarked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and holding it up to her nose. “But I wish it were not quite so fragrant in here. I don’t want to arrive at where Mr. Wattings might be smelling like a stable.”
“I had thought we would go tomorrow,” Griff said, taking his own handkerchief out from his pocket. “If we are attending a party this evening, which I presume we are, we won’t have enough time to prepare and find Mr. Wattings. Especially now that we both likely smell.”
She lowered her handkerchief and leaned over to him, sniffing his shoulder, then gave him a mischievous look. He slid the cloth from over his nose and raised his eyebrow, daring her to do what he knew they both most wanted to.
And, thank God, she did.
“At least it’ll keep me from smelling it all,” she murmured before grabbing his head and bringing his lips down forcefully on hers. He placed his hand on her waist, then lower so he was cupping her arse. Her delicious, fulsome arse. She responded by moving closer, keeping one hand in his hair and putting the other one on his thigh, squeezing it as they kissed.
His cock reacted immediately to her hand’s proximity, of course, stiffening and straining against the cloth of his trousers. He shifted, and she chuckled against his lips, clearly enjoying the situation.
He responded by moving his hand so he could reach the skirts of her gown, gathered the fabric in his fist and began to draw it up. Slow enough so she could stop him if she wanted to.
She didn’t stop him.
He extended his hand to slide his fingers over her leg, continuing to bring the bottom of the gown up. Up her shin, over her knee, until he was able to roll it up and rest it on her thighs.
His eyes were closed, but he couldn’t resist opening them for a moment to look at what he’d done. And then he couldn’t stop staring—her revealed thighs, the juncture between her legs beckoning him.
Damn, he wanted her. Even in this ridiculous-smelling hackney cab, barreling through London’s streets en route to take her home, he wanted her.
It was the first time he’d ever begrudged his size; if he were a smaller man, he could take her against the carriage seat, her holding on to his arse as he thrust into her.
He’d have to make do with what he had, however. He slid his fingers on her thigh and then curled down between her legs. Not quite there yet, but just shy of there. Waiting to make certain she was on board with what he was doing.
She moaned into his mouth, edging her body closer so his fingers touched her soft wetness. She was definitely on board with what he was doing, then.
He felt the damp curls, and then his finger found her nub and he rubbed it gently. She broke their kiss, tilting her head back and closing her eyes as she bit her lip.
“Do you want me to touch you, Della?” he asked in a rough voice. Even though he knew what her answer would be. He needed to hear her say it.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Touch me, please, Griff.”
He felt a deep current of satisfaction flow through him at hearing her speak his name so pleadingly. He placed his other hand on her neck and caressed her soft skin, sliding his fingertips along her jawline.
She exhaled sharply as he increased the pressure of his fingers down below, and she squirmed as he found the rhythm she liked.
Within a few minutes, she was clutching his arm and biting her lip, her eyes closed as he felt her rush toward her climax.
She was so beautiful. He never wanted to stop watching her.
And then her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze as she cried out, and he could feel her shuddering in deep satisfaction.
“Oh,” she sighed, keeping her eyes on him. She relaxed her hold on his arm but didn’t let go.
Don’t ever let go, he wanted to say.
Her face was flushed and she felt soft and wet where he’d pleasured her.
He drew his fingers away, then brought them to his mouth and licked her taste off them, her eyes widening as she watched what he was doing.
“You need to kiss me right now,” she commanded, tugging on his arm to bring him closer. Their mouths met, and he slid his tongue inside, tangling it with hers. His cock was rigid, and it took all his will not to drag her hand down to touch him.
But then his will was rewarded, because she did slide her hand down his arm and onto his erection, stroking him through his trousers. Her fingers fumbled at the placket, and then his cock sprung free into her soft, warm hand.
Damn.
She gripped him hard, a pleasurable agony that brought a stifled groan to his throat. And then she began to stroke him, kissing him as she did. He could feel how her lips had curled up into a smile, and he drew back from her mouth to look at her. At her mouth, bruised and red from their kiss, at her eyes, which glinted in satisfied delight.
“Do you want me to touch you, Griff?” she said, an echo of what he’d asked a few minutes before.
He grunted in response, unable to utter a word because of how hard and fast she was stroking him. It seemed as though she knew just how to touch him, and he appreciated that she had clearly done this before. She would be an equal in their bed, and he couldn’t wait to thrust into her as she begged him for more. He’d give it to her, and she would reciprocate, as she was doing now.
“Fuck, Della,” he groaned, and her smile grew wider.
“That’s not what we’re doing, my lord,” she teased. “I’m touching your cock.”
God, hearing her say the words increased the pleasure that much more, and suddenly Griff realized he wanted her to say the filthiest things to him as she stroked him.
“Tell me how it feels,” he asked, his voice ragged in desperation.
“Hard,” she said immediately. “And like velvet. I am thinking about how it’ll feel when you’re inside me. If you’ll fit, or if you’ll have to push hard into me.”
“Uhn,” Griff said.
“And when you’re buried inside, I’ll wrap my legs around you. Tell me, Griff, how do you plan on having me?”
Every way I can.
He was so, so close, her hand gripping and stroking and sliding up and down, an inexorable rhythm that was propelling him toward his own climax.
He shouted as he came, spilling into her hand, the rush of pleasure coursing through his body, every bit of him focused on how good he felt and that she’d brought him to this.
She didn’t let go, though she did loosen her grip, holding him as his cock jerked in her hand. Only when his shudders had stopped did she release him, and he groaned, dropping his head down as the feeling flowed through him.
“That was good,” she said in a husky voice. “It took my mind off the odor,” she added in an amused tone.
He was impressed she was able to speak. He wasn’t certain he could ever make actual words again.
“Here,” she said, handing him the handkerchief she’d had pressed to her nose. He took it, and cleaned himself up, grateful he’d be returning home before being seen in public again.
They hadn’t been in the cab all that long—just long enough for him to pleasure her and vice versa—and he was surprised when the cab slowed, indicating they were nearing their destination.
Actually, he was surprised he could think at all, but he wouldn’t question it.
“I will meet you at the party? I believe Eleanor said she is going, and she can bring me.”
“Hmph,” Griff replied. Still not able to utter words. Hopefully that would change when he had to make any kind of conversation. Or not; perhaps he could just go through life muttering and grunting. As long as he got to maintain his inarticulation through frequent bouts of sexual passion with her, he would accept the inability to make words.
“Right,” she said, clearly amused.
The cab stopped, and he opened the door, then leapt out to help her get out.
She took his hand, looking up at him with a sly, mischievous gaze. “We’re going to have to resolve our bargain soon. I’m not certain I can wait much longer.” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I want your body, Griff. Naked and writhing on mine.”
He groaned, and she chuckled, released his hand, and turned toward the door, throwing one last naughty glance at him.
“Where to, milord?” the cabby asked.
Damn. He hoped he could speak. “Uh—the Duke of Northam’s.” There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?
He got back into the carriage and leaned against the seat back, closing his eyes, replaying every moment of what had just happened.