Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

by Alina K. Field

  His lips moved over hers, exploring, nibbling, pressing. He tasted of mint, not brandy, so perhaps he was telling the truth.

  She closed her eyes and tried to breathe while he kissed a path along her jaw, his cheek sliding smoothly against hers, his cologne filling her senses.

  When he slanted his mouth over hers, her lips parted for him, heart pounding in a welcoming crush, her body beyond her control.

  “Jane,” he whispered, and moved back to kissing her cheek, her jaw, her neck, while her pulse raced and she grasped for a thread of reason.

  She put a hand to his cheek and realized—he’d shaved for this encounter. He’d planned this seduction.

  Nosy, managing, infuriating man.

  He kissed her again, tongues tangling. His hand, so large and masculine, stroked down to her backside.

  Flailing against his embrace, she tried to stand. He pulled her closer.

  “Sh-shaldon.” She sucked in a breath. “Come to your senses. I’m a thief, Shaldon.”

  “I don’t care,” he mumbled against her neck.

  “And a scandal. I bore—”

  “A child.”

  When he lifted his head away, his gaze burned into her. “You were a child, bearing a child. Until today, I never noticed the boy’s resemblance to Dempsey.”

  She caught her breath, reaching back for a memory. She’d forgotten Reginald’s face. But of course, Shaldon was right.

  Shaldon was always right. Anger burned through her again.

  “Once apprised of a fact, you would unravel all the strands of a lady’s shameful past.”

  He lifted his head and his gaze pinned her. “A child bearing a child and sacrificing her own life to see to his needs honorably for over twenty years is not shameful. Among the aristocracy, you are one in a million, Jane.”

  “Oh,” she said, the breath whooshing from her. That was said with a different sort of passion, from a man who knew about secrets, could keep them, would honor them.

  He swiped a calloused finger over her cheek. “I am in awe of you,” he said, and then he began his assault again.

  Her mind ceased to work. Madness welled in her: desire, regret, relief. She should not trust him, could not trust him.

  But her body didn’t care and she found herself kissing him back.

  Her conscience tried to intervene, pushing memories at her. The small cottage in Ireland, her great aunt Mildred, who viewed everything through the lens of the last century’s easier moral code, her father’s berating lectures and sudden death, her arguments with her cousin.

  She’d worn Cheswick down, eventually, and despite his dismay about her wantonness, he’d agreed to her terms for her life.

  Cheswick, by some miracle, had left her alone, had kept her secret, had even let her solicitor wonder if the child was his own by-blow. He wasn’t a bad man, her cousin, and she’d always been grateful he’d refused to take her on as a wife.

  Shaldon pulled away and stroked her cheek, making shushing noises.

  She was weeping, blast it.

  He pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and dabbed at her face, his other hand locking her close. No man had held her thus, not even Reginald all those years ago. Reginald had looked and touched—her breasts, her buttocks, the place between her legs. Shaldon was looking at her, touching her.

  And for once it seemed he had lifted the shutters to draw her out of her own chaos, to let her see into himself.

  She took a good long look.

  “We won’t do this if you do not wish it, Jane. But I very much want to.”

  His jaw was smooth under her fingers, and his gaze softened under her touch. She’d desired him, it was true, not just since he’d kissed her.

  It was so tiresome being good for so many years. She wasn’t that fourteen-year-old girl anymore. If she planned to take a lover, why not start now?

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll make love with you. But…” She held up her hand. “Not the rest. We will not marry.” Marrying Shaldon would be the height of madness.

  The air stirred as she floated up, secure in his arms.

  “Never doubt that I will marry you.”

  That last was said stiffly, but when he eased her onto the bed his hot gaze raked over her, sending fresh heat that constricted her breath.

  He sent his neck cloth flying, flung off his coats, and sat down to tear off his boots.

  In mere moments, he’d removed his shirt, trousers, small clothes and stockings, and stood looming over her.

  A scar carved a deep spot in his shoulder, and others crisscrossed his chest and waist, like the ones on his back.

  And—her chest squeezed again—the evidence of his desire was clear. She struggled to breathe and let her gaze travel down. The sturdy legs bore their own set of scars, a quite wicked one to a knee, the reason he sometimes limped.

  He’d fought many enemies, this man, and been hurt by them.

  She opened her arms and he came to her.

  Chapter 11

  He heard her sharp breaths, felt her quaking, and he reined himself in. He wasn’t an unbridled boy. He’d had many lovers.

  But Jane? She had little more experience than a virgin just out of the schoolroom. He would gamble his last farthing she hadn’t taken a lover after Reginald Dempsey.

  Hell, that preening young jackass wouldn’t have been a proper lover.

  When she rolled and faced him, the bedside lamp highlighted the peaks and valleys under the thin gown.

  He smoothed a hand along her hip. “How beautiful you are.”

  She put a finger to his lips. “No flummery, Shaldon.”

  She wanted honesty also, this woman who’d kept such a great secret for so many years.

  He wanted to know her secrets. He wanted to know all of them.

  “You’ve had a difficult few days. How did you elude our men on the road?” That question had been nagging at him.

  A smug smile curved her lips. “We traveled by sea.”

  By sea?

  He laughed. “You clever girl. Wait until I tell Kincaid. But…Ewan spotted you on the London stage.”

  “Did he?”

  He rubbed at his head. It was her all right, wearing her red shawl…

  He brushed a lock of hair back from her cheek and raised up on his elbow. “You clever, clever girl. You gave away your shawl. So intelligent. So beautiful.”

  “Flummery.”

  “No.”

  Her sharp breath warmed him as he kissed her, tasting her sherry-scented lips. It was his last cogent thought.

  * * *

  Wave after wave of sensation rolled through her, igniting more memories. She’d felt this hot desire before, this itchy building pleasure, and pain—the sharp stab of Reginald tearing into her.

  And after had come agony. Reginald dead, her brother—who shouldn’t have been there—dead.

  Her fault. Her brother’s death had been her fault.

  She’d blamed Shaldon too. He’d been in Kent. He’d been at the gathering where they’d died. He’d come the next morning with the news of their deaths.

  It had been Shaldon who’d mentioned Reginald’s fiancée.

  Kisses, gentle, then demanding, then gentle again, muddled her. Shaldon’s hand had found the hem of her nightgown and was inching it up, shocked pleasure streaking through her.

  Had Reginald been so gentle? Aunt Mildred had talked of the deep pleasure of coupling. Reginald’s careless seduction, her thoughtless capitulation, had brought far more pain than pleasure.

  Her chest tightened. Death, betrayal, shame—all the ghosts of her past hounded her, and still she felt pleasure.

  The nightgown rolled higher. He leaned in and suckled.

  This wasn’t the same as before. She wasn’t a child. And—she wanted him.

  She’d robbed him, and he’d caught her out. And he wasn’t angry.

  They were both candidates for Bedlam.

  Only…She squeezed her eyes shut against a flare of panic. Wa
s this his way of getting revenge?

  “Jane.”

  She opened her eyes and there he was, watching her.

  “I stole your painting.” It needed to be said again. He must understand. “I wrapped up another and sent it north.”

  “I know.”

  “I meant…I mean to sell it to the highest bidder.”

  “And give the money to your son.”

  “Yes, and if this is your way of…of getting revenge—”

  “No,” he roared.

  He flopped onto his back and pulled her atop him, skin to skin, hearts pounding together. He pulled the bunched nightgown over her head, tossed it aside, and locked his arms around her.

  Gasping for breath, she struggled up onto her elbows and dodged his intent gaze, tracing a finger over a scar. This one was old, lined with puckers where the flesh had been stitched.

  Everything he did had a risk and a purpose.

  “Not revenge then,” she said, her breath tight. “What, besides a tumble, do you really want from me, Shaldon?”

  He snaked a hand under her hair and sparked pleasure along her spine, down to her backside, making her quiver.

  His hooded gaze raised an alarm in her. Shaldon’s will was indomitable. And where pleasure was concerned, she was almost a complete innocent. Since Reginald, she’d never flirted aimlessly—never flirted at all. The cost was too high.

  She raised herself on one arm. “I’m not sure this is—oh.” Hot sensation snaked through her, rushing heat to her face.

  The grin on his face made him look human. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I want. Just that reaction.”

  In a flash, she found herself on her back again. “What I want, Jane, is you, well-pleasured.” He nibbled at her neck. “What I want is to earn your great heart.” A kiss to her jaw followed. “And your enduring loyalty.” He pushed a lock of her hair back. “I want all of you, honorably, and forever.”

  Braced above her, he waited.

  Her heart clattered inside her, Aunt Mildred’s voice rattling around with it and adding to the noise. Though it’s often enjoyable, men only talk of love when they want a woman to yield. She’d fallen once, believing sweet words from a rogue who had tricked her and died.

  And forever? Shaldon might be hardy, but he was old; old enough to have a son past the age of thirty.

  “No one can promise forever, Shaldon.”

  “The rest of my life is yours, Jane. You have only to say yes.”

  Why? Why did he want her? He could simply take the painting, now that he—

  “You are thinking again.” His lips quirked. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Just speak…” His hand settled over her breast. “From this great heart.”

  Her great heart felt ready to burst. She caught her breath. Bed sport between lovers might be prettied up with words, but it was rarely based in anything deeper than lust, Aunt Mildred had said. With a proper and considerate man, a woman would have much enjoyment. Go into the affair with your head on straight and you won’t lose your heart. And pay heed to certain other possible consequences.

  Consequences like her son, Quentin. “I’m thinking, I would do better to speak from my great head.” She placed a hand over his. “Perhaps I am saying yes to tonight.”

  She sighed and shook her head. Of course, she wanted this, wanted him, had been lusting after him.

  “I am saying yes, but only to tonight. And I believe you know the consequences that could flow from one night of lovemaking, even at my advanced age?”

  His smile grew. “I am willing to risk it, my lady, and perhaps it may persuade you to a second yes.”

  “The second answer is still no. Though as I recall you made a declaration rather than a request.”

  “Let me try to convince you.”

  His grin was so boyish, it made her laugh.

  “Very well.” She lifted her head and kissed him.

  She’d be a reckless gambler again.

  He squeezed her breast, and then he was sliding down, kissing her, suckling her, murmuring how beautiful she was through ragged breaths, stroking her hips, her belly, the place between her legs.

  Reginald had poked a finger into her there, briefly, before, and then there’d been pain.

  Shaldon paused.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “And I won’t. We’ll take our time. Trust me, Jane,” he said.

  Trust Shaldon?

  His mouth settled again on her breasts and his hand moved below for long minutes, the sensation exquisite, and she found herself moaning, and then writhing, and then…

  Pleasure burst in her, luminous, explosive.

  Shaldon was atop her then, and she parted, giving him entrance, gritting her teeth.

  He filled her and there was only a satisfying fullness.

  They moved together then, in a quick, ferocious drive, the pleasure building and building until she burst again, biting back a cry.

  With a fierce groan, he climaxed inside her and collapsed.

  * * *

  Tight, tortured breaths pierced his consciousness and he opened his eyes.

  He rolled to the side, pulling her with him. “I beg your pardon,” he mumbled. “For crushing you, that is.” He’d not ask forgiveness for what they’d just done.

  A soft touch smoothed over his shoulder. “So that was what Aunt Mildred was talking about.”

  Fatigue muddled him, as it always did after a tupping. One of the reasons this sort of tactic was better left to a younger man.

  But, Jane was not a mission, he reminded himself.

  “Mildred?”

  He fought the sluggishness of his recovery and listened as she told him about the aunt who had stayed with her and schooled her during her confinement. Some young women would have reacted to such an education after such a scandal by seeking more of the same. But not Jane.

  He’d been right about her. She was solid and honest.

  Not placid, though. His shaft stirred again. By God, he felt thirty years younger this night.

  * * *

  Shaldon had listened to her tale of her aunt, his eyes closed, occasionally offering a grunt, until she’d talked him into slumber.

  The Spy Lord had fallen asleep in her bed.

  She watched him, awed by his vulnerability, and wondered…if she slid from the bed would he wake? If the door to the corridor opened, would he be instantly alert? If she touched him…?

  She snuggled closer and one eye opened, and then an arm snaked around her.

  He slept, but she could not. This was a night to wonder at. After thirty-nine years of life, she knew what it truly was to make love to a man.

  But marry Shaldon?

  His bed talk…those were just words. Before tonight, she’d only seen his reserved public face, but in fact, he’d sired a bastard and beguiled secrets from countless women in his travels.

  No. She couldn’t promise to marry him.

  Quentin needed her help. She must sell the painting tomorrow. But—what if Shaldon would buy it?

  He’d acknowledged her theft and said nothing about buying it. Perhaps he thought a night bringing her pleasure was payment enough. And then what?

  Her son needed help. She couldn’t rely on the wily Spy Lord.

  * * *

  In the early dawn, she woke alone.

  Propped on the pillow next to her was a note and the letter Jenny had handed her, the letter she’d put aside last night.

  She glanced at the note, squinting in the half light.

  I will see you tonight at Lady Kennerly’s affair. Do be sure to read your letter. All will be well.

  No words of love, no signature, not even an “S”. A guarded man was Lord Shaldon. She must remember that.

  And she had no plans to attend Lady Kennerly’s affair. The man’s high-handedness knew no bounds.

  The seal on the letter snapped easily, the paper unfolding to reveal a few lines of masculine script.

&nb
sp; My dear Lady, I hope you will forgive my rudeness today.

  She blinked and looked away, hands shaking and wondered if Shaldon had compelled this letter.

  I assure you the harsh words were spoken out of shock and my embarrassment at my circumstances. I should like, if you are willing, to have a private moment with you at Lady Kennerly’s musicale tonight. There will be no need for further sacrifice from you, as Lord Shaldon has offered me a position.

  Most sincerely, Q.P.

  She flung the paper aside, sprang from the bed, and began to pace.

  She was twice a fool. It was happening again. Shaldon was recruiting her son into danger, just as he’d done her brother and Reginald.

  He’d made love to her only to soften her. Marriage? Pah. He wanted her agreement, her compliance.

  Oh yes, he’d keep his word and follow through with a marriage—a union destined to be miserable. Shaldon never took half-measures in his managing. He wanted her—and her son—under his thumb.

  But why? Why? She had no state secrets. She’d never betrayed England, nor had her son.

  She squeezed her eyes on hot tears. In the short time she’d known Quentin, in the few social encounters they’d had since she’d met him, having heard the tales of his gambling and debts, she’d realized he was not suited for Shaldon’s type of work. He would be foolish. He would also meet an untimely death.

  She must save him.

  She hurriedly washed and grabbed a gown. Before she could struggle into her clothing, Jenny appeared.

  “You’re up, my lady?” Jenny glanced at the bed where both notes lay scattered and the bedsheets and pillows were tumbled. The girl blinked once, and without further comment, went about helping her dress.

  “I’m going out tonight.” She must make that meeting and convince him to decline Shaldon’s offer. “I’ll need one of my better gowns. Could you have a note carried to Lady Sirena? She’ll find something in my clothes press to send.”

  “Yes, my lady. Shall we have your whole wardrobe brought here?”

  Once her business here was settled, she would leave London quickly, which meant most of her wardrobe would stay behind. Perhaps Madame’s seamstresses would like some of her older dresses.