Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 04]

by Seducing the Spy

  He wanted her. He wanted her helpless and quivering, his to kindle, to stimulate and satisfy—to give in and dissolve into his hands.

  He swallowed, reaching for the still, cold center that had sustained him in the years since he’d turned away from that part of himself.

  There was only a hot, darkly burning core, like the one within a volcano. He knew precisely who he wanted—and how he wanted her.

  It had been years since he’d allowed himself to want a woman this way.

  Allowed? You’ve no defenses against her at all. She’s got you wound like a spring.

  Indeed, it seemed he must double his resistance. It ought to be easy, for he’d years of practice behind him.

  It hadn’t always been thus. Once he had been a normal enough young man—a bit on the watchful side, wary of lies and liars, but not so much so that others avoided him as they did now.

  One person ventured easily past the barrier of Stanton’s reserve. Miss Melinda Petrie had bright blue eyes, golden hair and a smile that had more fellows than Stanton alone thinking thoughts of coming home to such a creature every night.

  She came to nearly every party that season, tireless in her pursuit of the perfect match. She would dance into each room in a flutter of muslin, her breathless chaperone at her heels. Stanton watched her flirt, openly and sweetly, with every man in sight, although she seemed to let her eyes rest on him the longest though he spoke little.

  He was a good catch, for his prospects were very good if his uncle died without a son, and he was aware that he’d grown into his height and that he wore his somewhat stern version of the Horne features well. There was nothing unusual in being gazed at with such consideration by marriageable young ladies.

  Melinda, however, had caught his attention with more than shining eyes and hair and a rather splendid bosom. Melinda didn’t lie.

  Not once did he catch her in even the tiniest untruth. If she was late, she blithely blamed her own tendency to oversleep. If a fellow asked her what her plans were for the following day, she felt no shame in informing him, with a careless laugh, that she meant to shop for unmentionables all afternoon.

  Stanton was so impressed that he began to test her himself.

  “What did I think of Prince George’s attire at the Smith-son’s ball? La, I do think his highness ought to stay away from that particular shade of puce, don’t you?”

  “Reading? Oh, heavens, no. You’ll think me a ninny, I’m sure, but I cannot for the life of me finish a book once started.”

  Greatly encouraged, Stanton began to allow himself to relax in Melinda’s presence. He was rewarded by easy smiles and encouraging laughter and her father’s indulgent approval. Melinda was not a complicated sort, but Stanton began to believe that for the best. She had more than enough physical attractiveness to keep his interest, and she was not stupid, merely happily shallow.

  He began to call upon her at her home. Her mother found many reasons to leave them shockingly alone and her father looked on with comfortable greed glittering in his eyes.

  After one particularly heady session of kissing Melinda’s hand repeatedly while gazing down her temptingly low décolletage, he felt the bonds of his passion break. He pulled her into his arms and rolled her flat onto the sofa. She went willingly, opening her lips for his hungry kiss, allowing his hands to roam without protest.

  Stanton set his need free with profound relief. He would marry this girl, he would take care of such a precious honest female for the rest of his life, he would never forget what a gift he’d been given.

  She quivered in his arms. Her breath came faster. She was pliant and willing, making no objection as he fed hungrily on her lips, her neck, her breast. Time stopped and his heart pounded. He was lost in sweet skin and fragrant hair and Melinda was—

  Melinda was terrified. Her heart raced in panic, not lust.

  He froze. “Do you not wish me to touch you?”

  She buried her hands in his hair. “Oh yes, Stanton, I cannot wait to be your wife. I love you so.”

  His gut went cold. He went very still, his face buried in her neck, his hand buried in her bodice.

  Every word she’d just uttered was a lie.

  There were tears. There was disapproval and condemnation. There were threats. Through it all, Stanton remained unmoved.

  “I do not want her. She does not want me. You cannot accuse me of ruining your daughter without bringing her virtue and your own careless chaperonage into question. Since I will not wed her, no matter the consequences, you might reconsider staining her name in such a way that no man ever will.”

  There had been no more threats and no more tears. Stanton had left the Petrie’s house with the knowledge that he had saved himself from a long and horrifying future with a woman who was not as truthful as she was too entirely spoiled to bother making excuses.

  Furthermore, there had been no denying the relief glinting from Melinda’s reddened eyes. She’d gone on to marry some charming younger son and doubtless drove him alternately rapturous and insane with her bountiful figure and her thoughtless chatter.

  Unfortunately however, not before she informed the world that she had broken the engagement herself. It seemed the next Marquis of Wyndham was something of a cruel and rapacious monster.

  After that, there was no squashing the rumors. His displeasure only fanned them. So did withdrawing from Society, of course, but at least then he wouldn’t have to hear the hushed whispers and see the pointing fingers.

  Over time, the stories grew. He was a violent master, he was a brutal horseman and, his particular favorite, he was a sexual deviant, the likes of whom the world had never seen!

  Too bad that one wasn’t true. Unfortunately, one needed a partner if one were to be truly deviant, and Stanton lacked the powers of persuasion to cajole any attractive widows to his bed.

  If he couldn’t obtain it for himself, and he wouldn’t pay for it, there was only his own icy control to depend upon.

  So he bound that part of himself tightly and stowed it deeply away. He could kill that man by simply abstaining from women for the rest of his life.

  For the past ten years he had not touched a woman, nor taken spirits, nor so much as removed his jacket in the company of anyone but his valet.

  In this one evening, he had done all of the above.

  No matter. He must expect to make concessions when in the field. It wasn’t as if he didn’t remember how to operate covertly. He might be a bit out of practice, but he had once been very active at the behest of the previous Falcon.

  It wasn’t as though he were about to lose himself in one brandy and the merest touch of a woman’s cheek.

  12

  On her way to the table where servants filled glasses of spirits, Alicia saw many people she knew by sight or reputation. She waved gaily at the women and smiled tauntingly at the men. She had spoken to every man present this evening, ignoring most of the words while she listened to the voices.

  Now she had to confess that the mystery lord was not here tonight. In addition, she was finding that being the center of such attention was rather wearing. Although she still stung from Wyndham’s comment, and the sharing of the bedchamber loomed large in her mind, she began to long for the night to end.

  She took a glass of something chilled, then slipped around a column, out of sight of the rest of the hall.

  A trio of ladies approached her indirectly, as if they could not decide whether to intercept her or to cut her.

  Alicia knew who they were, although she’d never met them personally. These three studded the gossip sheets the way the heads of state studded the news. They were all married and had been for some time, evidently long enough to bear their husbands heirs and to seek their pleasure elsewhere. They had status and wealth aplenty and reigned comfortably in this world of intrigue and illicit drama.

  Yet, for all their style and self-assurance, they seemed to hunger for something. Alicia had an abrupt vision of the girls they had been,
girls like her sisters and herself—willing to do their duty, aware of the realities of Society marriage, yet still hoping for that elusive dream known as a “love match.”

  Holding out that hope that somehow, by some chance, the men who courted them and signed the marriage contracts and received the dowries and the influence of the family connections—that those men did it all for love.

  And what were the odds of that?

  Sadness overwhelmed Alicia for a moment. She would rather be the unfettered outcast than to be trapped in that glittering, restless world of unfulfilled dreams.

  At the last moment, the ladies seemed to come to some sort of unspoken agreement and veered toward Alicia like a small flock of colorful birds moving as one.

  Alicia braced herself. This would prove interesting— although possibly difficult.

  The foremost lady, the one at the vee of the flock, came to a stop before Alicia.

  “You are with Wyndham.”

  Despite the purposeful lack of courtesy, for she was being addressed like a servant, Alicia dipped a carefully nonobeisant curtsy. “I am indeed, Lady Davenport.”

  The woman’s eyes flickered with irritation, for now she need not introduce herself with loaded consequence.

  Lady Davenport was the third wife of Lord Henry Davenport, who was more wealthy than landed, the second son of a second son. Lady Davenport had borne her much older husband the only heir and so secured her position with him no matter her subsequent behavior.

  The other two, Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Abbot, were in much the same position, although their husbands were not so highly connected. Lady Davenport was rumored to have been a favorite of the Prince Regent’s at some point—then again, most ladies cultivated that rumor, didn’t they?

  The three were the ruling tigresses of this particular jungle, so Alicia adopted an inquiring expression and prepared herself for the worst. She had one simple advantage here—she cared absolutely nothing for the good opinion of these glacially elegant, brittle brilliants.

  Her mouth widened into an insouciant grin.

  Lady Davenport narrowed her eyes, obviously not pleased with Alicia’s lack of toadying. “How charitable of Wyndham, to raise you from your sad position.”

  “Charitable?” Alicia smiled at the idea. “On the contrary. I made him pay through the nose.”

  Lady Davenport soured further. “And he did so willingly?”

  “Nay, I would say eagerly or . . .” Alicia smiled as if in fond recollection. “Perhaps a better word would be ‘urgently.’ ”

  All of which was quite delightfully true, if not precisely as Lady Davenport might think.

  Alicia tilted her head. “And my sad position? Do you mean the position of freely choosing the man with whom I wish to share my bed and my time? Do you mean the position of being in charge of my own finances, or of not caring a whit if I am accepted or shunned by angry women who despise their own husbands and who long for a single day of my lack of restrictions?”

  Lady Davenport choked on her surprise and Cassidy and Abbot both blinked in confusion and—if Alicia was not sorely mistaken—flaring envy.

  Yet Alicia could not allow the truth to pass unspoken. “Yes, I am free but I am alone, independent but unsecured. Even if I do grow fond of Wyndham, he will eventually leave. So despise me or pity me, I care not.” She shrugged, abruptly tired of the exchange. “We are all of us none too free.”

  She turned to walk away, only to find her way blocked by a broad expanse of manly waistcoat. She looked up. “Oh, hello, Wyndham,” she said wearily. “Remind me to bell your neck. Did you hear all of that, or need I recount anything you missed?”

  Wyndham looked down at her, then raised his gaze to the ladies still standing behind her. Alicia was surprised to see a flash of dark anger cross his features.

  He was angry on her behalf? Pleasure rippled through her at the thought. Yet, as tempting as it would be to believe that he cared so for her feelings, there was no denying that Wyndham was a territorial sort. He’d likely get as upset about a dirty handprint on his gleaming carriage.

  “Lady Davenport, Mrs. Cassidy, Mrs. Abbot.” Wyndham’s scant bow was just short of insulting. “I trust you have enjoyed your evening?”

  Lady Davenport opened her mouth to reply, a strangely avid expression upon her features, but Wyndham rode over her.

  “If you will excuse us—so kind of you to welcome Lady Alicia to the party. I trust you were not too shy to approach her? She is not at all self-conscious of her proper rank, is she?”

  Lady Davenport twitched with fury, but the other two ladies looked frankly alarmed. Lady Alicia, daughter of the Earl of Sutherland, was once indeed too high to speak to without introduction . . . in actual Society.

  Obviously confused, the three ladies curtsied quickly—although Lady Davenport seemed about to strangle on the courtesy—and murmured their departing courtesies.

  When they were gone, Alicia looked up at Stanton. “You made them curtsy to me!” She shook her head. “I’ll only pay for that later, you realize. You should have let me handle them.”

  “By allowing their dissatisfaction to infect you with melancholy? I heard what you said, and I saw your expression when you turned away. I have never seen you sad before.”

  She blinked up at him. “I am occasionally sad, Wyndham, as is everyone. Furthermore, why on earth would you care?”

  And just like that, he withdrew from her completely. His dark eyes returned to their previous sharp unconcern and his posture stiffened. “Of course. You are quite correct. It won’t happen again.”

  Stanton stepped back once more, turning Lady Alicia loose on the men of the group. The couches had been removed and there was now dancing. He positioned himself with his back against a column and watched.

  Like the others, Alicia was dancing—but she danced like none other. The music was a country reel, played with full lack of restraint. The guests were all shedding their social reserve with glee, but none more than Alicia. Her shoes were off and she kicked out in stocking feet, with her hair coming down further with every spin.

  She was mesmerizing. Stanton couldn’t take his eyes off her free-spirited grin as she dragged more gentlemen into the dance, towing them by the hand with the blissful assurance of a child, then turning them loose to dance as a seductress might dance if she were alone.

  There were more graceful dancers, and there were more beautiful women in the room, but Stanton couldn’t see them. To him, Lady Alicia shone like a bright parakeet in a roomful of hens.

  However, Stanton could still see the gentlemen and he wasn’t the only one gazing at Lady Alicia with longing, lust, and ill intent.

  Not that his intentions were ill—and longing certainly didn’t enter into it—but he was more than willing to admit to the lust. He was a man after all.

  And Lady Alicia was very much a woman, her pagan wild-child behavior aside.

  “Wherever did you find her, Wyndham?”

  If the voice at his shoulder had belonged to anyone else, Stanton would have cut the speaker off at the knees. He was in no mood either to defend his territory or to excuse his choices.

  However, since it was the Prince Regent who stood beside him, a bit of social politeness was required—but only a bit.

  “In the gutter, your highness,” he replied shortly. “I found her in the gutter.”

  George gave a short laugh of surprise. “I had no idea you frequented the gutter, Wyndham.” He turned back to watch Alicia dance. “Still, while you’re down there, find me one of those, will you?”

  Alicia’s hairstyle gave up the fight and now her sunset locks flared brightly about her with every turn of her pretty ankles. She was entirely delicious, all flashing green eyes and bouncing bosom and lively sensuality. Stanton’s mouth went quite dry.

  “There was only one, your highness,” he murmured slowly.

  He was dimly aware that George had turned to gaze closely at him. “Hmm.” The prince moved in front of him, bloc
king Stanton’s view of the dancers. “Snap out of it, Wyndham.”

  Stanton blinked, shock chilling his spine. What was he doing? He had no business losing himself in a woman, especially not this woman!

  She was not the simple free spirit she pretended to be, he was becoming sure of that. For all her gaiety and verve, he detected sadness beneath the perpetual moving of her full, lovely lips.

  She might truly mourn the loss of her family and the loss of her place in the world.

  She was rather brave, now that he thought about it. To come to this house party on his arm, with all the worst shadows of her past thrown into the bright light of public attention once more—he wasn’t sure he’d want to face such exposure.

  And the way she’d handled those harpies this evening? His punishment had been almost unnecessary, after the way she’d cut them off at the knees with the simple truth.

  The simple truth.

  God, if only he could be sure.

  He was forced to rely upon observation alone. She showed no telltale signs of lying, but not everyone did. Some few had fully mastered the control of their facial muscles and the tendency of the gaze to either wander sheepishly or to fix earnestly upon the recipient of the lie.

  Her hands gave nothing away, for they were constantly in motion, no matter the topic. She gestured quickly and gracefully, as natural as the motion of a bird’s wings.

  If she was lying, she was very, very good at it, which was far more disturbing than if she’d been clumsy. Such professional ability spoke of either training or natural deviousness of an alarming depth.

  Or she was simply telling the truth—every moment of every day. Which was impossible, of course.

  He rubbed a hand over his face. She was driving him mad with not knowing. Sometimes he wanted to grab her and shake the truth from her—or else kiss it from her.

  He shut his eyes tightly. He was losing his grip. She was nothing but a very ordinary woman. Not actually beautiful. Not terribly well behaved. Rather more intelligent than some, perhaps. And wiser, if she had truly meant the things she’d told Lady Davenport tonight.