CHAPTER FIFTEEN LESSONS FOR A NOTORIOUS RAKE #4
“Emotionally inarticulate passion.”
He dropped the manuscript safely upon the chair and kissed her.
Eleanor laughed against his mouth. Gabriel reached into his coat pocket for a sheath.
Marriage had not made prevention unnecessary.
They intended children one day, but Eleanor had opened a business, Gabriel was adjusting to new work and neither wished the timing decided by carelessness.
He prepared himself. Eleanor watched. Then she drew him between her thighs. Gabriel guided the tip to her entrance.
“Still?”
“Yes.”
He entered slowly. Her body opened around him. The familiar stretch carried pleasure rather than uncertainty now. Eleanor wrapped her legs around his hips and drew him deeper. Gabriel groaned. They remained still for a moment, foreheads touching. No fear entered. Only want.
“Move,” Eleanor whispered.
He did. The desk shook beneath each stroke.
Gabriel began slowly, watching her face, but playfulness soon gave way to urgency.
Eleanor met every thrust, lifting her hips and using her legs to control depth.
He kissed her breasts, her throat and her mouth.
She gripped his shoulders. The pleasure built again, tender after her first release but deepened by his movement inside her.
“Faster,” she said.
Gabriel obeyed. His control frayed. Eleanor loved the signs of it: the roughening breath, the tension in his jaw and the moment expertise stopped mattering because need became visible.
“You want me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Not the lesson.”
“No.”
“Not the performance.”
“Never again.”
The answer was imperfectly absolute. Eleanor understood its meaning.
He would still perform in drawing rooms and use charm in intelligence work.
He would still fear. But here, between them, he no longer pretended desire meant nothing.
Gabriel touched her between their bodies.
His thumb moved over the sensitive flesh. Eleanor’s breath broke.
“Together,” she said.
He held her gaze. Their rhythm intensified.
The desk struck the wall. Somewhere below, Quinn shouted something neither heard clearly.
Eleanor nearly laughed, but the pleasure became too strong.
Her body tightened. Gabriel thrust deeply.
The climax moved through her in sharp, pulsing waves.
She cried his name as her muscles contracted around him.
Gabriel followed. His face became entirely unguarded as release overtook him.
He held her against him, shaking with the force of it.
They remained joined until their breathing steadied.
Then Gabriel rested his forehead upon her shoulder.
“I have learned one important lesson,” he said.
Eleanor stroked his hair.
“Only one?”
“I am a slow pupil.”
“Which lesson?”
Gabriel lifted his head.
“Surrender is considerably more enjoyable when given freely.”
Eleanor kissed him.
“Acceptable.”
“Not superior?”
“Further instruction may be required.”
His eyes warmed.
“I am prepared to devote myself to study.”
* * *
The Society met at Rothmere House that evening. Eleanor arrived ten minutes late. Frances looked at the ink stain upon her sleeve, then at Gabriel’s imperfectly tied cravat when he escorted her into the hidden library.
“Publishing difficulty?” Frances asked.
“Spilled ink,” Eleanor replied.
“How unfortunate.”
Gabriel bowed to the room.
“I have been defamed by an anonymous manuscript.”
“Is it accurate?” Catherine asked.
“Painfully.”
“Then not defamation,” Amelia said.
Gabriel placed three forgotten books upon the side table and departed before the legal discussion expanded.
The Society gathered around the central table.
Arabella sat at its head. Beatrice and Catherine occupied one side, with Amelia and Clara opposite.
Frances had brought two notebooks, a packet of biscuits and what appeared to be a maid’s cap.
Sophia stood near the map spread across the wall.
Eleanor placed the Blackthorn letter beneath the lamp.
Months had passed since they found it, but Hargreaves’s investigation had only recently released several connected records for examination. The thorned branch, closed gate and black star remained visible in the wax. Arabella touched the seal with the tip of one finger.
“Blackthorn Hall appeared in older Vesper correspondence.”
“How old?” Beatrice asked.
“Eight years at least. Possibly longer.”
Clara opened an account ledger.
“I compared the estate’s public expenses with payments from the Mercury records. Several amounts match within three days.”
“Could be coincidence,” Catherine said.
“Six times?”
“No.”
Sophia indicated the map.
“Blackthorn Hall lies in Northumberland, twelve miles from the nearest market town. The estate includes woodland, tenant farms and an older monastic structure incorporated into the western foundations.”
“A hidden monastery,” Frances said.
“Foundations,” Sophia corrected.
“Less romantic.”
“The west wing has been locked for years.”
Frances brightened again.
“Better.”
Arabella read from another document.
“Rumours concerning the estate include a private library containing banned political tracts, correspondence confiscated during the war and editions never submitted to government censors.”
“Hargreaves believes the owner collected them?” Eleanor asked.
“Hargreaves believes everyone collects something.”
“What else?” Beatrice said.
Sophia consulted her notes.
“A former government cryptographer entered Lord Ravenscroft’s service nine years ago and disappeared from public record.”
“Dead?” Catherine asked.
“Unknown.”
“The woman who vanished?” Eleanor asked.
Arabella’s expression hardened.
“Lady Miriam Shaw attended a house party at Blackthorn Hall twelve years ago. Her family was informed that she left before dawn after a personal disagreement. No coachman remembered taking her.”
Frances stopped eating.
“Was she found?”
“No.”
Silence settled briefly. Clara turned the ledger.
“Deliveries arrive under false names. Paper, chemicals, printing materials and sealed crates described as agricultural equipment.”
“A private press,” Eleanor said.
“Possibly several.”
“The Blackthorn editions,” Beatrice murmured.
Eleanor unfolded the recovered letter.
The Blackthorn editions must be returned to their owner before the autumn gathering. No further copies are to leave Blackthorn Hall.
“The estate is producing or storing something Vesper considers dangerous,” she said.
“And autumn approaches,” Clara added.
Sophia placed another document on the table.
“I identified the servant-placement agency supplying staff to the hall.”
Frances picked up the maid’s cap.
“I volunteer.”
“No,” Arabella said.
“I have excellent domestic instincts.”
“You cannot boil water.”
“I can carry trays.”
“You dropped three glasses at Eleanor’s wedding breakfast.”
“They were poorly balanced.”
“You asked the footman whether poisoning wine leaves an odour.”
“A relevant question.”
Arabella removed the cap from her hand.
“You will not become a housemaid.”
“A companion?”
“No.”
“Visiting widow?”
“No.”
Frances folded her arms.
“Your Grace opposes initiative.”
“I oppose explaining your death to your mother.”
“She would understand.”
“No one who has met you believes that.”
Beatrice looked toward the legal record near Eleanor.
“Who owns the estate?”
Eleanor opened the document. The formal title occupied several lines.
Sebastian Gabriel Blackthorn, Marquess of Ravenscroft, Baron Blackthorn and hereditary keeper of the Northumberland archives.
A small note followed. Unmarried. No recognised heir.
No London residence currently maintained.
Eleanor read the name aloud. Frances’s annoyance disappeared.
“Sebastian Blackthorn.”
Sophia’s gaze remained on the map.
“He dismissed his household after inheriting.”
“Then rehired through false records,” Clara said.