wouldn't tell her. "Last night I dreamt of the earl, lying there in his study, his chest covered in blood, but the dream soon changed and we were sharing the good times again."
"You were lucky." He turned away from her, roamed with restless grace toward the dresser along the wall. Pouring water from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl, he splashed his face, raked water through his wavy black hair, then blotted the droplets with a white linen towel.
His gaze returned to where she hovered near the door as if she meant to escape, which was close to what she was thinking.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. You startled me. Then you called me Adam and I . . . I thought you were someone else."
Color rose in her cheeks as she remembered the passionate kiss. "The woman who lent me the dresses?"
"No."
Her chin inched up. "Perhaps, then, you dreamt of the colonel's wife."
A hard glint appeared in eyes so blue they looked black. "What do you know of Maria?"
She shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. "Nothing much. I know she made accusations . . . falsely perhaps. I know you may have suffered unjustly at her hands. I wonder if that is the reason you decided to help me."
He ranged toward her, his strides long and panther-like. He stopped directly in front of her. "Perhaps it is."
She tilted her head to look up at him. "I give you my word your faith in me is not misplaced."
Blackwood flicked a glance at the bed. His mouth barely curved. "Perhaps, in time, you'll give me more than your word, Miss Whitney."
Jillian swallowed, tried not to tremble. "I-I believe it is past time I returned to my room." She turned and started walking in that direction and Blackwood made no move to stop her.
"Thank you for your concern tonight," he said softly as she reached the door. "But perhaps next time you should consider the consequences."
Jillian barely nodded. Continuing into the room, she hurriedly closed the door.
Adam paced the study, waiting for Rathmore, and the woman who had invaded his life like an enemy force. Since she'd come into his room the night before, he couldn't seem to get her out of his mind, and discovering her part—or lack of it—in Lord Fenwick's murder was fast becoming an obsession.
He told himself it was simply that he wanted her so badly and he couldn't pursue that course until he knew for sure she was innocent of the crime.
It was late afternoon. Adam walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. Ever since Jillian's appearance in his room last night, he'd been edgy and out of sorts. He could still remember the feel of her body beneath him, the softness of her breasts against his chest, the delicate curve of her hip bones, the feminine vee of her thighs as they cradled his arousal. The wanting had been so fierce it made him ache to think of it. He'd wanted to lift her nightgown, spread her shapely legs, and bury himself inside her.
He wanted that still.
Dammit to hell, what he needed was a woman, a female who would satisfy his lust with no strings attached, and he knew the very one. Lavinia Dandridge, Marchioness of Walencourt, was a wicked little morsel whose needs ran as hot as his own. Her husband remained in the country for the Season, blissfully unaware of Lavinia's proclivities, or perhaps too exhausted from his futile efforts to satisfy his wife to care.
Adam took a sip of his brandy, mentally reminding himself to send Lavinia a note as soon as his meeting with Rathmore was concluded. Perhaps the lady would be free for the evening. After a few hours at the theater—if they left her house at all—he could enjoy a night of debauchery in her more than willing arms.
A corner of his mouth edged up just thinking about it, then a firm knock sounded at the door and more serious matters intruded. Reggie showed Clay into the study, preceded by Jillian Whitney, whose worried blue eyes and obvious fatigue sent a shaft of guilt straight through him—and immediately shot his plans for tupping Lavinia
"You were lucky." He turned away from her, roamed with restless grace toward the dresser along the wall. Pouring water from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl, he splashed his face, raked water through his wavy black hair, then blotted the droplets with a white linen towel.
His gaze returned to where she hovered near the door as if she meant to escape, which was close to what she was thinking.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. You startled me. Then you called me Adam and I . . . I thought you were someone else."
Color rose in her cheeks as she remembered the passionate kiss. "The woman who lent me the dresses?"
"No."
Her chin inched up. "Perhaps, then, you dreamt of the colonel's wife."
A hard glint appeared in eyes so blue they looked black. "What do you know of Maria?"
She shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. "Nothing much. I know she made accusations . . . falsely perhaps. I know you may have suffered unjustly at her hands. I wonder if that is the reason you decided to help me."
He ranged toward her, his strides long and panther-like. He stopped directly in front of her. "Perhaps it is."
She tilted her head to look up at him. "I give you my word your faith in me is not misplaced."
Blackwood flicked a glance at the bed. His mouth barely curved. "Perhaps, in time, you'll give me more than your word, Miss Whitney."
Jillian swallowed, tried not to tremble. "I-I believe it is past time I returned to my room." She turned and started walking in that direction and Blackwood made no move to stop her.
"Thank you for your concern tonight," he said softly as she reached the door. "But perhaps next time you should consider the consequences."
Jillian barely nodded. Continuing into the room, she hurriedly closed the door.
Adam paced the study, waiting for Rathmore, and the woman who had invaded his life like an enemy force. Since she'd come into his room the night before, he couldn't seem to get her out of his mind, and discovering her part—or lack of it—in Lord Fenwick's murder was fast becoming an obsession.
He told himself it was simply that he wanted her so badly and he couldn't pursue that course until he knew for sure she was innocent of the crime.
It was late afternoon. Adam walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. Ever since Jillian's appearance in his room last night, he'd been edgy and out of sorts. He could still remember the feel of her body beneath him, the softness of her breasts against his chest, the delicate curve of her hip bones, the feminine vee of her thighs as they cradled his arousal. The wanting had been so fierce it made him ache to think of it. He'd wanted to lift her nightgown, spread her shapely legs, and bury himself inside her.
He wanted that still.
Dammit to hell, what he needed was a woman, a female who would satisfy his lust with no strings attached, and he knew the very one. Lavinia Dandridge, Marchioness of Walencourt, was a wicked little morsel whose needs ran as hot as his own. Her husband remained in the country for the Season, blissfully unaware of Lavinia's proclivities, or perhaps too exhausted from his futile efforts to satisfy his wife to care.
Adam took a sip of his brandy, mentally reminding himself to send Lavinia a note as soon as his meeting with Rathmore was concluded. Perhaps the lady would be free for the evening. After a few hours at the theater—if they left her house at all—he could enjoy a night of debauchery in her more than willing arms.
A corner of his mouth edged up just thinking about it, then a firm knock sounded at the door and more serious matters intruded. Reggie showed Clay into the study, preceded by Jillian Whitney, whose worried blue eyes and obvious fatigue sent a shaft of guilt straight through him—and immediately shot his plans for tupping Lavinia
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