Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 04]

by Seducing the Spy

  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.”

  20

  Loud guffaws came from the contingent of Lady Alicia’s most ardent admirers. Several ladies made noises of protest. Stanton glanced toward Alicia, not that he cared whether or not she protested.

  She looked decidedly annoyed with him, her lips pursed beneath her mask, but she stepped forward willingly enough. She came to the base of the dais and turned toward the crowd. “You have all heard our Lord of Misrule. I will hear your secret fancies, my good sirs—” She gave them all her wickedest smile. “But I cannot promise not to tell the lady involved!”

  Laughter ensued and Stanton had to give Lady Alicia credit. She certainly knew how to manage the throng.

  A footman brought a comfortable chair from another room. Some wit penned a sign—THE RAKE’S CONFESSIONAL—and hung it upon the throne. Alicia was paraded to the ludicrous setting by a crowd of gentlemen who then proceeded to toss blooms stolen from Lord Cross’s conservatory at her feet.

  “O Lady of Lust,” one man called to her. Stanton was fairly sure it was Farrington. “Are you ready to grant us our dreams?”

  Alicia seated herself in the chair, but not before casting a sweetly venomous glare at Stanton across the room.

  You will pay, that look said. Someday, as God is my witness, you will pay.

  Stanton’s only response was to move laterally across the ballroom so that he had a clear view of her.

  Alicia relaxed slightly when she saw Stanton in clear view. He leaned one shoulder against a pillar and folded his arms over his wide chest. His chin was down so that she could not see his eyes in the shadow of his black mask, but she knew he watched.

  It was a good thing, too, for the first gentleman staggered up and loomed over her, his bulk crowding her rather unpleasantly.

  That wouldn’t do. She clapped her hands sharply. “Kneel, wretch!”

  Laughter came from around them. Of course those lechers found it hilarious. Alicia was beginning to wonder if this crowd had any sort of limits.

  Perhaps there was some merit in the rules of Society, after all.

  Her penitent blinked groggily—good heavens, the evening had scarcely begun!—but dropped unsteadily to one knee. “O Lady of Luss,” he mumbled. “My secret fan— fan—trasy is to�
��to—” He swallowed and leaned forward. “Can I see your nipples?”

  The dolt obviously lacked imagination. Alicia leaned forward and inhaled. He nearly drooled. “But darling,” she breathed. “Don’t you remember? You already have!”

  He blinked slowly. “Oh. Were they pink?”

  Alicia put one palm in the middle of his forehead. “The pinkest.” She gave a vigorous push.

  He fell backward to the loud mocking laughter of his fellows, then stumbled to his feet, his mask askew on his sweating face. Alicia caught Stanton’s eye and shook her head. Not him.

  If she had known what was to come, Alicia might have been less judgmental of the drunken man’s simple fantasy. Tall and short, thin and stout—washed and unwashed—every man present came to kneel at her feet and fill her ears with lusty imaginings.

  The only way Alicia was able to keep from tossing her tea was keep her gaze fixed on Wyndham—

  And imagine him in every role.

  Her education expanded with every muttered confession. There was so much more for two—or more!—people to do to each other than she’d ever imagined . . . or even wanted to think on.

  Yet, somehow even the most distasteful acts seemed rather . . . interesting . . . when she visualized Wyndham’s perfect, muscled body performing them upon her.

  Some men were dogs.

  Some men were wolves.

  She gazed at him across the room from her and let her mind roam freely, choosing some of the more tasty fancies to pretend with him. The ballroom faded away, the men surrounding her, cheering on her subjects, became as the roar of the sea to her ears. There was no one but Wyndham.

  At his post across the room, Stanton could feel the heat of her radiating across the cold marble room like that of a bonfire. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes the green of a steaming jungle. As she gazed at him, looking over the shoulder of each man who whispered to her, he felt the pull of her desire.

  When her tongue flicked out to lick her lips, he was very much afraid he groaned aloud. She was too much for him, too much for his control, too bright for his darkness.

  He could not keep her gaze any longer without striding to her side and carrying her away from the voracious lechers who surrounded her. He looked away and concentrated on breathing again.

  Alicia’s vision was glazed with lust. Her mind was filled with him.

  Wyndham caressing her there. Wyndham urging her mouth there. Wyndham’s mouth everywhere.

  Wyndham, exhausted and gleaming with perspiration, tied spread-eagle while she—

  Then she heard it—that particular timbre, that habit of swallowing the softer consonants. The mystery lord was whispering into her ear!

  She gazed up at him as he straightened and she met his eyes. Behind his blue velvet mask, he was a rather ordinary fellow, not too tall nor too short, with a retreating hairline and the flushed cheeks and reddened nose that came of long-term overindulgence.

  He seemed cheerfully inebriated even now and not particularly inclined to guile, but one never knew. Certainly she was no great judge of character.

  Apparently pleased by her extra attention, he gave her a sloppy wink while he gazed boldly into her décolletage with his other eye. “If Wyndham ever gets tiresome . . .” He trailed off.

  Alicia panicked slightly at being in the presence of a criminal, but only for an instant. Then she smiled, leaned forward, and inhaled. “But without your name, my lord—”

  A man with bulldog cheeks pushed between them. “Piss off, ’smy turn!”

  Alicia glared at the interloper. “I don’t want to hear your dirty little secret,” she snarled. She stood, searching over the heads of the crowd for Stanton. He’d been standing by that post just a moment ago. He’d promised to watch diligently—where was he?

  Lord Bulldog pawed at her arm. “Say, you’ve got to listen. The Lord of Misrule said to.” He smiled a loose, smeary grin. “It’s a pip of a fancy.”

  Alicia shook him off. “Oh, please. With your lack of imagination and whisky-stunted intelligence, I’m sure it’s nothing but wearing a corset and having a hairbrush taken to your rear.”

  His jaw dropped and his bushy brows met in the middle. “Who told?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Alicia shoved past him, trying to keep the mystery lord in her view. Wyndham had better have a dandy excuse for deserting her this way.

  Well, she would simply keep following the man until Wyndham found her or she tripped over him, one or the other.

  Lord Conspirator ambled throughout the masked dancers without any apparent purpose, at loose ends now that he’d dropped his fancy into the wishing well of Alicia’s ear.

  Highly unlikely.

  She stayed a discreet distance behind him, trying to appear as natural as possible. The room was horribly crowded and she suspected that the guest list was growing all on its own now as others heard about the Saturnalia.

  Lord Plotter began to make his way to the terrace doors. Alicia was tempted to hang back, yet what would Wyndham say when she told him she’d lost the fellow because of her own indecision?

  By the time she’d followed her target through the doors to the terrace, he was already partway down the garden path.

  Apparently he was a very selective vomiter, for he was wandering in a zigzag manner down the path, seemingly looking for just the right shrub.

  Alicia followed him carefully, walking to one side of the path where the lesser gravel minimized the crunching of her footfalls. As she moved farther into the darkness of the garden, she became aware that they weren’t the only guests to have made their way outside.

  She’d lived next to the pub long enough to know what those feminine cries and male grunts signified and she was grateful for the darkness to hide her furious blush.

  Lord Drunkard was still on the move, so Alicia bit her lip and kept to his trail. The only thing holding Wyndham to her side was her story and she was suddenly very desperate to prove it. After what she’d learned from his mother, she would do anything to help him believe in her.

  Then a nearby cry startled her. She had to admit, the deepening darkness combined with the animal noises of carnal celebration were beginning to send shivers of alarm up her spine. She’d never been a fainting violet, but she would be very glad when Lord Sot made his way back inside.

  Then she came upon him, lying across the path unconscious. She rushed toward him and knelt at his side. “My lord? My lord, can you speak?”

  No, but he could snore. She would be getting no name from him now. Alicia dropped his arm to the gravel in disgust. “Oh, shut up, you miserable sot. How am I going to get you back inside now?”

  She stood. There was nothing she could do but go back to the ballroom and seek out Wyndham. At least she knew the mystery lord wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  She turned and began to stalk back to the house, in her irritation forgetting to mask her footfalls in the gravel.

  She’d gone no more than twenty steps before a shadow stepped out of the bushes into her path. She jumped slightly, suddenly becoming completely aware that she was wandering in a strange garden in the dark—not something any woman did with impunity, no matter how highborn.

  “If it isn’t Wyndham’s new pet bitch.” The figure took a step toward her. “He let you off the leash already?” The voice was flat and unfamiliar.

  The faint light from the house was at his back, making his face invisible, although she was sure he could see her. In fact, her gold gown might as well be a beacon, while the stranger’s dark garb made him a frightening trick of shape and shadow.

  Alicia took a step back, then another, although she didn’t know where she was supposed to go. Away, that was for certain, but where? Her target was passed out behind her, Wyndham was behind the stranger, doubtlessly expecting her to still be in the ballroom—which was precisely where she ought to be, now that she thought on it.

  “Lovely evening,” she said, forcing a light tone into the rigid fear in her voice. �
�But I’ve left my wrap inside. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  The shadow man didn’t step aside, not that she’d truly expected him to. A cold ball of sickening alarm began to swell in her belly.

  The shadow moved a step closer. “The Lord of Misrule has declared that everyone must tell you their secret fancy. I have a very lovely fancy to relate—one where red-coated bitches are quite properly tied up and muzzled—where all their nasty habits and willfulness are beaten out of them, until they know their place . . .”

  He moved closer. “Where is that place, Lady Alicia? Where do you belong in the world? You aren’t a true lady, for you’re even more of a whore than those unfaithful wives inside. You aren’t an honest whore, if there is such a thing, for you still pretend to your birthright, the one you threw away to let a filthy manure-shoveling stable boy between your thighs. You don’t even know your place, do you, Lady Alicia? You don’t belong anywhere at all. A lone bitch, with no pack, taking crumbs from the lowest tables.”

  He laughed, a mad, strange sound. “I know where you belong, little red bitch. You belong on your knees before me, properly chastened, willing to do absolutely anything for those crumbs . . .

  He reached for her, striking like a snake. She ducked violently and almost evaded him, but one merciless claw gripped her wrist.

  She cried out at last, the pain setting her free of the frozen humiliation. “Wyndha—!”

  The demon spun her as he twisted her arm high behind her, sending her to her knees, held upright only by his excruciating grip. He wrenched her wrist higher as if he wished to rip her shoulder right from its socket. “Keep whining, little bitch. Your master doesn’t want you any more than anyone else on earth does.”

  God, could no one help her? “W-why?” She could scarcely form words through her gritted teeth. “Why are you angry—?”

  He shook her, hard. The pain in her shoulder made her sight dim.

  “Why? Why not? Do you not deserve everything I do here? Are you not a lady who turned whore? Are you not a wicked, wanton bitch in heat, mating without discretion or restraint?”