My Lady, The Spy Read online

  “Sorry.”

  “So, flowers, chocolates, useless knickknacks, parochial compliments, and I will win the woman.”

  “Count on it.”

  “Trevor, you are a bloody genius.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The roses arrived at noon.

  Ensconced in her sitting room, and failing miserably in her attempt to master needlework, Rebecca cursed another imperfect stitch and spared a quick peek at the large bouquet perched atop the side table. The exquisite red blooms had become a potent, painful reminder of Colin’s death, and their haunting scent often invoked her darkest demons. Yet the artful arrangement, which also featured purple snapdragons, had achieved a decidedly different effect. Perhaps the sender had something to do with the nervous excitement simmering beneath her skin.

  The accompanying card, stark in its simplicity, bore no name or seal, but she recognized the telltale conservative script in an instant. Then there was the beribboned tin, marked by identical importuning correspondence, of decadent chocolates that arrived only half an hour later. And the message, three elementary words when considered on their own, but taken together as a whole, a powerful request, a sultry summons impossible to deny.

  Think of me.

  Silly man. Had Dirk not realized she had done little else since that remarkable night in his study? Against her better judgment, Rebecca set aside her mangled mess, snatched the tin from the table, inched the strip of emerald satin from the box, lifted the lid, plucked a tempting morsel from its nest of cotton, and tossed the confection into her mouth. The richest, creamiest milk chocolate mingled with the subtle tartness of strawberry, and she moaned her appreciation. Standing, she walked to the center of the room, closed her eyes, and hugged herself.

  Fanciful dreams materialized from thin air, whimsical images straight from the stuff of fairy stories, and a chorus of chubby cherubs sprang to life, letting fly a shower of mystical arrows and serenading her with a naughty ditty of love. And how she loved. On a giggle, she stretched out her arms and whirled, again and again, gaining speed with each successive turn, like a giddy schoolgirl wearing a brand new dress.

  Until a strong male arm encircled her waist and lifted her feet from the floor.

  Anchored firmly in Dirk’s embrace, she touched her nose to his. “My lord, what are you about?”

  Amber eyes twinkling with amusement, he grinned. “I take it my modest offerings to your beauty please you?”

  With calm deliberation, Rebecca locked her arms behind his head and let her lips express her gratitude. But she was the grateful recipient of their shared kiss. She was thankful for his hands, one shifting lower until he cupped her bottom and pressed her to his hips, while the other inched up and came to rest at the nape of her neck, fingers twining in her hair. Oh, the erotic heat of him, the sumptuous taste of him, sweeter than any store-bought treat, sent her spiraling to the dizzy heights of passion.

  “I should ply you with flowers and chocolates more often, love.” Dirk pressed his forehead to hers. “Or is there something else you prefer?”

  “You.” Her heart skipped as he eased his grip, letting her slide down the front of him. “Only you.”

  “That goes without saying.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small parcel. “Then I suppose you are not interested in this?”

  “Another gift? You spoil me.” She accepted it without hesitation and opened it at once. Inside, on a bed of snow white satin, was a porcelain rosebud. “Oh, Dirk. It is lovely. But, what is the occasion?”

  “The answer is simple, really.” He rocked on his heels. “I had thought to keep fresh flowers on your night table, but I may not always be here to do so. Now you have a bloom that, like my affection, will never whither or fade.”

  “My lord, I am confused.” Actually, his bold declaration both stunned and thrilled her. “Unless you perceive the traitor to be hiding in my chambers, there is no need to maintain the pretense of our courtship behind closed doors. And Sir Ross--”

  “Can go to the devil.” Dirk trailed a finger along the curve of her cheek. “What say you, my darling Becca, if I am in earnest?”

  Devoid of fluff, bereft of superfluous sentiment but nonetheless powerful, her plainspoken suitor made her an offer she dared not refuse.

  She exhaled a shaky breath. “Viscount Wainsbrough, am I to understand that you wish to pay court, in truth?”

  “Indeed.” He seemed so calm and equally certain. “Have you any objections?”

  And just like that, he set the world at her toes.

  “I must confess it is my fondest wish.” How she wanted to shout inexpressible elation, yet one thing held exultation at bay. “But I am still an agent of the Crown, and I must complete my mission before I can entertain any proposal.”

  No doubt that would temper his plans.

  “Is that your only impediment?” He narrowed his stare.

  “I can think of none other.” She held her breath against rejection.

  “Then you will have me?”

  Rebecca launched herself into his arms.

  #

  It was the fashionable hour, and, as had most London society, Dirk and L’araignee participated in the pompous spectacle that was the promenade. Clutching his arm, she dipped her chin to the various matrons of the ton and was always surprised to discover another claimed acquaintance, when she had spent the better part of the past five years on the Continent. Occasionally, her partner in more ways than one cast her a charming grin or a wicked wink, reminding her of their shared secret.

  Yes, the no-nonsense, oh-so noble Viscount Wainsbrough had declared his intent to wed Lady Rebecca Wentworth. And while she was still reeling from his modest proposal, he accepted her consent with unimpaired aplomb. So, as the gossipmongers whispered of the latest courtship to snare their attention, as Sir Ross lingered somewhere in the shadows, and as an unidentified villain lurked in places darker still, the spy traipsed an imaginary tightrope between reality and illusion.

  On the surface, they could have passed for a carefree couple, planning their future with reckless abandon. In truth, they enjoyed no such luxury until the traitor was in custody. Beneath the elegant formalwear and carefully composed demeanor, they played a lethal game of cat and mouse, with L’araignee as bait and Rebecca’s most fervent hopes and dreams on the line.

  “I met with Logan this morning,” Dirk said in a low voice. “I thought it prudent to inform him of the minor alteration to our mission.”

  “You did what?” L’araignee paused mid-stride.

  “Calm yourself, darling, else you will provide fodder for the scandal sheets.” He covered her hand, anchoring her firmly in the crook of his elbow. “And it had to be done.”

  “Forgive me, my lord.” Now she came to a dead stop. “Am I to understand that you met with my commander, on my behalf, to inform him of a commitment sworn by me, without my knowledge or assent?”

  “I did.”

  “For the love of all creation, why?” She scanned the area and pulled him aside, ensuring a modicum of privacy.

  A brow arched, he replied with more than a hint of arrogance, “Suffice it to say that you are to be my wife.”

  “That may be, but I did not surrender my cloak of office.” She checked her tone, so as not to risk accidental discovery. “How dare you usurp my position.”

  “My dear Rebecca, I would have you know that I am only too aware of your current occupation.” Dirk shifted his weight. “What you conveniently overlook is that, given your promise, all prior obligations must perforce yield to mine, as I am your future husband.

  “Well, my dear Viscount Wainsbrough, I would have you know that if you ever interfere in my work again, you will yield more than a promise.”

  L’araignee turned on a heel, prepared to make a brilliant exit, and ran straight into Lord Eddington.

  “Lady Wentworth.” Colin’s father glared at her, anger laced with pain, and grasped her forearms. “What news have you of my son?”
>
  As the operative studied the patrician features marred by distress, she lamented the burden born of duty. Espionage demanded discretion that exacted a high price often paid in blood or at the unintended expense of those most innocent, the survivors. Since the veteran military man remained a suspect, she could not divulge the facts. Her gut-wrenching duplicity only contributed to the caustic stain on her conscience.

  “Lord Eddington, believe me when I say that nothing I could tell you would ease your mind or bring you comfort.”

  “May I be of assistance?” Dirk inquired, as he assumed a protective stance at her side.

  Immediately, the general released her. “Wainsbrough, have you no honor? Have you no shame?”

  “I beg your pardon?” her partner asked with unveiled incredulity.

  “You consort with this heartless harlot,” Lord Eddington spat.

  “Careful, old friend,” Dirk said quietly. Too quietly. “You insult my bride-to-be.”

  “You are to be married?” The elder man paled.

  “Indeed.” Dirk inclined his head. “Wish us merry, Eddington.”

  “I will do no such thing.” To L’araignee he said, “This is not over, Lady Wentworth. I know what you are, and your time will come.”

  #

  “My lord, just what are you about?” Blindfolded, Rebecca stretched taut her arms, flicked her fingers, and all but bounced with unconcealed excitement. “Hurry, Dirk. I want to see.”

  “Just a minute.” Standing behind his ladylove, he grinned and waited for the servants to quit the dining room.

  After their impromptu and unpleasant row in the park, and the subsequent odious scene with Lord Eddington, Becca had retreated to her secret agent persona, wrapping herself in a cloak of reticent melancholia every bit as imposing as the hooded black garb of the Corps.

  In short, the spy with sad eyes had resurfaced with a vengeance, and Dirk’s heart ached for her.

  So, with his mother at the Douglas residence for the evening, and his scamp of a brother chasing some unfortunate skirt, he was determined to put his courtship back on smooth waters with the promised celebration of the operative’s efforts.

  “Are you ready?” he whispered to the crest of her ear.

  “Yes.” She trembled visibly. “I am uncontrollably excited.”

  “All right, love.” A quick tug freed the simple knot, and the sash slipped away, revealing the fantasy he had created just for her.

  Bathed in the soft light of tapered candles, the usually utilitarian, but still somewhat elegant, dining room boasted a jungle of roses in every conceivable color. The finest linens of white damask trimmed in old gold blanketed the grand table, which bore only two place settings, one at the head and the other to its left.

  “Oh, Dirk, never have I seen anything so beautiful.”

  With the grace and ease of a gently bred noblewoman, his Becca visited each and every bouquet, pausing to caress a delicate petal or press her nose to a particular bloom. Having completed a turn about the room, she stood before him, happy tears filling her brown eyes. Slowly, she smiled, and in that simple affectation unveiled a face aglow with shimmering ebullience that rivaled the sun.

  And Dirk could have cried.

  Without a word or warning, she threw herself at him, her arms encircling his waist, and hugged him so tight he could scarcely draw breath. On a sigh she relaxed, unutterably soft and feminine, and he bent his head and kissed her hair.

  While unfinished business loomed beyond the walls of his London residence, and they would resume their mission soon enough, tonight Rebecca was not a member of the Corps. Tonight she was not in search of a traitor. Tonight she was nothing more than his future wife, to be adored, cherished, and indulged. He could give her that--would give her that--if only for tonight.

  “May I say you look lovely this evening?”

  “Do you like my dress?” Rebecca stepped back and circled once. “I noted your preference aboard ship and here, in your home, so I wore it just for you.”

  Trevor’s words of wisdom rang clear, as Dirk just stopped himself from explaining that burgundy was his father’s favorite color, and, as such, his mother had decorated everything with it. “Darling Becca, you are a vision. Now, shall we dine?”

  Dirk held her chair as she settled herself, and then claimed his place at the head. As he draped his napkin across his lap, she asked, “And what do you think of my hair?”

  For several seconds, he studied her. Had she done something different, or was it the same? Again, invaluable advice echoed in his brain. Keep it simple. “A masterpiece.”

  “But, it is not my usual style.” She toyed with a long curl that hugged her neck. “Do you really like it?”

  Bloody hell, was hers a trick question? “My dear, your hair is a work of art in any style.”

  “Why, Captain Randolph, are you not the charmer?”

  Over a sumptuous feast they traded opinions on the close quarter use of flintlock pistols, the advantages of swords versus daggers, and hand-to-hand combat. While Dirk would have preferred less provocative topics, Rebecca took to the discussion as though imparting a new gardening technique, and he marveled at the depth of her knowledge.

  For dessert, ah, dessert was a memorable experience. As the staff had been dismissed, Dirk retrieved the covered dish from the sideboard, intending to serve two bowls of the decadent peach jam pudding, but his lady had other plans. Planting her shapely bottom firmly in his lap, with a few wicked wiggles of her hips, Becca handed him a spoon. Bite by succulent bite, he fed her, claiming an occasional sugary kiss in payment for services gladly rendered. Finally, they adjourned to his study, where Dirk had one more surprise.

  “Another present?” She accepted the brown parcel with both hands. “Goodness, it is quite heavy. But you really shouldn’t have, as you’re spoiling me horribly.”

  “Is that not the purpose of courtship?” Although Trevor had not specified the sort of dust collectors to which women were partial, Dirk thought his latest selection fit the requirements to perfection.

  “I would not know.” With great care, she pulled the ribbon from the box and lifted the lid. “And I’ve had no prior experience with which to compare.”

  Silence settled uncomfortably in the room, and he wondered if he’d erred in his choice. Perched on the edge of his desk, he waited for some sign, a hint of any kind, of her reaction. At last, she met his gaze and burst into laughter. Just when he thought she might manage a word in response to his gift, she collapsed in convulsive hilarity.

  When he could no longer tolerate the suspense, Dirk asked, “Have I done something wrong, my dear?”

  “Heavens, no,” she said between giggles, and then held up the knickknack in question. “My sweet Captain, you bought me a paperweight.” With that, she hugged the large prismatic crystal to her chest, reclined in the chair, and once again surrendered to unrestrained mirth.

  Blister it, he was bound to fail, sooner or later, but he’d hoped for later--after they wed. With arms crossed in front of him, he frowned. “If it does not meet with your approval, I can return it to the vendor.”

  At his remark, all jollity ceased.

  “You will do no such thing.” She set the trinket on the table and stood.

  In one swift move, she stepped between his outstretched legs, grasped his wrists and brought them to either side of her hips. Framing his face in her hands, she kissed each cheek. “Thank you.” Then she paid homage to his forehead. “Thank you.” The tip of his nose was the next fortunate recipient of her attention. “Thank you.” Finally, she said against his lips, “Thank you,” and came at him with sufficient force that he had to prop them up, just to keep from falling back on the desk.

  Ah, it was good to be a man.

  His fiery bride-to-be nipped at his flesh and suckled his tongue in appreciation. Hell, for her brand of acknowledgment, he’d buy her two housefuls of paperweights. For several desperate, heated, unspeakably tender minutes, Dirk just sat there
and reaped the luscious fruits of his labor. Until his bold Becca reached between them, her fingers walking a naughty path straight to his--

  “Darling, it is late.” To his infinite thanks, as if on cue, the mantel clock signaled the midnight hour. “We should retire.”

  The smile with which she favored him warmed him to his toes. “My lord, I could not agree more.”

  “Shall I walk you to your room?” He adjusted a lace cuff.

  With a delightful incline of her head, she clutched his elbow. “Are you always so noble?”

  There was nothing noble about the hammer in his crotch. “Well, I try to be when circumstances permit.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Together they entered the hall, strolled into the foyer, and then turned right to climb the stairs. While Rebecca chatted about their upcoming engagements, Dirk tried in vain to cool his blood. Painfully aroused, he was positive he could bounce guineas off his Jolly Roger, because, at that very moment, his Roger was dangerously jolly. Every stick of heretofore-innocuous furniture presented enticing possibilities and alluring scenarios he mentally filed for future reference.

  “Dirk, are you listening to me?”

  “I beg your pardon?” He snapped to attention.

  “What has you otherwise occupied?”

  Should he apprise her of his bawdy plans for the cushioned, two-seater bench in the gallery, which might just spontaneously reanimate his ancestors for sheer inventiveness, alone?

  “I was merely wondering what you intended to do with your gift?” He handed her the box. “Careful. Do not drop it.”

  “Never, my lord.” She opened the door to her chambers. Just as she crossed the threshold, she turned and sighed. “I hope you know how much I enjoyed tonight. It was truly the most wonderful time of my life.”

  And with that she was once again in his arms, searing her initials on his heart with a soul-stirring kiss.

  Warning bells pealed in his ears, and he retreated before she ended up on her back. “Oh, love, I am in complete agreement. And we have only just begun.” With a most proper bow, and most improper thoughts, he said, “Until next we meet, lady mine.”