He inhaled deeply, jasmine and sweet woman.

The sun was bright and hot on his closed eyelids.

Somewhere, a robin sang.

He ran the tip of his tongue over her plush bottom lip.

She made a tiny noise in her throat, and his eyes slitted open.

Her eyes were closed, her lashes quivering like crescent fans against her cheeks.

His heart swelled in his chest, so fast, so violently, it ached. He pressed his mouth back to hers, and she opened for him, gave him access to the drugging heat that had had him aching half the night. He angled her head back to taste her more deeply, and she let him, shyly stroked her tongue against his, and his cock grew heavy. With a silent curse, he stilled again. He had meant to make it up to her, the frustrated claiming in the alcove. He carefully loosened his grip and molded her body against his with a tenderness that he had not afforded last night. But the feel of her against him . . . their fit was so, so good. Her teeth scraped against his bottom lip, and he groaned. Without breaking the kiss, he wrestled a hand from its glove and cupped the delicate curve of her jaw in his palm. The cool, satiny feel of her skin against his fingers sent another searing rush of pleasure through him. He wanted to ease her onto the ground and straddle her . . . undo all the hooks and buttons down her front, then strip away the more intimate laces. He’d touch every soft and giving inch of her with his hands and tongue, the pale fullness of her breasts, the sweet nip of her waist, the tender place between her legs . . . That especially. He would lick and kiss her there until she was writhing against his mouth.

He felt a resistance in her, and he realized that he had arched her back over his arm, and he was moving his hips against hers.

He tore his mouth off hers.

She blinked at him with a heavy-lidded gaze, her curls dislodged by his roaming hands. He noted his glove, flung carelessly into the snow.

“Annabelle,” he murmured.

At that, she smiled faintly. “Montgomery.”

He liked hearing his name like this, soft and husky. His hand went to cradle her face again, his thumb dragging over her bottom lip, and she pushed into his caress and pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if they’d done it hundreds of times before and would do it a thousand more.

Part of him recoiled with a sense of alarm.

He dropped his hand.

He picked up his glove and began to pace.

She watched him as if in a dream, his hands, one bare, one gloved, clasped behind his back. The world was unnaturally bright around her, the greens and whites glaring beneath a sharp blue sky. She wasn’t feeling quite steady, and her hands were yearning to reach for him again. His strong shoulders seemed their rightful place now.

She hadn’t slept. She had replayed their encounter in the alcove, over and over, recalled every sound and touch, and she had resolved to not follow his invitation and to stay away from him. She might as well have decided to stop breathing; one look at him across the music room, and her feet had carried her to the entrance of the maze at two o’clock sharp.

Montgomery turned back to her, his face determined. “Annabelle. I’m aware that we have not been acquainted for long, if one merely counts the days. And yet . . . surely you must know . . . how much you occupy my thoughts.” He shook his head, and in an afterthought, he took off his hat and dragged a hand through his hair, leaving the short locks in disarray.

“I could in fact say that I desire your company all the time, and I have reason to hope that you return a measure of these feelings.” He stepped closer and took her hand, his usually calculating eyes soft and warm like smoke.

Her heart gave a violent thud. Where was he going with this?

“Annabelle, I would like—”

He raised his head like a predator catching scent.

Now she heard it, too—rapid footsteps scattering gravel.

Montgomery’s brows lowered ominously as he stepped away from her.

“Your Grace!” Ramsey burst into the alley; he was red-faced, his breath coming in gulps. His usually immaculately parted brown hair all but stood on edge.

Goose bumps spread over Annabelle’s neck.

“This better be of importance, Ramsey.” Montgomery’s voice was cold enough to freeze the poor valet into next winter.

The man flinched. “I believe so, Your Grace.” His eyes darted nervously between the duke and Annabelle.

She tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders. “I’ll return to the house,” she said, suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance. She didn’t wait for Montgomery’s dismissal, but rounded the hedge onto the main path quickly.

She still heard Ramsey’s voice, carrying clearly in the quiet afternoon air. “Your Grace. Your brother, Lord Devereux—he’s gone.”

Chapter 17

Utter silence followed Ramsey’s announcement. Sebastian’s mind was a blank, the words floating through his head incomprehensibly. Then they sharpened and came down like a blade.

“An abduction?”

“Unlikely,” Ramsey said quickly. “Apparently, his lordship left a note.”

He was already on the main path.

Annabelle had turned back, her eyes large in her pale face.

“You heard?” he asked, not slowing down.

“Yes,” she said, “I could not help overhearing it.”

Well. Ramsey had announced everything loudly enough.

“Come.”

He was vaguely aware that both Annabelle and Ramsey were forced into a run to keep up with him. He managed to slow down for her, but his mind was already racing ahead. “Where is his protection officer?”

“I had him wait at the ground-floor study, Your Grace,” Ramsey panted.

Groups and couples were milling on the terrace and the garden that came into view. Heads were turning toward him, expectations reaching out to him like tentacles.

He changed course toward the servant entrance at the east wing.

“What other information do you have?”

“None, Your Grace,” Ramsey said. “I came to find you as quickly as possible.”

“You did well,” Sebastian said, all but shouldering his way through the back door into a dimly lit corridor. Two maids froze on the spot, their eyes widening beneath their white caps as if they’d seen a ghost when he strode past.

There wouldn’t be a note from Peregrin had anything happened to him. Unless it was a ploy. He forced that thought aside until he reached his study. A tall, burly man hovered by the door, his bowler hat in his fist by his side. Craig Fergusson. The man had been in his employ for a decade. He had one task—to guard his brother, discreetly and effectively. He suppressed the urge to grab Fergusson by the throat to shake an answer out of him right here in the hallway.

Ramsey lunged ahead to push open the door, and everyone filed into the study.

Sebastian rounded on the protection officer. “What happened?” he snarled.

Fergusson gulped. “Last night, we stayed over at the hotel in Carmarthen—”

“Yes?”

“And this morning, when I was waiting for his lordship and his valet in the hallway to come down to the breakfast room, I became suspicious because the young lord always likes to eat plenty, but the train was about to leave. So I got a feeling and went to investigate. I found the valet in the antechamber, knocked out clean by some laudanum—”

“Knocked out?” Sebastian interrupted, every hair on his body standing on end.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Fergusson said. “I only got the man to wake with some good slaps. He’s still groggy. He said Lord Devereux had asked him to share some wine the night before, and then he quickly fell asleep and heard nothing.”