Maybe it was wrong to imagine the rough pads of his fingertips against herself, but would he truly mind, if he knew? If he wanted her, he’d touch her there, just like that. When she said please, a little harder, he wouldn’t ignore her. Yes. Just like that. He had more experience than her; likely, he’d have more imagination than her, touching her—there. Her other hand crept around her nipple, brushing it between thumb and forefinger, feeling a spark go through her.
There. The hand between her legs crept down. There? Her fingers slipped inside her, and when that didn’t seem to do anything, crawled up, pressing—oh. There. There. Her circling thoughts pulled in, electrified, and she pushed the palm of her hand against that spot.
Once she had started down this road, what followed came easily. The flicker of pleasure grew to a bonfire. She swallowed the noises she wanted to let out. This, this. Was this what it could be like?
She had the sense of chasing something—reaching for it—
Her back arched as pleasure filled her in an electrifying circuit. Her mind went white; her hand slipped against that spot, faster, faster, until it was too much and she could do nothing but press into her own flesh and let out a cry as a sheer wave of delight passed through her.
Her breath was unsteady. Her hands were a mess. She felt alive, open, filled with light.
“Oh my God,” she whispered into the night.
Her body could do that? Her heartbeat sounded heavy in her own ears. Her body could do that, and nobody had told her.
“Oh my God,” she repeated. She was going to have to do some reading.
It had taken more than a month, but Benedict Worth had finally exhausted all the useless leads he had generated. He’d tracked down twenty-seven separate blond ladies—ranging in age from twelve to forty-three—none of whom were his sister, half of whom weren’t even British.
There was only one thing left to do, and—alas—it was the thing a competent searcher would have done from the beginning. Which was how he found himself waiting in the consular office in the heart of the British Concession in Shanghai. A salt breeze blew in from the sea; he could scent it coming in through the open window. The September weather was warm and clear. A beautiful day for a pointless conversation.
The door opened behind him; Benedict rose, nodding to the man.
Benedict had been years out of England now and had spent most of that time with Captain Hunter. His ability to judge the deference owed to someone of a different social station had once been knife sharp. That sense had now dulled to a useless blob of barely remembered facts. He was no longer sure whom he was supposed to treat as his better and who he was supposed to assume was beneath him. The result was that he made it all up as he went along and inevitably made everyone British despise him a little.
His nod, he realized from the way the man stiffened, had been a little too deep.
Benedict Worth was the son of an earl. He shouldn’t even have stood.
The man in front of him crossed behind the desk, sat, steepled his fingers and stared at Benedict. His hair was jet black, and there was so much of it—running from the curled mass on the top of his head down through beard and sideburns. The depth of that color seemed out of place next to skin as pale as the underbelly of a salmon. His eyes were a startling, piercing blue, and he was looking at Benedict as if examining a bit of refuse found on the bottom of his boot.
Ah. One of those. A stickler for order. Well. Maybe Benedict could be incompetent. Annoying him would undoubtedly make the visit less productive. Benedict slouched back in his chair lazily.
The man’s nose twitched.
All the better if he didn’t like Benedict. It’s not as if Benedict wanted assistance in his search. “Hullo there!” Benedict said cheerily, upsetting things further. “You must be Consul Secretary Larkin.”
The man glanced at the brass nameplate on his desk. “A stunning conclusion to draw. Bravo.”
Benedict had been told to seek out Consul Secretary Larkin nineteen separate times. Larkin knew everyone and everything that passed through the British quarter, he was told. The people he’d talked to used phrases like keen mind and stands on principle and maybe stands a little too much on principle to describe him.
“I was told to ask you about a personal matter.”
Another twitch of Larkin’s nose at this. “Sir. This is a consular office.”
Benedict bulled ahead. “I am searching for a lady.”
Larkin flattened his hands against the desk. “I don’t assist in procurement, if that’s what you’re asking. The rules on such are set by the treaty between Britain and China, and the regulations promulgated by—”
“Oh no,” Benedict interrupted, realizing suddenly what the man must have meant by procurement. “Not that sort of lady. Nor that sort of looking. I’m looking for my sister.”
“Ah.” Larkin’s face seemed to grow darker. “She’s not here.”
Benedict looked around the office. “You mean she’s not in China at all?” Another thought occurred to him. “You know who Lady Theresa is? Has she been here?”
She hadn’t told him she was in Shanghai, but Theresa was Theresa.
A climbing vine of some sort had been trained up a lattice in the corner; little flowers bloomed on the edge. Benedict frowned. Not telling him where she was? That would be just like her.
“She’s not at the consulate,” Consul Secretary Larkin replied with annoying precision. “This office lacks jurisdiction over the entirety of China, and I am unable to speak beyond the purview of the consul.”
“Well,” Benedict said, more sarcastically than he intended. “Thank you. That’s most helpful of you.”
The man sniffed. “You’re welcome.”
This was going wonderfully. A complete shamble, of course, which was perfect for his needs. Benedict looked at the man. He knew he should leave, but…
“But you know who she is,” he said slowly. “You didn’t say anything about that. Has she been here? You must have some customs records of who has passed through the British Concession. Might I look through the records to see if she is using an assumed name I might recognize?” That would take weeks. Judith would be delighted at this assiduous pointlessness.
“No,” Secretary Larkin said. “You may not.”
“No?” Benedict repeated. It wasn’t a problem; he didn’t care if he got to see the paperwork at all. It was downright delightful that the man was throwing up obstacles—Judith would also commiserate at his hard work in the face of such obstinacy.
“No,” the man said again. “You see, I not only know who your sister is, I know who you are.”
“You should. I left my name with the consulate when I made the appointment.”
“I am not referring to your name. I am referring to your personality. Your father was a traitor. Your brother was a traitor. You are…” Larkin trailed off, his eyes not moving from Benedict, and Benedict felt cold wash down his spine. “You are apparently the sort of brother who misplaces a sister and spends a good month desultorily asking ridiculous questions of everyone who has no reason to know anything and no questions of anybody who might actually know. It does not speak well of your character. What are you playing at?”