Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 14

“You’re a family man in the truest sense of the word.” This time laughter accompanied her words; she simply couldn’t help it. Finding the answer to her worries and discovering the gentler Graham Foster beneath the arrogant rogue proved more than she could bear. “Why else would you extend such kindness to my mother and me?”

  “Yes, but you’re not family, Moira.” The familiar devilish twinkle returned. He was laughing, too, now. “What are we? Distant stepcousins twice or thrice removed?” He made a feeble show of ticking off the degrees of relation on his fingers. His voice rasped like gravel as he continued, “No, not related in the least. Here, I’ll prove it to you.”

  Before she knew what he was about, his hands closed around her shoulders. He suddenly pulled her to him. A little squeal escaped her, quickly muffled by his lips, absorbed into his mouth. A vague thought flitted through her mind, something about impropriety and the necessity of pushing him away. Oh, but sensation—the strength of his arms, the masculine musk of his skin against her nose—proved stronger, keener, and infinitely more interesting.

  And decidedly more frightening and wonderful.

  She slid her lips from his to catch her breath, to better anchor her unsteady feet on the floor. “I’d…say you…proved your point…and then some.”

  “Oh, no, Moira, not yet. Not nearly yet.” Tightening his arms about her, he yanked her closer—like a sailor newly in harbor might yank the first doxy to come his way—and Moira let him. Let him and relished it, especially when his mouth again claimed hers. Opened hers. Breathed into hers with an intimacy that thrilled even as it shocked her to her core.

  Then, with little hesitation and less apology still, his tongue entered her mouth to sweep her into a whole new realm of sensuality that left her dizzy, burning, throbbing. When his hands smoothed over her bottom, she let it happen and realized, with a jolt, that she trusted him. Trusted the cavalier, cynical, rakish Graham Foster who was not related to her in the least. She harbored no doubt he would lead her safely through this wild adventure.

  Safely? Well, no, perhaps not quite.

  “Ah, Moira, you’re so beautiful.” His baritone rumbled deep inside her.

  “So are you,” she replied, and even his throaty chuckle didn’t make her wish she hadn’t said it. He was beautiful—a golden, desert sun god.

  One of his large, ever-so-warm hands wandered over her bodice, exploring her through muslin and linen before slipping into her neckline to fondle bare skin. She ignored the ripping of tiny threads and a lifetime’s teachings as he traced a nipple, caught it between two fingers, and brought her to aching desire tinged with a mixture of shame and delight so sweet she felt a tear forming.

  All she could do was cling to him, suckling his tongue—dear heavens, was she really?—savoring the rich taste of his mouth and knowing, yes, knowing she had suddenly and inexplicably become a wanton and didn’t care.

  Simply didn’t care.

  “Moira.”

  She shivered in his arms.

  “Moira.” Less gravelly now, but breathless, insistent. “I want you. I could drink you in and consume you whole.”

  She smiled against his cheek and made a purring sound she had never uttered before. Not in her whole entire life.

  He released her bottom and slipped his hand from her bodice with jerky motions that spoke of deep reluctance. He grasped her shoulders again and shook her gently. “I want you, more than you can know. And in another moment, I shall have you, if we don’t stop this instant.”

  Tipping back her head, she opened her eyes. For the first second or two, he was a blur of tawny brown hair and southern sea eyes. Then the handsome features took form. In the taut lines fanning from his eyes and the pull of his mouth, she saw the depth of his self-induced disappointment, his astonishment even, at having put a stop to what they both so obviously wanted.

  Their gazes met, and he nodded, stepping back. His hands remained warm and steady on her shoulders, but his look of frustrated yearning persisted. Oh, yes, he’d wanted her, as much as she wanted him. Her eyes brimmed. Alarm sparked in his face, but she smiled through the gathering tears.

  “You’re a sweet man, Graham Foster. There is infinite honor in you.”

  He looked at his feet. “Blazing hell, Moira. You’ve no idea what’s going on behind this oh-so-honorable facade.”

  “Yes, I do.” Her breasts ached with it; her thighs throbbed with lingering need. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “You mean besides always wanting to kiss you?”

  She nodded.

  “Because you laughed. Because that was the first time I’ve ever seen you truly laughing.”

  “Do you know why I kissed you back?”

  “Because I’m sweet?” He cringed as he said it.

  “Yes. And because for once, your guard was entirely down.”

  “You enjoyed that, did you?”

  “Immensely.”

  He peered down into her face. His fingertips traveled up and down her arms, leaving trails of gooseflesh. He pulled her closer, not into an impassioned embrace like before, but a loose-armed hold around her waist. Companionable, affectionate. “Was I right to stop us?”

  No. The word sprang into her mind, shocking in its bluntness. In truth, she’d have been content to let their kiss go on and on—although content was the wrong word entirely. She would have been thrilled, exhilarated…quivery…

  But whatever had happened between them, whatever temptation inadvertently unleashed, had passed. Already he was reverting to his normal self, the devil-may-care Graham Foster. Suddenly the reality of why he’d kissed her struck her a dulling blow: she’d been laughing. He’d kissed her for fun. For excitement and adventure. A deflating disappointment-and self-consciousness-swept a hot wave from her neck to her scalp.

  “Of course, you were right to stop.” She turned away, cleared her throat, and set her bodice to rights. The muslin hadn’t ripped after all; he’d merely strained the rows of pin tucks furrowing its front. “No sense losing our heads simply because I laughed and you were sweet.”

  “Quite so.” Stooping, he gathered up the account records that lay fanned across the floor.

  Moira drifted to the bookcase, where she hoped, in vain, to avoid his scrutiny. He appeared at her side, his features sober. “In the excitement of discovering these ledgers, we nearly forgot why and how we found them.”

  “Good heavens, yes.” Her head went down, weighted by shame. “Poor Mr. Smythe. How could we be so heartless?”

  “I was referring to the burglary.” He touched the small of her back briefly before dropping his hand to his side. “This could all be a bizarre coincidence. The thief might have been looking for something that has nothing whatever to do with Everett’s will.”

  She touched the spine of a thin volume: Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, one of Everett Foster’s favorites. She had flipped through it several days ago while searching in vain for the codicil. She sighed. “My instincts tell me there’s a connection.”

  “I’m afraid I agree. Our first step is to go to the bank, secure your interests, and see if we can find out why Everett hid these accounts.”

  She turned to him. “Let’s go now.”

  “It’s late.” His voice gentled as he delivered yet another disappointment, albeit a temporary one. “They’ll be closed. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  She clenched her fists at the thought of another delay.

  “What’s eating you tonight?” Graham flinched as Shaun’s question yanked him from his brooding. They were seated in the drawing room, beside the hearth. Across the room beneath the windows overlooking the terrace, his mother and Letty sat over their sewing. Restless tonight, Moira paced the carpets.

  Graham realized he hadn’t heard a word Shaun had been saying until his query struck a chord. “What do you think is eating me? There was a murder today, you know. Bloody harrowing business.”

  “Indeed.” Shaun flashed him a kn
owing look. “And ordinarily you’d be trying to solve the case. Out loud.”

  His friend was right. Smythe’s demise wasn’t what had him ruminating. His gaze followed Moira as she drifted among the furnishings, running her fingertips over surfaces and leaning to straighten a porcelain figurine here, a bronze clock there.

  Was she reliving her experience as a maid? No, more likely she was remembering living in this house, comparing her happy experiences to that of being merely a guest.

  The drawing room was long, more a gallery than a room, and keeping her distance proved an easy task as she busily took stock of the knickknacks. Graham leaned, chin in hand, pondering her reasons for positioning the greater share of carpet between them.

  He’d overstepped his bounds that afternoon and was deeply ashamed. At least, his conscience suggested he should be. He’d stolen a moment of emotional upheaval—Smythe’s death and the discovery of the stock accounts—and pressed his advantage to kiss her. Grope her. And very nearly more than that.

  Good God, this lust, for he couldn’t in good conscience call it anything more civilized, had been seething since his first sight of her. Now, heaven help him, he couldn’t enjoy a single thought without visions of the darkly dazzling Moira Hughes stealing in. Taking over.

  She had called him sweet. Honorable. Because he had pulled back from committing an indiscretion of gigantic proportions, but only just.

  He groaned into his hand.

  “Why don’t you simply invite her over to sit with us? Or better yet, go talk to her.”

  He met Shaun’s far-too-penetrating gaze and raised his brows. “Talk to whom?”

  “Right.” His friend’s mouth twisted. Then his gaze wandered to Letty and Augusta. He emitted a thoughtful humph.

  Letty was hunched over an embroidery frame, jerking her needle in and out in a manner that threatened to shred the fabric. Her brows were tightly knit. She had, these many minutes, been muttering about the tedium of her task. “Why must women engage in such tiresome occupations anyway? Silly waste of time. Who cares if my borders are crooked or these snapdragons are as tragic as real dragons slain by the black knight?”

  Her grousing triggered a memory. Letty in a pair of Freddy’s trousers, declaring girls’ pursuits a sorry waste of time before she had stormed off, revealing the miniature quiver and bow slung across her back.

  She had been about eight at the time. On another occasion she had evaded her governess by way of a dumbwaiter. Graham found her an hour later giving three village children rides on her pony. Their laughter had rendered him incapable of reprimanding her, and he had even managed to convince her governess not to report her mutiny to their parents.

  Stubborn? Yes, to a fault. But also high-spirited, clever, and generous. Not for the first time, he wondered where on earth that child had gone.

  You should have been here…

  He shoved Freddy’s accusation from his mind. Should he be blamed for all the ills of the world? The unfair charges leveled at him at university had forced him to gather the remnants of his dignity and carve out a new life for himself, rather than wallow in what couldn’t be helped.

  Was it unreasonable to ask his siblings do the same?

  But as Letty impatiently tugged her thread, he felt little hope.

  With more than mild surprise, then, he watched Moira approach the Foster women and lean over Letty’s shoulder. She studied the expanse of silk with a critical eye, then propped her hand on the back of Letty’s chair. “You know, if you cross the stitches, they won’t pull nearly as much.”

  Graham braced, anticipating his sister’s less-than-amicable response.

  “Yes, Letitia.” Their mother looked up from her own sewing. “I’ve been telling you as much.”

  Letty scowled and continued plying her needle. Graham experienced a moment’s exasperation on Moira’s behalf; she was only trying to help. But then his sister’s brow smoothed. “Why, you’re right. It is lying smooth.”

  Moira nodded. “One other thing, if you will. For the centers of the flowers, French knots work to best advantage.”

  “Really? I’m not sure I know how…” Letty pushed the embroidery stand aside and stood. “Show me.”

  “Certainly.” Moira settled into the armchair, repositioned the stand, and angled the frame. “My compliments on your design, by the way. It’s lovely. Did you draw it yourself?”

  “I did. Drawing isn’t nearly as tedious as stitching. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. In fact—”

  “Now, Letitia,” Augusta interrupted, “stitching accomplishes something useful. Drawing does not.”

  Letty’s scowl returned, but only temporarily as Moira prepared to demonstrate.

  Moira took the needle between thumb and forefinger and leaned over the frame, elongating the nape of her neck until Graham hungered for the taste of her creamy flesh. “French knots are simple once you know how,” she explained. “You go in, then out quite close…just here.” She gave a gentle pull. “Before passing all the way through, you loop it round, like so.”

  “That seems easy enough.” They traded places, and after accomplishing several knots, Letty paused in mid-stitch. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Augusta’s mystified expression mirrored Graham’s own astonishment. While Letty’s exchange with Moira seemed insignificant enough, it certainly constituted a major foray into the realm of cordiality on Letty’s part. And perhaps a minor miracle on Moira’s.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Your affairs seem in good order, my lord. However, these particular accounts have been temporarily closed.” The bank clerk, a man with thinning hair and a high forehead, snapped the maroon leather portfolio closed and sniffed.

  “There must be some mistake,” Graham said from his seat across the desk.

  Seated in the chair beside him, Moira made a little noise in her throat and asked, “How can they be closed?”

  Behind them, the activities of the Bank of England’s main office proceeded at a brisk if subdued pace, the quiet footfalls and hushed tones more what he might have expected in a cathedral than in the country’s chief financial institution.

  “I’m afraid there is no mistake.” The clerk sniffed again. “Our instructions were quite clear.”

  “They are not clear to me, sir. Not in the least.”

  Moira’s impatient comment was snatched up into the vaulted ceiling and dispersed through the room. At the next desk a few feet away, another clerk glanced up, censure evident in the ridge above his nose. Graham angled a challenging eyebrow at him, prompting the man to return his attention to the work in front of him.

  “The stocks are being transferred,” their clerk continued in his businesslike manner, “to the name of the new stockholder.”

  “Is that all?” Moira relaxed against the back of her chair and treated Graham to the first truly genuine smile since their indecorous activities of yesterday afternoon. She continued smiling as she turned back to the clerk. “The new stockholder sits before you now.”

  “I’m afraid not.” The balding man folded his hands on the portfolio cover. Despite issuing the contradiction, his expression retained an eagerness to be of service.

  Graham cleared his throat. “Am I not Everett Foster’s only heir?”

  “No, my lord. It would seem there is another claimant.” Clipped, professional, like everything else about this clerk: his well-fitted but unremarkable suit of clothes; his carefully trimmed, if sparse, hair; his quick, efficient hands that lay clasped before him when not in use. “We’ve documentation bequeathing these particular accounts to a second heir.”

  “There is a codicil.” When the clerk nodded, Moira’s grin became triumphant. “We’ve been searching for it everywhere, and here it’s been all along.”

  “Quite right,” the clerk said, then frowned. “However, neither of you are mentioned in it.”

  “Of course not.” She positively beamed while apprehension took ro
ot in Graham’s gut. “This second heir would be my mother, Estella Foster, the dowager Lady Monteith.”

  “No, I’m afraid it wouldn’t.”

  Graham had had about enough. “So who, then?”

  The clerk gazed at his hands, looking uncomfortable and suddenly not nearly as keen to be of assistance. “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “My lord, I am not permitted. Bank records are kept in strictest confidentiality. You’ll understand, of course.”

  “Can you at least tell us if this heir is a Foster?” Moira’s gloved hands fisted on the arms of her chair until the kidskin stood out in shiny relief across her knuckles.

  “No, ma’am, not a Foster.”

  “And not a Hughes, either?”

  “No, ma’am.” The man’s eyes closed briefly beneath raised eyebrows. A show of regret, perhaps; of dismissal, undoubtedly.

  With a troubled sigh, Moira started to rise. With a hand on her forearm, Graham conveyed the message that he was not ready to concede defeat.

  “Wait one minute.” He mustered his most severe scowl and trained it squarely on the clerk seated across the desk. “You are well aware of who I am, and of the extent of my holdings. The barons Monteith have done business with the Bank of England since its inception.”

  The man’s facial muscles twitched; his eyes narrowed fractionally.

  “Yes, I believe we understand each other,” Graham went on. “But to make matters perfectly clear, I will pull every last farthing out of this bloody establishment this very day unless you give me a name. Just a name, Mr.…ah…”

  The man swallowed. “Bentley.”

  “A name, Mr. Bentley.”

  The clerk exhaled. Flipping open the portfolio, he riffled through the documents until he found what he sought.

  “Michael Oliphant,” he murmured at length.

  “I’ve never heard of him.” Moira accompanied the assertion with an indignant toss of her head. “Where does this man live?”

  Mr. Bentley looked alarmed. “I couldn’t possibly give out that information.”

  “Come now, Bentley, stop playing games.” Graham injected the authoritative air of an aristocrat into his voice. “Where does this Mr. Oliphant reside?”