Seducing the Spy (23 page)

This time he did give himself a rap on the forehead. "There will be no reflecting on delectable
anything
!" His sotto voce self-scolding couldn't have reached much farther than his arm's length, yet he heard a soft laugh from the shadows.

He turned quickly. There was no one there—and yet he smelled jasmine. "Hello, Moth—my lady."

She drifted out from behind a piece of Grecian statuary that paled in comparison to herself. "Good evening, darling. Enjoying the air, I assume?"

Stanton relaxed, which was certainly not his usual response to his mother's presence. "You look miles beyond exquisite, my lady."

"I know, darling, but thank you for saying so." She walked past him to lean over the stone balustrade and peer at the dark garden. "It is cold outside. Why don't you come wait for her in the garden suite? It's very pleasant. Cross absolutely festooned it with hothouse blooms this time."

Lord Cross had been pursuing Catherine's affections for years. "I'm sure he considers it damning you with faint praise, my lady."

"Please, darling, call me 'Mother.' " She put her hand in his. He took it automatically, his surprise deep. She had always been effusively, theatrically affectionate, but this was something else—something simpler and entirely more packed with meaning.

"I realized something today… something about the past."

Stanton went still. The marchioness never looked back, keeping her beautiful eyes always firmly forward as if to look behind were to acknowledge that any of the past was actually true.

"And what is that… Mother?"

She turned toward him and for the first time he noticed the delicate but undeniable lines about her eyes. This contradiction of her seeming immortality struck him hard.

"I was but sixteen when I became a mother," the marchioness said softly. "And a silly, careless sixteen at that."

"Mother, I—"

She shook her head sharply to halt him. "I am not a brilliant woman, darling, but I am not quite the fool the world thinks me. It is possible that I could have risen to the challenge. I could have been more steadfast, more selfless. I ought to have worried more about your happiness than my own. Instead, I chose to flee Wyndham and Ilsa. To flee you."

Every word she said was the truth. Stanton watched, stunned, as the flighty, restless, inconstant creature he had called "Mother" transformed into a sincere, truthful woman before his eyes.

She took both his hands in hers. He felt her cold fingers shaking through two layers of kidskin. "I'm sorry, darling." She looked up into his eyes with more intensity than he had ever witnessed from her. "More sorry than I will ever be able to make you understand." Her face was strained, her age apparent in her pallor.

She had never been more striking.

For a moment, Stanton remained speechless with surprise. Then a terrible thought crossed his mind. "You're dying, aren't you?" He stepped back to peer into her face more closely. "That's it, isn't it? You're making amends before you pass on!"

For a long moment, she stared at him, lips parted.

He went cold. "We'll find the best physicians in England—in the world. We'll go to Bath. You can take the waters."

She put her hands over her face, crying… or was she?

No, she was laughing, gasping with hysterical giggles. Stanton straightened. "What—"

She reached to put her hand over his. "I'm sorry, darling. I—I shouldn't laugh—but you see, I'm quite well."

She did look well, of a sudden. Her eyes shone in the lantern light and her smile had never been brighter.

He shook his head. "I don't understand."

She patted his hands. "Really, darling, I'm not a bit ill. I simply thought it was time to—well, time, at any rate."

Stanton let out a slow breath. His gut was still shaking from the severity of the blow. Apparently he was more attached than he'd ever imagined.

She reached up to stroke his cheek. "I did not expect you to take on so, but I must say that I am gratified to learn that it would grieve you to lose me."

Stanton shook his head. "Of course it would grieve me. You are my mother."

She smiled a bit mistily. "I haven't been, but perhaps it is not entirely too late for you and I to be family for each other."

Family. What an odd thought. Then again, he had not sprung from an acorn, had he?

She glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "I believe there is someone waiting for you, darling."

Stanton turned to look behind him and his breath stopped.

Alicia stood in the open doorway, with the light behind her setting her hair afire and her gown to pure gold. The gown was daring and alluring, yet somehow gave her the regal air of a goddess statuette rather than simply that of a well-dressed mistress.

When she turned her head slightly, offering her profile in an almost shy motion, the gilded half-mask she wore gleamed richly against her perfect russet hair. She was…

Mine
, his male nature said.

All mine. Forever.

«
^
»

The marchioness leaned forward to whisper into Stanton's ear. "You should take Lady Alicia in to the ball. I find I'm not nearly so interested in this sort of affair anymore. I believe I shall go to my room to pack. Perhaps I shall see you at Christmas, if you find your way to Wyndham this year."

She swept past him on her way back inside, but paused when she came even with Alicia. To Stanton's astonishment, his lady mother deposited a kiss upon the cheek of his mistress.

"You look delightful, my dear," Catherine said. Then she bent closer and whispered something that sounded very much like "Good for you, pet."

With a last little finger wave and entirely alarming smile for him, the marchioness glided away.

Alicia watched him with wide eyes. It occurred to Stanton that she was waiting for him to denigrate her gown, as he usually did.

Instead, he clicked his heels and bowed deeply. "My lady, you look—"
Ravishing. Inspirational
.

Like a beacon in the night, guiding sailors home.

And Vikings to raid.

And he was about to take this confection of fire and gold and ripe ivory flesh into that ballroom full of lechers and deviants.

To find a traitor, he reminded himself. There is more at stake here than one woman's dignity and already dubious chastity.

Right. Think on the mission and not how she looks like a fancy foil-wrapped confection among a horde of starving men.

She was watching him, still waiting. "I look—"

Collecting himself, Stanton presented his arm. "You look ready."

She placed her hand upon it. "Of course." Behind the mask, her lashes swept down over her eyes, but he got the distinct feeling that she was disappointed.

That was unfortunate, but he had not come here to ply her with compliments. They both had a job to do and time was running out.

Alicia was so distracted by Wyndham's contradictory manner that she was unable to appreciate the impact Garrett's "princess trollop" gown made upon the party guests. When she first swept into the ballroom on Wyndham's arm, a true hush fell upon the crowd.

She was vaguely aware of white-feather-masked Lady Davenport shooting glares of hatred at her like a quiver full of arrows, and the Sirens, all masked and gowned in subdued but elegant shades of blue, giving each other meaningful glances, and even the Prince Regent, masked as a feathered eagle, who watched them with a decidedly odd look upon his face of mingled anticipation and regret.

All that she could see and feel was Wyndham and the chill depth of his glacial control.

She'd almost had him there for a moment. The light behind her had shone full upon his face and in his first moment of surprise he had clearly been attracted.

Then again, she had already known he was attracted. That was very nearly meaningless insofar as she seemed to have the required inches of figure to attract most men at the ball at least a little bit.

What she'd wanted was the next moment, the one after the surge of attraction. She'd wanted a smile, an intimate gaze, a tender touch—but there had been nothing. It was as if a door had slammed between them, decapitating that next moment before it even began.

Even now when they were mere inches apart, so close that she could feel the heat from his body upon the skin of her arm and shoulder and nearly bared breast—there was nothing emanating from Wyndham but that temperature that did naught to warm her.

"You look very handsome," she whispered to him, because it was true. "Rather like a dashing highwayman, in fact."

He didn't so much as glance down at her. "Thank you."

She hadn't been fishing—or at least not with much hope—but his distance was beginning to irritate her. Irritation she knew what to do with. Sadness was much harder.

So she dropped her hand from his arm and dipped a breezy curtsy. "You're being a complete stick," she said. "I'm going to see if Lord Farrington feels like dancing."

That had his attention at last. "No."

She tilted her head. "Interesting." And a bit thrilling. "Are you telling me you do not wish me to dance with Farrington?"

"Of course I am." Then he had to ruin it. "You've already discounted Farrington as a possible suspect. Dance with someone you haven't yet spoken to." He turned to look at the dancers, as if scanning for her next victim for her.

Alicia inhaled deeply. This man was going to be the death of her.

Yet who would not want such a demise? Just look at the arrogant, stubborn bastard! "If you were not so handsome, Wyndham," she muttered under her breath, "it would be much easier to box your bloody ears."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "What?"

She folded her arms. "I look beautiful. I know I look beautiful. Everyone in this ballroom knows I look beautiful. I'll likely hear it so many times tonight that I'll become ill."

His gaze flicked down her body and back up. "I daresay that's true." He turned back to the crowd, his composure fully in place.

Behind his back, however, Alicia was smiling.
I saw that, Lord Wyndham. I saw your eyes go dark. I saw your jaw harden. I can read you now and you think I'm so beautiful that you cannot stand to look in my direction
.

She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered. Then she spun out into the dancers, ready to take up Wyndham's search once more. There was time for her full frontal attack later.

She smiled happily, causing one man to blink in surprise and miss his dance step, seriously annoying his partner. Alicia sent him a come-hither glance from behind the coy safety of her mask, then laughed and kept going. There were more men than ever present tonight. If she wanted to find Wyndham's target tonight, she'd best get on with it.

Stanton watched Alicia flirt with the dancer. She never looked back at him, which was probably just as well. His fists were clenched at his sides and she was far too perceptive to miss that.

He could still feel her lips on his cheek and the pressure of her full breasts on his arm when she'd leaned into him. He could still smell her hair and feel the warm moist caress of her breath in his ear.

His mission seemed a thousand miles away and only one coherent thought managed to make itself across his lust-heated mind.

He was in the deepest of trouble.

When Prince George beckoned him from across the room, Stanton went. When his ruler and someday king gave him a knowing and not entirely kind smile, Stanton merely bowed. "Your highness."

"You're forgetting your duties as Lord of Misrule," George reminded him. "It's time to set the tone for tonight's celebration."

Stanton waited. George was up to no good, he could tell.

"I liked last night's misrule very much. 'Tell the truth.' Brilliant." George took a deep draught of his wine. When he'd swallowed, the empty glass disappeared into a white and gold liveried hand and reappeared full to the brim. George took it without ever letting Stanton free of his razor-sharp gaze.

"Confession is good for the soul," George went on. "I think it's time we all looked to our souls, don't you?"

Stanton kept his gaze steady, though he was aware of Alicia's bright hair and shimmering gown spiraling through the dancers, held in a stranger's arms.

"Tell the truth, Wyndham. Tell
her
the truth. Tell her what you're thinking when you watch her dancing. Tell her what you truly want when you take her to your bed."

Stanton didn't waver. "I do not lie to her."

George smiled again, that calculating gleam of teeth, tinged with bitterness. "I am not a constant man, but I know of love. I will love my dear Fitzherbert until my dying day. If I could have her as my queen, I would ne'er look astray." Then he shrugged. "Or not nearly so much, at any rate. My point is that I cannot have Maria. She and I cannot ever truly be. Such knowledge is excruciating."

George tossed back the second—or fifth, Wyndham truly wasn't sure—glass of wine. The prince wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then gestured out to the dancers. "It does me good to see you in pain, Wyndham. I only wish the other Three could writhe before me as well." He grinned. "There, I've confessed it."

Confession. Stanton bowed crisply to George. "Thank you, your highness. I shall implement your advice at once."

He turned on his heel and strode away.

"Don't forget to beg, Wyndham!" George called out as Stanton left him behind. "Women love it when you beg!"

Stanton wasn't heading off to beg anyone for anything. George's tale of love denied had only increased Stanton's resolve to avoid that dangerous emotion at all cost.

It was the talk of confession that had sired an idea in his mind. He strode to the edge of George's dais and signaled to the musicians in the balcony to stop.

They swept the crowd up into one last swelling chord and then silenced their strings. All faces turned as one toward Stanton.

He cleared his throat. "As your Lord of Misrule, I have declared that everyone must tell the truth. Now I declare that all the gentlemen here must tell their deepest fancy—" He paused through the exclamations of shock and lascivious delight. "Every gentleman here must tell his secret longing… to Lady Alicia Lawrence."