She took a careful breath. “Yes. He’s Indio’s father.”

His eyebrows drew together—not in condemnation but in puzzlement. “Lily, I—”

“Ross doesn’t know,” she said bluntly.

He looked at her in question.

“I never told him.” She stared at him, trying to convey this one truth. “It’s important, very important, that he not know about Indio.”

“But…”

She couldn’t hold herself together anymore. The danger was too close. She grabbed his arm with both hands. “Apollo, please, please promise me you’ll not mention Indio, or… or any suggestion that I have a child, to Richard.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course.” He frowned down at her hands and slowly took them in his own. “Did he hurt you? Because if he hurt you, I—”

“No.” She almost laughed—though not in amusement. “You have no need to play my protector. In fact, I wouldn’t be happy if you said anything at all to Richard about me.”

“He was your lover.”

She tried to pull her hands away, but he wouldn’t let her. “Is that what all this is about? Jealousy? God, I can’t believe—”

He did an odd thing then, something that startled her into silence: he laughed, a bitter, tormented sound.

“Jealousy,” he grated, pulling her close, pulling her into his arms, though she struggled to get away. “I would that it were something as easy, as simple, as mere jealousy.” He bent and murmured against her mouth, his lips caressing her with each word. “This is far more awful than jealousy.”

And then he was devouring her mouth, his breath hot and tasting of the coffee he must’ve drunk when he’d broken his fast. She wished, suddenly, that she might’ve been there when he had. That she could’ve watched those strong, unlovely lips sip at a cup, that she could’ve seen his throat move as he swallowed toast or eggs or gammon or whatever he’d consumed at that meal. She wanted to be there with him whenever he ate, whenever he rose, whenever he went to bed. She wanted to watch as he let himself go, as he succumbed to slumber and dreams. She wanted to see him shave. To find out if he raised his chin and stroked upward with the razor as she’d once seen Edwin do when she was very little.

She wanted… oh, dear God! She wanted everything. She wanted him.

And in that moment she forgot resolve and carefully plotted plans and all else. Her vision, her mouth, her very being were filled, simply and completely, with Apollo Greaves.

She opened her lips, desperate for him as if she hadn’t seen him for years, when he’d risen from her bed only hours before. She bit at him, whimpering.

He caressed her face, murmuring, “Shhh.”

There were others nearby, she knew that somewhere in a part of her brain that still worked, but it really didn’t matter to her. She clutched at his shoulders, his hair, wanting him naked with her. Wanting him to be Caliban, not Apollo.

He lifted her suddenly, setting her on a table nearby, which wobbled under her weight.

He cursed softly and tossed her skirts up, thrusting his hand underneath. He gave her no warning, no gentle persuasion. His fingers were at her mound, blunt and unhesitating. He traced through her folds, spreading and exploring, as if he had every right. Claiming her sex as he’d claimed her mouth.

She groaned and he broke away to admonish, “Hush!” against her cheek.

Then his thumb found her clitoris and he was pressing against her, moving in small, devastating circles.

She bit into his shoulder.

He bent and licked her throat.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I can’t—”

And then he took away his hand and she growled at him.

He laughed, low and sensuously, and flipped open his falls. He shoved between her thighs, making the table shake, spreading her thighs even wider to give himself room.

“Stop,” she hissed. “The table will break.”

He simply looked at her, grinned, and thrust.

She grabbed his upper arms as he entered her, rough, sudden, searingly hot—and so good she had to bite his shoulder again.

“Someday,” he panted as he thrust again, his cock stretching her, filling her, “I’m going to take you in a place where you don’t have to be quiet. Where I can hear all your moans and little squeaks. Where I can make you scream.”

And he seated himself fully, his pelvis pressed to hers, her skirts in a wadded mess between them.

He started to withdraw slowly and she pounded on his back with both fists. “Move!”

He braced one hand on her hip and one on the wall and thrust in again, making the table knock against the wall.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. He was hitting her just there, and it was marvelous, but at the same time the table’s knocking would bring someone soon. She groaned. She didn’t want to end this but there was no lock on the door.

“Put your legs around me,” he huffed in her ear, humid and hot.

“They’ll hear us.”

“Lily,” he groaned, “please do it, love.”

The endearment jolted through her, going straight to where he still shoved into her.

She wrapped her legs around him, as high as she could, and as she did, he grasped her bottom in both his hands and lifted her. She clung to him, impaled on his penis, the position so obscene she should’ve fainted from just the thought.

Instead she nearly came.

He leaned his shoulders back against the wall and moved his big hands to her waist. She watched as his eyes shuttered, his face going slack with sensuous want as he lifted and lowered her on his cock, using her as a tool to pleasure himself.

Each pull upward was a draw against her most sensitive flesh. Each jolt down a powerful slam of pleasure.

He was driving her insane, driving her with need, and she wasn’t sure she could keep from screaming.

He must’ve known her peril, for his eyes opened, his pupils large and black, and he looked at her. “Kiss me.”

He couldn’t do it himself, she realized. He was using all his strength to keep them both upright against the wall.

She leaned forward, feeling like a doll in his strong arms, and placed her closed lips against his, a chaste, gentle kiss, even as his flesh plundered hers below. She was swollen and wet, so heated with want that she wasn’t sure it could ever end. Maybe she didn’t want it to end. Maybe she wanted him to fill her forever, to just keep ramming her with that long, thick, perfect cock until she became insensible. He could thrust into her all night long and when she woke he’d still be screwing her, his body hard and everlasting, hers wet and wanting.

But it couldn’t last forever, that was a fevered fantasy born of heat and his smell, and when he began losing his rhythm, she reached between them, pinching her clitoris with two fingers.

He watched her, his lips curled. “You… you’re…”

She leaned close and whispered against his sweaty neck. “I’m touching myself. Pleasuring myself as you fuck me.”

He gritted his teeth and the tendon in his neck stood out in stark relief.

She felt his come flooding her, seeping out around his penis.

And when she climaxed herself, she bit down on that tendon, tasting salt. Tasting life.

GREAVES HOUSE WAS a dreary mansion.

Trevillion looked up at the darkened edifice as he helped Lady Phoebe and her elderly cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood, from their carriage. Only one lantern was lit at the door—either from miserliness or because their host wasn’t particularly welcoming.

“Oof,” Miss Picklewood muttered as she made the gravel drive. “Well, ’tisn’t a lovely place, but I expect the play shall be quite good.”

“It was very nice of Mr. Greaves to invite us,” Lady Phoebe chided. “He doesn’t even know us and I’m sure it was merely a courtesy to Hippolyta. Actually, it’s a lovely coincidence that he even found out we were staying in Bath.”

Miss Picklewood darted an arch glance at Trevillion as she took Lady Phoebe’s arm. “Yes, quite a coincidence.”

He didn’t bother replying as he followed the ladies. Miss Picklewood was a disconcertingly perceptive lady for her age and he’d had the feeling for quite some time now that she’d be formidable should the need arise.

The door was opened by a fawning butler who took the ladies’ wraps before showing them into a first-floor drawing room. This room at least was brightly lit—dozens of candles fluttered at their entrance, mounted on chandeliers, and candelabra were set here and there on tables. One end of the room had been cleared to serve as a stage, with a trio of musicians in the corner. Several rows of chairs faced the area. A dozen or so guests were already seated in the chairs, chattering as they waited for the play to begin.

A man some sixty years of age approached them. “Ah, Lady Phoebe, I presume?”

His voice was very loud and he was looking at Miss Picklewood.

Lady Phoebe’s smile was a bit strained. “Yes, I am she. Mr. William Greaves?”

“Indeed, my lady,” he replied, still loud.

“May I present my dear cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood? And this is Captain Trevillion.”

Trevillion noted with amusement that Lady Phoebe didn’t bother explaining his presence. Their host bowed to Miss Picklewood and turned to him, his eyes widening when he saw the pistols Trevillion wore upon his chest. “Oh… er… most welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” Trevillion replied.

“There’ll be a ball after the play—a sort of midnight festivity. I hope you’ll be able to attend, Lady Phoebe?”

“Lady Phoebe will be returning to her home after the play,” Trevillion replied for her, earning himself a glare from his charge. It couldn’t be helped, however. A seated performance was one thing. A dance at a stranger’s house was another. Wakefield wouldn’t like it—and Wakefield paid his wages.

“Yes, well, let me show you to your seats,” Greaves said, indicating two empty chairs at the front row. “Miss Royle said that she was friends with you, my lady.”

“Yes, indeed.” Lady Phoebe smiled.

A dark-haired lady next to the empty chairs turned and waved at their approach.

“I wasn’t aware, however… that is, I’ll have a footman fetch another chair,” Greaves mumbled.

“No need,” Trevillion said briskly. “Let the ladies sit amongst friends. I’m quite happy to find my own seat.”

Greaves nodded gratefully and led the ladies to their places.

Which left Trevillion free to slip into place in the empty chair beside Kilbourne at the back.

“I see you found a way to attend,” Kilbourne said, low.

“Indeed.” Trevillion watched as Greaves fussed over Lady Phoebe’s seat. “Lady Phoebe enjoys the theater in whatever form.”

“And had she not?”

Trevillion glanced at the viscount. “Had she not, I would’ve found another way to meet with you. I wouldn’t force her to attend an event she didn’t like.”

“I meant no offense,” Kilbourne said.

Trevillion inclined his head, his mouth thinned. “Have you discovered anything yet?”

Kilbourne hesitated, but shook his head. “Not as of yet. I’d hoped to search my uncle’s rooms, but haven’t found the right moment.”

“More guests mean more servants about,” Trevillion replied. “Yet you hesitated before you spoke, my lord?”

Kilbourne grimaced. “It’s nothing. The duke mentioned this morning that my uncle has a valet who spent time in Newgate—an odd origin for a manservant, you must admit.”

Trevillion shrugged. That was the thing about London: a man could completely remake himself.

“And then,” Kilbourne continued, “Miss Goodfellow’s brother took care to warn me that we couldn’t trust Montgomery.”