Worth Any Price Read online

  “Does it hurt here?” he asked, his fingers slipping over the swollen entrance of her sex.

  “A little.” She leaned back against his arm, her head lolling on the polished wooden rim of the huge porcelain bathtub.

  Nick kneaded lightly with his fingertips, as if he could heal her with his touch. “I tried to be gentle.”

  “You were,” she managed to say, her thighs floating apart.

  Nick’s thick lashes lowered as he stared at the shimmering blur of her body beneath the water. His handsome features were carved with such severity that his face could have been molded from bronze. The edge of his rolled-up sleeve dragged in the water, the velvet turning hot and sodden.

  “I won’t ever hurt you again,” he said. “That’s a promise.”

  Lottie caught her breath as he parted the tender folds between her thighs and investigated the fragile plumpness they had concealed. Her hips lifted, while her hands fought for purchase on the slippery surface of the tub. He slid a supportive arm behind her back, holding her securely.

  “Lean back,” he murmured. “Let me pleasure you.”

  No, she thought skeptically, not in a bathtub, with a thick wall of porcelain between them. But she relaxed in his hold and opened for him as his free arm moved across her body. She grasped his wrist lightly, feeling the movement of tendons and muscles as he ran his thumb over each side of her vulva. He rubbed the silken flanges of her inner lips together, his touch tender and light. Softly he spread her, stroking his middle fingertip along the tender seam, brushing the rosy nub of her sex each time. He smiled slightly as he saw bright patches of color appear on her face and chest. “The Chinese call this the jewel terrace,” he whispered. Gently his finger slipped inside her, advancing only an inch, circling softly. “And here, the lute strings…and here…” He reached to the most secret recesses of her body. “The flower heart. Does it hurt when I touch you this way?”

  “No,” she gasped.

  His lips brushed her ear. “The next time we lie together, I’ll show you a position called Stepping Tigers. I’ll enter you from behind and go deep inside…and rub against the flower heart over and over…” He suckled her earlobe, catching it lightly between his teeth. A hum of pleasure climbed from Lottie’s chest to her throat. She was floating, weightless, yet clasped securely by the arm at her back and the hand between her thighs.

  “How do you know such things?” she asked unsteadily.

  “Gemma collects books on erotic techniques. One of her favorites is a translation of a text written during the Tang dynasty. The book counsels men to increase their stamina by forestalling their own pleasure as long as possible.” His finger withdrew, and he stroked her inner thighs with the lightness of butterfly wings. “And it gives prescriptions for health benefits…to strengthen the bones…enrich the blood…ensure long life.”

  “Tell me some of them,” Lottie said, swallowing hard as his hand cupped over her, the base of his palm nudging rhythmically into the place where she was most sensitive.

  He nuzzled her cheek. “There’s the Soaring Phoenix, which is said to make a hundred illnesses disappear. And Cranes Entwining Necks—reputedly very good for promoting healing.”

  “How many have you tried?”

  “Only about forty. The ancient masters would consider me a novice.”

  Lottie drew back to stare at him in astonishment, her movement causing a wave to slosh close to the rim of the tub. “How many are there, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Fifteen coital movements applied to thirty-six basic positions…which provides about four hundred variations.”

  “That s-seems rather excessive,” she managed to say.

  Amusement curled through his voice. “It would keep us busy, wouldn’t it?”

  Lottie winced as she realized that he was trying to slide two fingers inside her. “Nick, I can’t—”

  “Take a deep breath and exhale slowly,” he whispered. “I’ll be gentle.” And as she obeyed, he eased his middle fingers past the tight entrance. His thumb teased her sex and swirled in a steady rhythm.

  Moaning, Lottie buried her face against his velvet-covered arm while her inner muscles grasped helplessly at the gentle invasion. After the initial sting faded, she began to squirm and gasp at each penetrating glide. “You hold me so sweetly in here,” Nick said huskily. “I want to go deeper and deeper…lose myself in you…”

  His words were drowned out by the thundering of her own heartbeat, and she was racked with shudders of bliss, her senses lit with white-hot fire.

  A long time later, after the bath had cooled, Lottie dressed in a fresh white nightgown and approached the bedroom table, where Nick was standing. She felt herself color as he stared at her with a half-smile. “I like the way you look in this,” he said, brushing his fingers over the high-necked bodice of the gown. “Very innocent.”

  “Not any longer,” Lottie said with an abashed smile.

  He lifted her against his body, his face rubbing into the cool dampness of her hair. His beguiling mouth found her neck. “Oh, yes, you are,” he said. “It’s going to require a great deal of time and effort to debauch you completely.”

  “I have every faith you’ll succeed,” she said, and sat before a plate loaded with ham, vegetable pudding, potatoes, and open-faced tarts.

  “To our marriage,” Nick said, pouring a glass of wine for her. “May it continue in a better vein than it started.”

  They raised their glasses and clinked the crystal gently. Lottie sipped cautiously, discovering a rich, spicy flavor that balanced the saltiness of the ham.

  Setting his glass aside, Nick took her hand in his and regarded her bare fingers thoughtfully. “You have no ring. I’m going to remedy that tomorrow.”

  Lottie experienced a shameful spark of interest in the idea. She had never owned a piece of jewelry. However, it had been drilled into her at Maidstone’s that a lady should avoid the appearance of acquisitiveness. She managed to adopt an impassive expression that would have pleased her former teachers excessively. “It isn’t necessary,” she said. “Many married women do not wear rings.”

  “I want anyone who looks at you to know that you’re taken.”

  Lottie gave him a brilliant smile. “If you insist, I suppose I can’t stop you.”

  He grinned at her obvious eagerness. His thumb brushed over the fine points of her knuckles. “What kind of stone would you like?”

  “A sapphire?” she suggested hopefully.

  “A sapphire it is.” He kept her hand as they talked, absently toying with the tips of her fingers and the close-trimmed crescents of her nails. “I suspect you’ll want to see your family soon.”

  Lottie’s attention was immediately diverted from the subject of the ring. “Yes, please. I fear that Lord Radnor may have already told my parents about what I’ve done. And I don’t want them to worry that they’ll be left destitute now that I have married someone else.”

  “There is no need to look so guilty,” Nick said, tracing the thin veins inside of her wrist. “You had no part in making the bargain—it wasn’t your fault that you didn’t wish to uphold it.”

  “But I benefitted from it,” Lottie pointed out reluctantly. “All those years at Maidstone’s…my education cost a great deal. And now Lord Radnor has nothing in return.”

  He arched a dark brow. “If your point is that Radnor has been ill used—”

  “No, it’s not that, precisely. It’s just…well, I didn’t do the honorable thing.”

  “Yes, no doubt you should have fallen on the sword for the rest of the family,” he said sardonically. “But your parents will be just as well served this way. I couldn’t possibly be a worse son-in-law than Radnor.”

  “You are certainly preferable as a husband,” she said.

  He smiled at that, lifting her fingers to his mouth. “You would prefer anyone to Radnor as a husband—you’ve made that quite clear.”

  Lottie smiled, thinking privately that in marrying Nick, she h
ad ended up with a far different husband than she had expected. “What will you do tomorrow?” she asked, remembering their earlier confrontation with Sir Ross. She was certain that Nick would not relinquish his position at Bow Street without objection.

  Releasing her hand, Nick frowned. “I’m going to visit Morgan.”

  “Do you think that he will take your side against Sir Ross’s?”

  “Not a chance in hell. But I’ll at least have the satisfaction of telling Morgan what a damned rotten traitor he is.”

  Lottie leaned forward to touch the lapel of his robe. “Have you considered the possibility that they both are doing what they think is best for you? That it might be in your own interests to reclaim the title?”

  “How could it be? My God, I’ll be living in a gilded cage.”

  “I’ll be there with you.”

  He stared at her, seemingly arrested by the words. He looked at her so intensely, for so long, that Lottie was finally moved to ask, “What? What are you thinking?”

  Nick smiled without humor. “I was just reflecting on how much better prepared you are for my life than I am.”

  Although Lottie had tentatively invited him to stay the night with her, Nick left after supper, retreating to the guest room a few doors away.

  I’ll be there with you. Her words had affected Nick curiously, just as her casual remarks at the wishing well had. She possessed a terrible knack of unraveling him with a simple phrase…words so commonplace, and yet invested with significance.

  He didn’t know what to make of Lottie. Despite the way he had deceived her initially, she seemed fully prepared to act as his partner. She responded to him with passion and generosity, and in her arms he had been able to forget the secrets that had haunted him for fourteen years. He craved more of that sweet oblivion. The past few hours had been extraordinarily different from what he had experienced with Gemma. When he made love to Lottie, his lust was enmeshed with a deep tenderness that made his physical responses unbearably acute.

  She kept reaching through his defenses without even seeming to know what she was doing, and he could not allow anyone that kind of intimacy. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before Lottie discovered the demons that lurked inside him. And if that happened, she would withdraw from him in horror. He had to keep a certain distance between them, otherwise she would eventually come to regard him with disgust. Or pity. The thought made his skin crawl.

  He had to maintain his detachment, while even now he longed to go back to her. In all his twenty-eight years, he had never felt this painful need for someone. Just to be in the same room with her.

  My God, he thought with dull horror, going to the window and staring blindly into the night. What is happening to me?

  Sir Grant Morgan looked up from his desk as Nick burst into his office before morning sessions. There was no trace of apology in his hard green eyes. “I see you’ve spoken to Sir Ross,” he said.

  Nick proceeded to give vent to his outrage in the coarsest words ever conceived in the history of the English language, leveling accusations that would have caused any other man either to cower in terror or to reach for the nearest pistol. Morgan, however, listened as calmly as if Nick were offering a description of the weather.

  After an extensive rant speculating on the likelihood that Morgan was nothing but a puppet while Sir Ross pulled the strings, the chief magistrate sighed and interrupted.

  “Enough,” he said shortly. “You’re beginning to repeat yourself. Unless you have anything new to add, you may as well spare yourself the breath. As to your last charge—that this situation is all of Sir Ross’s making—I can assure you that the decision to remove you from the force was fully as much mine as his.”

  Until that moment, Nick had never realized that Morgan’s opinion was so important to him. But he experienced a genuine stab of pain, a killing sense of betrayal and failure. “Why?” he heard himself ask hoarsely. “Was my performance so unsatisfactory? What more could I have done? I solved every case and caught almost every man you sent me after—and I did it by the rules, the way you wanted. I did everything you asked. More, even.”

  “There has never been a problem with your performance,” Morgan said quietly. “You’ve discharged your duties as ably as anyone could have. I’ve never seen any man match you for bravery or wits.”

  “Then back me against Sir Ross,” Nick said roughly. “Tell him to shove that writ of summons up his arse—that you need me at Bow Street.”

  Their gazes clashed and held, and then something in Morgan’s face changed. Damned if he didn’t look almost fatherly, Nick thought with sullen fury, despite the fact that Morgan was only about ten years older than he.

  “Have a seat,” Morgan said.

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Please.” The invitation was uttered with steely politeness.

  Please? Nick occupied the nearest chair, practically reeling in shock. Morgan had never used that word before—Nick wouldn’t have thought it was part of his vocabulary. Gripping the arms of the scarred leather chair, Nick gazed at him warily.

  The magistrate began to speak. In their three-year acquaintance, Morgan had never talked to him like this, with a friendly, rather paternal, concern. “I don’t want you at Bow Street any longer, Gentry. God knows it has nothing to do with your effectiveness. You’re the best runner I’ve ever seen. Since you came here, I’ve tried to offer what modicum of guidance I thought you’d accept, and I’ve watched you change from a self-serving bastard into a man I consider to be both dependable and responsible. But there is one thing that I regret to say has not altered. From the beginning, you’ve taken suicidal risks in the course of your work because you don’t give a damn about yourself or anyone else. And in my opinion, you’ll continue to do so if you remain here—at the cost of your own life.”

  “Why do you give a damn?”

  “I was a runner for ten years, and I’ve seen many men die in the course of their duties. I myself came close to it more than once. There comes a time when a man has tweaked the devil’s nose once too often, and if he’s too stubborn or slow-witted to realize it, he’ll pay with his own blood. I knew when to stop. And so must you.”

  “Because of your famous instincts?” Nick mocked angrily. “Damn it, Morgan, you stayed a runner until you were thirty-five! By that count, I still have seven years to go.”

  “You’ve tempted fate many more times in the last three years than I did in ten,” the magistrate countered. “And unlike you, I didn’t use the job as a means to exorcize demons.”

  Nick remained expressionless, while the frantic question What does he know? buzzed and stung in his head. Sophia was the only one who knew about the full ugliness of his past. She had probably told Cannon, who in turn might have said something to Morgan—

  “No, I don’t know what those demons are,” Morgan said softly, his eyes warming with a flicker of either pity or kindness. “Although I can make a competent guess. Unfortunately I have no advice to offer about how to reconcile yourself with the past. All I know is that this way hasn’t worked, and I’ll be damned if I let you kill yourself on my watch.”

  “I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”

  Morgan continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I’m rather inclined to agree with Sir Ross’s opinion that you’ll never find peace until you stop living behind the shield of an assumed name. As difficult as it may be to face the world as Lord Sydney, I think it for the best—”

  “What am I supposed to do as a viscount?” Nick asked with an ugly laugh. “Collect snuffboxes and neckties? Read papers at the club? Advise the tenants? Christ, I know as much about farming as you do!”

  “There are thousands of ways a man can be of use to the world,” Morgan said flatly. “Believe me, no one expects or desires for you to lead an indolent life.” He paused and took an ink blotter in his huge hand, regarding it thoughtfully. “The runners will be disbanded soon, in any event. You would eventually
have had to find something else to do. I’m merely precipitating the matter by a few months.”

  Nick felt the color drain from his face. “What?”

  Morgan grinned suddenly at his expression. “Come, that should be no surprise to you, even in light of your disinterest in politics. When Cannon left the magistracy, it was only a matter of time until the runners were dismissed. He was the heart and spirit of this place—he devoted every waking moment to it for years, until…” He paused tactfully, leaving Nick to fill the silence.

  “Until he met my sister,” Nick said sourly. “And married her.”

  “Yes.” Morgan did not seem at all regretful about Cannon’s departure from the public office. In fact, his blade-hard features softened, and his smile lingered as he continued. “The best thing that ever happened to him. However, it was hardly a boon for Bow Street. Now that Cannon has retired, there is a movement in Parliament to strengthen the Metropolitan Police Act. And many politicians believe that the New Police would become more popular with the public if the runners weren’t here to compete with them.”

  “They intend to leave all of London to that bunch of half-wits?” Nick asked incredulously. “Good God—half of the New Police have no experience to speak of, and the other half are black sheep or idiots—”

  “Be that as it may, the public will never fully support the New Police while the runners remain. The old instruments cannot be installed in the new machine.”

  Stunned by the finality in the chief magistrate’s voice, Nick fixed him with an accusing stare. “You’re not going to fight for this place? You have an obligation—”

  “No,” the chief magistrate said simply. “My only obligation is to my wife. She and my children are more important to me than anything else. I made it clear to Cannon that I would never surrender my soul to Bow Street the way he did for so long. And he understood that.”