In Bed with a Spy (12 page)

“No.” The assassin did not pick up the tankard. He never did. “The carriage that conveyed her belonged to Angelstone. It did not wait.”

“Ah.” She would be there for some time then. He’d always believed her to be a lusty woman. Some women were passionate deep in the bone. They usually became mistresses, in his experience, which appeared to be her relationship with Angelstone.

Lucky bastard.

“How much does she know?” The assassin fingered the edge of the blade. Not menacing. Measuring. Testing. An assassin always kept his blade sharp.

Good. He’d trained the assassin himself. It was gratifying to see one’s hard work rewarded.

“It is difficult to tell how much she knows,” the leader answered. “Lilias Fairchild is not like other women. She doesn’t keep her thoughts in the open.” But she knew something. Oh yes. He’d made a study of her inflections, her expressions. He heard more than she said. But still she surprised him, which was why she was the most fascinating woman he had ever encountered in his travels.

It was unfortunate he must order her death.

“Ten thousand pounds to the Adder that takes her.” He crossed his legs and noted he still wore his evening clothes. He would have to burn them now that he’d worn them into the Goat and Goose. They would never come clean. “I want her death to look like an accident. Or, at the very least, the work of a common footpad. I want no connection to the Adders.”

The assassin’s brow rose. “The medallion?”

“Send it to me when the deed is done.”

“Y
OU DON’T HAVE
to seduce me, Angel. I’m in your study, it’s nearly midnight and we have already been lovers once. We both know why I’m here.” One corner of Lilias’s lips tipped up. An enticing invitation, he decided. But then, she’d issued the invitation hours earlier at the concert. He’d accepted.

What man would refuse a woman watching him like she wanted to forget the crowded room and swallow him, bite by bite? Not him. Not the peer, not the spy, not the man.

“What if I want to seduce you?” A pleasurable pastime, seduction. From the nervous flutter of her hands, the idea discomposed her. How interesting. He reached for the crystal wine decanter on the sideboard and removed the stopper. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“With our limited time, it seems wasteful to drink wine. If it is daylight before you finish your seduction, every member of Fairchild House will know I’ve been out.”

She had not said no. Ruby red wine flowed from the sparkling decanter into two curved glasses. The scent of spice and berries rose into the air. He breathed deep and brought that lovely scent into him.

“Much like seduction, wine is never a waste.” He threw a glance over his shoulder before picking up the glasses. She half reclined on the chaise longue. Her gown spilled over her legs, a frilled expanse of gold embroidery and fabric the same rich shade as the wine. She was passion and practicality, all packaged in the most delectable body.

He offered her the glass. Gloved fingers closed around the stem. She set it to her lips. He watched the white column of her throat as she swallowed and imagined running his tongue over the soft skin.

Soon. He would, soon. But for all her willingness, he wanted to savor her as he had not had the opportunity before. She’d wanted fast and needy to prove that even if her marriage had been pretense, she was still alive and a woman. But this time, he wanted just a little more from her.

After all, she’d discovered a piece of him. Turnabout was fair play.

He raised his glass, sipped. The wine slid over his tongue, smooth and mellow. “Do you like it?”

“I do.” She held up her wine, peering into the glowing liquid. It must have been an interesting substance, as a line appeared between her brows. She did not look at him when she spoke, but continue to peer into the wine. “What are we doing, Angel?”

“Being foolish.”

A resigned half laugh dove into the glass and disappeared into the wine. “So we are. I don’t seem to mind. Sit beside me.”

She drew her legs in, making room on the chaise. He sat beside her. Her slippered toes were only inches from his thigh. Part of that vibrant gown tumbled over his knee. A shapely ankle peeked from beneath her skirts. He couldn’t resist the subtle point of her anklebone. So delicate. His forefinger brushed the silk stocking covering the peak. Beneath his touch, her skin fairly vibrated. His body answered, though he’d been half aroused already.

“This is seduction again.” Blond brows drew together. She was so unsettled by the seduction he could practically feel her muscles quivering. “We are moving backward, Angel. I don’t want seduction.”

“We skipped a few steps the first time.”

He met her gaze and found the most intriguing vulnerability in those blue depths. She was afraid of seduction. Not of seducing someone, but of being seduced.

“I don’t know.” Her lips curved upward. She leaned forward, sliding her legs over his thighs until she was nearly on his lap. “We managed all the pertinent parts.”

“Except getting to know each other.”

“I would say we know enough.” Her eyes went dark and shuttered. A barrier rose up, something he knew instinctively he could not penetrate. “I told you, I don’t want to be seduced.”

“Is it only sex you’re after, Lilias?” He couldn’t decide if he should be delighted or offended.

The line formed between her brows, only it seemed fierce now. “It’s only pleasure between us, Angel.”

And death and murder and lies. It all lay between them, even if they chose to ignore it for a few hours. “We can share more than just pleasure.” Though he wasn’t sure why he wanted to.

“You’re in a strange mood tonight.” Her laugh was light and strained.

Perhaps he was. He’d let his guard down at the concert. It wasn’t that the music was lovely or the violinists skilled. He’d been intrigued by the young girl struggling to work with her raw talent. She should not have caught his attention, but she had. And Lilias had seen the moment when he’d forgotten to be a spy.

It was wrong of him to want to erase that moment. It was just as wrong to want to pierce her armor. But if he gave Lilias some part of himself, he wanted some part of her in return. The brightest, most true part. Because she had found his, even if she wasn’t aware of it.

“Do you know what I think of when I think of you?” he asked.

A faint line appeared between her brows. “I haven’t the slightest idea.” She set the glass to her lips, watching him with curious eyes. “What?”

“Waterloo. The sabre.” A warrior woman. Whatever she’d been fighting for—and he thought he knew—it was that part of her that seemed most true. “Where did you learn?”

“To fence?” Her brows snapped together. “On the march. Jeremy taught me, along with Hawthorne. It helped pass the time when we were bivouacked somewhere inhospitable.”

“You were more skilled in battle than I expected.”

She straightened, all bright eyes and amused smile. The darkness lurking behind those eyes had eased. “Oh, I have a range of talents. Fencing is only one of them.”

“What else are you skilled at?” A question filled with possibilities. With her hand skimming along his thigh, it was full of more possibilities than his body could manage.

“Riding a horse in a raging blizzard.” A dry tone, a dry look, as her hand slipped from his thigh. “I’m an accomplished rider.”

He had more than enough proof of that. “Not a talent easily showcased in London.” Unless she were in a chair.

Her fingers rippled across the crescent sweep of the wineglass. Coyly, “I’m better on a horse than with a sabre.”

“I’ve seen your riding skills.” His hand stroked her ankle again, then his fingers trailed beneath the edge of the skirt to the lower curve of her calf. “
Are
you skilled at fencing?”

“I’ve never had a chance to perfect it.” Her laugh was quiet. “Not a very ladylike skill.”

“But a useful one.”

“Only if I need to fight off some blackguard and happen to have a convenient sword nearby. Of late I’m beginning to think I may need such skills. I may need to protect myself, now that I’ve taken a spy as a lover.”

“The hazards of governmental service.” Damnation, but she smelled like sin. He set his lips against the line of her neck, nibbled there. “But perhaps your skills have become rusty with disuse these last few years.”

“Do you need a demonstration, then?” She laughed, low and throaty. “It is unfortunate I do not keep a sword in my reticule.”

“It so happens I keep multiple swords in my home.”

“That is the worst euphemism I have ever heard.” Her smile simply bloomed. Bright and beautiful. “Most definitely a demonstration, then. Perhaps you can help me refresh my fencing skills.”

Ah, he found that part of her. This was Lilias, not Mrs. Fairchild. The woman, not the wife. Major Fairchild might have taught her to fence, but it was her character that made her enjoy it.

“Well, you can’t fence in that gown, my girl.” A kiss, a stroke of her cheek. The slightest dimple as she laughed at him. “Let’s find you something to wear.”

—

H
E HEARD HER
slip into the training room. Her tread was the lightest whisper against the floor. He didn’t turn around, but continued to remove the matching foils from their case.

“This is the longest room in the house. It is the most conducive to fencing lessons.” He laid the foils side by side on one of the tables at the edge of the room. The long, intricately constructed wooden floor had seen more than its share of inexperienced spies. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She stepped up beside him to study the buttoned foils. “They’re beautiful.”

Candlelight shone on the thin, polished blades. Her finger slid over the length of the entwined ropes of gold forming the guard. Her touch was slow and light, the movement long.

He swallowed hard and glanced over. His breath clogged in his lungs. When he’d given her the shirt and breeches he never imagined she’d look like this in them. Aphrodite could not have looked more enticing.

“What?” Her smile told him she knew exactly what.

“I’d forgotten how thin my shirts are,” he said softly.

She wore her chemise beneath his shirt. He could see the lace rising above the deep V of the neckline. Technically, she was properly covered, even swimming in clothing. But even through her chemise and the fine lawn shirt her nipples peaked against the fabric. The sight left him wanting more.

His gaze traveled over her waist, over the lush hips revealed by the breeches. She’d used a cravat to hold them up. Silk stockings with a pretty little pattern covered her calves. Those long legs beneath ended in a ridiculously sensual pair of heeled slippers.

The delicate ankles he’d admired were completely exposed. Odd that an ankle could make a man salivate.

He raised his eyes and found her watching him through her lashes. She touched the tip of her tongue to pink lips. Desire shot through him, a quick dart that took his breath. Who was seducing whom now?

“Thank you for the loan of your clothing,” she said.

“It looks better on you than on me.”

Her lips quirked. “You’re biased.”

“True.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the slightest idea how I’m going to fence in these slippers.”

He grinned. “Take them off.”

“A challenge, my lord?” One hand landed on her rounded hip. “Do you think I won’t? Too improper, do you suppose?”

“I have no doubt you will.” With a flourish, he dipped to one knee and held out a hand. Looking up into her amused face, he said, “May I?”

“Ah, the gallant knight.” Her hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, bringing her scent with it. She pointed one foot, lifting it for his ministrations. Candlelight shone on the wine-colored silk of her slipper. “Very well, sir. Remove the slipper.”

He slid his hand around to cup her heel. Her stockings were as thin as gossamer, and when his fingers brushed the diaphanous silk he felt the shock resonate low in his belly. The slipper all but fell from her foot. His gaze followed the line of her calf, the lovely hollow of her ankle, the high arch.

Looking at her was an exquisite torture, sharp as the point of a sword. He slid the second slipper off and turned away lest the torture become unbearable.

He pointed to the masks and jackets lying beside the foils. “For protection.”

She didn’t hesitate. The jacket first. Arms slid in before she ran her hands down each side of the front opening, her hands skimming her breasts. He met her gaze, saw she was watching him through her lashes. Minx.

The jacket was his, and too large for her frame. But she gamely buttoned it, still watching him as deft fingers fastened it over her breasts. A sad thing, when a pair of exquisite breasts was covered by thick fabric.

Then with a hand resting on her hair to hold it in place, she set the mesh and leather mask over her head to cover her face. Beneath the mask he could barely see the features of her face. But he recognized her grin. It was infectious, that sudden joy.

And it was a piece of her that had been missing. One of the pieces he had been hoping to find. Perhaps his motives were not pure, but he was not pure. If he wanted to find that tiny bit of her she did not show others, he refused to consider that a fault.

She tugged at the jacket, settling it into place. “I know some of the basic positions already,” she said.

“Show me, then. Slowly.” Picking up a foil, he turned it to offer it hilt first.

Her brows rose in challenge. Wrapping her hands around the hilt, she took it from him. Lovely, gloveless hands. “I have only a rudimentary knowledge of the art of fencing. My knowledge is more the practical kind.”

“War is nothing if not practical.” He set a mask over his own head. Now her image was crisscrossed by steel squares. He could not see details, only the shape of her body, the slow and elegant movements. She seemed to be forever in a delicate dance.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She stepped to the center of the cleared area. Graceful as the curve of a swan’s neck, she rose to the balls of her feet. “How do I stand?”

“I thought you knew already.”

“Only the most basic idea.” She grinned merrily. Enjoyment radiated from her.

He’d been right to think her interests were atypical—but so were his. They were two nonconforming souls. He with the ton and the life of peer, she with—well. The ton, the delicate pastimes of some women, even life in London, he supposed.

“En garde.” Lifting the foil, she pointed it at him. It was a clumsy version of the position.

He clucked his tongue. “You need to be retaught the positions.” The foil in his hand whispered through the air as he prowled toward her. “Fencing isn’t about body positions and thrusts.” He stopped to stand beside her and took up the en garde position.

“No?” She ran her eyes down his body, then mirrored his position. That quick look sent his blood humming. If a man could imagine a woman naked beneath her clothes, a woman could do the same, could she not?

He cleared his throat. “Fencing is about deceiving your opponent, and not being deceived by him.”

“No wonder Jeremy excelled at it. He was an expert in deception.” She paused, the foil before her motionless. “Then again, so are you. Since I apparently didn’t know my husband—” She thrust the sword forward, body moving as fluidly as water. “Perhaps I don’t know you as well as I think.”

She could not know him. There were too many secrets in his head. There was too much blood on his hands. “Perhaps
I
don’t know
you
. What secrets do you carry with you?”

That mobile, flowing body did not pause in her thrusts. “You know my secrets.”