While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0)

by Shana Galen

  She huffed. “No, I don’t. My mother always says I need to eat less.”

  “Why?”

  She was becoming familiar with his frown of confusion. Did he really not understand? “Because men don’t like fat women.” She decided to be blunt. ”And my figure isn’t Lucia’s—lithe and willowy.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Is that what women think?”

  “Of course,” she said, taking another bite of gingerbread.

  He pushed away from the table and put his hands on the table, leaning close to her. “Not all men prefer skinny women. I want to feel curves and softness beneath me when I—”

  Francesca couldn’t take her gaze from his face. Her fingers were paused in front of her parted lips, a bite of gingerbread between them. She was half-mortified at what he was implying, half-hoping he’d go on. His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile.

  Her stomach fluttered and she felt her legs go weak. She was glad she was seated. She knew she shouldn’t, but she lowered the gingerbread “When you?”

  “Take a woman to my bed.” His hand reached out and cupped her jaw. He had long, aristocratic fingers, tanned and strong. But there was nothing soft about Winterbourne. She felt the roughness of a callus as he rubbed two fingers over her chin, and she trembled, infused with molten heat.

  “Cinnamon.” He licked his fingers and stepped away from her. She didn’t move, savoring the tingle of her skin where his fingers had touched her.

  He leaned against the edge of the table again. “You’re not fat.” The whisper of his gaze skated over her, light but penetrating. “You’re—voluptuous.”

  She blinked. Voluptuous? She glanced down at herself, messy and unkempt in her faded yellow muslin gown. A mental picture of how she must look popped into her mind and almost sent her running for home and Helen’s skill with a brush and comb. Her hair was probably falling lopsided down her face; indeed, she’d been tucking stray curls behind her ear all day.

  And if she had smudges of cinnamon on her chin, it only stood to reason that dirt and dust were smeared across cheek and forehead where she’d casually wiped away perspiration. She need only peek down at her dress to see the stains of blood and alcohol from her earlier surgery. And he was calling her voluptuous?

  “I think bedraggled would probably suit me better right now,” she told him.

  His stare seemed to say otherwise. She couldn’t imagine what he saw to make him look at her so. The heat threatened to rise to her cheeks from her belly, and she averted her eyes to her teacup, lifting it for another fortifying sip.

  “Francesca.” His voice floated over her like the last whispers of steam from the cooling tea.

  “Hmm?” When she dared glance at him again, she found his gaze still on her. The heat from his body warred with the heat of the tea, shooting through her, making her tingle. He reached out and cupped her jaw, and she fought to steady the tea cup in her trembling hands.

  “We need to set a few things straight.”

  Her gaze flicked to his. “Please don’t ask me why I behaved as I did,” she whispered. “I-I can’t explain it.”

  “I think you can.” His finger traced the curve of her cheek. “Trust me.”

  Francesca’s breath hitched, and she felt her insides tearing apart. Again, she was at war, wanting to trust him and afraid at the same time. Once, she’d trusted Roxbury...

  “Francesca—”

  A brisk knock on the door made her jump.

  Ethan, unflappable as usual, dropped his hands and stepped away from her. “Come.”

  The door opened and Peter stuck his head inside. “Lady Brigham is looking for you, miss. She sent me to bid you to come inside.” Though the footman appeared as uninterested as his station required, Francesca saw the assessing look he directed at Winterbourne.

  She put a hand to her cheek and tried to compose herself. “We’ll be in momentarily, Peter. Thank you.”

  “Yes, miss.” He didn’t take his eyes from Winterbourne, who now leaned negligently against the table, arms crossed.

  The footman began to close the door.

  “Peter,” Francesca called.

  He popped his head in again.

  “Have you seen Nat? He was supposed to watch the rabbit for me tonight.”

  Peter frowned. “No, miss. Would you like me to go to the stables and ask after him?”

  She nodded, concern trickling through her. It wasn’t like Nat to neglect his duties. “Yes, and then get to bed, Peter. You’ve had a long day.”

  He grinned at her. “Yes, miss.”

  The door closed, and Francesca rose and went to the window. “I wonder what could be keeping Nat.”

  “Probably lost track of time,” Winterbourne said. “The boy will fetch him.”

  Francesca nodded, but she couldn’t stop a tremor of uneasiness as she stared into the dark night.

  Eighteen

  “Please God. Please God,” Francesca chanted under her breath, as she stood in the drafty entrance hall outside the door to the dining room, her hand hovering above the handle. “Please don’t let him be there.”

  She’d waited as long as she could to come down to breakfast. She hadn’t wanted to see either her parents or Lucia, and she’d especially wanted to avoid Ethan—Winterbourne, she corrected. But now she’d tarried so long, she feared the sideboard would have already been cleared and she’d have to go without even a cup of tea.

  Normally it wouldn’t have bothered her—much. She didn’t believe Ethan’s nonsense, calling her voluptuous. She was plump and could stand to lose a few inches. But over the past two days, she’d been so busy that she’d barely eaten anything save chocolate tarts and gingerbread. Now she was starving.

  Chocolate tarts, gingerbread, and tea. Her stomach grumbled, but at the same time her insides plummeted. They were all delicacies that Ethan—Winterbourne, she corrected again—had served her.

  Her lips tingled as she remembered the feel of his warm mouth against hers in the hospital. Pressed against hers, his lips had been full and firm—sensuous. And the taste of him. He’d tasted better than the tarts she so loved.

  And then she had ruined it. She squeezed her eyes closed. How could she possibly face him this morning—or ever again—when her cheeks burned at the mere memory of his body pressed to hers, and her stomach tightened sickeningly as she recalled her overreaction?

  Despite her hunger, she almost turned and fled. The dozen sightless eyes from the busts lining the hall seemed to stare at her.

  Coward, they accused.

  The smooth white eyes of the generals and Caesars mocked her. She was afraid to enter her own dining room. How had it come to this?

  Ridiculous. She inched her chin up a notch. There was absolutely no possibility he would still be in the dining room. He’d have been up and out hours ago.

  Jaw set, Francesca stiffened her spine, placed her hand firmly on the door handle, and opened the door.

  “Good morning.”

  She almost screamed. He was seated directly across from her, paper in one hand, cup of tea or coffee in the other, feet propped negligently on the table.

  He looked perfectly at home. Irritating man!

  “There’s hot tea and warm apple scones for you,” he said without looking up or lowering his feet. Apparently he wasn’t in the least chagrined that his boots were probably marring the wood of her mother’s expensive beech table.

  She had the sickening feeling he’d been waiting for her. “Good morning.” Her voice sounded strained.

  Her first impulse was to find the fastest possible escape. She knew it was spineless, but the little pride she’d possessed had been all but crushed last night when she’d made a complete fool of herself in the hospital.

  He turned a page of the paper absently, and she wavered, still clutching the door handle. Maybe he’d already forgotten what happened between them last night. He’d kissed many women. She couldn’t expect what they’d shared in the hospital to mean anythi
ng to Ethan—Winterbourne. Doubted that the memory of her lips had kept him up, tossing and turning half the night.

  Her gaze flicked to the sideboard, and she saw the plate of inviting scones. Inhaling deeply, she caught the faint hint of nutmeg Cook used to flavor them. The cook usually added a dash of vanilla to the recipe as well.

  Still undecided, she stole another look behind her at the open door, then at Winterbourne, then at the scones. Of course there’d be no clotted cream for them, she told herself—not that she needed any.

  “I saved you clotted cream.” He set down his cup and, eyes still directed on his copy of The Times, nudged a dish forward.

  Francesca’s eyes popped open, and her mouth watered. She loved clotted cream—adored it—but rarely had the chance to enjoy it since it spoiled easily. Somehow, Ethan had managed to save her some of the delicacy.

  “Why?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  His amber gaze rose, slow as honey, from the paper to meet her eyes. He arched a brow in question.

  “Why did you save me the scones and clotted cream?” Francesca forced herself to continue, though she was beginning to feel silly.

  He grinned—or rather his lips twisted in that sinful way that made her pulse jump. “I know what you like, Francesca.” His gaze held hers then slid down her body before returning to the paper.

  Francesca swallowed. She should definitely leave and leave now. But then her eyes fell on the dish of clotted cream in front of Ethan’s paper.

  That was it. She was staying—just for a moment. Releasing her death grip on the door, she closed it behind her, then poured herself a cup of tea, took two scones from the sideboard, put one back again, and sat down. She deliberately stirred only two lumps of sugar into her tea. Wouldn’t her mother be proud?

  Ethan turned another page of The Times and passed her the clotted cream. The paper hid his expression, but she knew—just knew—there was a smirk on his face. Arrogant man!

  He didn’t speak to her again or look at her, and after a few minutes the faint rustling of the newspaper and her fork’s clink against the china as she speared another bite of scone soothed her nerves. He was so casual this morning, so unassuming even, that it seemed almost natural for her to be having breakfast with him, as if they’d done so every day for years.

  But that was Winterbourne. He had a subtle way of introducing himself into just about any situation and winning people over, in spite of the reputation that proceeded him. Of course, he’d long ago worked his charm on her, but the attraction she’d felt the past few days, an attraction that floated just beneath the surface of her awareness, ready to emerge if he so much as gave her the hint of a smile, was different than it had been when she’d first seen him. Now it was deeper, more than just a reaction to his undeniable good looks. More than a fascination with the sense of danger that surrounded him. She was beginning to see the man behind the barrage of whispered rumors and gossip. And she began to believe he was not such a bad man after all.

  She’d finished her scone and was surreptitiously eyeing another, when Ethan put the paper down and rose. Apparently still taking little notice of her, he strode to the sideboard behind her and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  She resisted the pull to swivel in her chair and watch him. She’d felt far more comfortable a moment ago when she could see him.

  “Are you finished?” he asked.

  She almost jumped at the unexpected sound.

  “We should talk.”

  Still resisting the urge to face him, she tamped down the shiver that coursed through her at the low rumble of his voice. He sounded much closer than she’d imagined.

  “Talk?” Her voice came out low and strangled. This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  Her cheeks felt hot and beads of sweat moistened her brow. She grimaced, once again faced with the horror of how she’d behaved in the hospital the night before. She turned to look at him and had to stifle a little gasp. He was standing directly behind her. Her gaze flew to his lips.

  Please don’t let him mention the kiss.

  “I think it necessary.” His tone sounded bland, and she forced her attention away from his mouth to his eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her. He reached for her teacup, and before she could protest, added a dollop of milk. Then he refilled it, stirring in three lumps of sugar—exactly the way she preferred it.

  “You haven’t been to the hospital this morning.” It was a statement, unnecessary as they both knew he was informed of her every movement. He picked up her empty plate from the table and turned back to the sideboard.

  “No.” She drew the word out, angling her head to try and glimpse his actions.

  “I see.” He strode back to the table, and her eyes locked on the thick clotted cream he ladled on the apple scone. Her stomach gurgled noisily, betraying her. She didn’t know how she would stop herself from drooling if he ate the pastry in front of her.

  He glanced down at the scone in his hand then at her. Giving her a wicked grin, he picked up a fork, placed it on the plate, and set it before her.

  She stared at the pastry like a man who’s been wandering in the desert stares at a lake of fresh water. Somehow, it looked even better than the first one.

  “Eat it,” he said. “Something tells me we’ll have a long day.”

  “I really shouldn’t—” But she was still staring at the scone.

  “Eat it.” He leaned against the table, his stance daring her to argue.

  She didn’t.

  She took a bite of the scone and forgot everything for a moment but warm dough, moist apples, rich cream, and tangy nutmeg. The scone was half-eaten when she realized he was watching her. She tensed, afraid he might use the momentary lapse in conversation to bring up the topic of her behavior last night. She swallowed a sliver of apple. “I think I’ll go to the hospital now and check on the bunny.” She pushed her chair back and began to rise.

  “No.”

  His light hand on her shoulder stopped her, and her head jerked up at the uncompromising tone of his voice. Anger flashed through her. “What did you mean, no? You don’t have the right—”

  “Francesca.” She felt his thumb rub against the bared skin of her neck. Her legs trembled, and she sat down hard.

  “Something happened last night.” His features were taut, and he looked uncharacteristically ill at ease.

  She swallowed. That last bite of scone sat like a lump in her belly, and she lifted her teacup, her hand trembling. She clenched her fingers around the delicate handle of the china cup to steady it.

  Oh, why couldn’t they just forget about that kiss and her lunatic behavior? It was all so humiliating! So much easier to pretend it never happened, like all the times she and Roxbury pretended he hadn’t struck her. She’d learned quickly that if one didn’t discuss a matter, then one could go on as if it had never happened.

  But Winterbourne was obviously not of the same opinion. “Last night after we—”

  She jumped up again, stumbling as her knees knocked the back of the heavy beech chair. “Mightn’t we discuss this at some other time, my lord?”

  His hand had fallen away from her shoulder, and she edged out from between the chair and table.

  He scowled down at her. “No.”

  She inched toward the door. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  He stepped in front of her and cut off her exit. She glanced at him, feeling trapped.

  “You might feel differently when you find out what’s happened.”

  She paused in her retreat. “What do you mean?” A tremor of anxiety rippled through her, and the lump of scone she’d eaten turned to a brick. “What’s happened?”

  Her chest tightened when he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked away from her to the window facing the park. She took a step forward. “Tell me.”

  “One of your grooms was attacked.”

  She inhaled sharply, reaching
for the table to steady herself. “Who?” Her voice was strangled.

  “Nat.”

  Francesca’s fingernails bit into the wood of the table as she thought of the sweet, capable stable hand. “Is he hurt?”

  “The footman, Peter, found him late last night with a knot on his head the size of an apple.”

  Francesca’s legs almost gave way beneath her. She lurched forward and gripped the lapels of Winterbourne’s coat. “Why wasn’t I told? Has my father sent for Dr. Dawson?”

  Ethan glanced down at her, and she saw his gaze resting on her hands clutching his coat, but she couldn’t release him. She was half-afraid if she let go, she’d fall.

  “The groom is fine, and the doctor arrived just before you came down to breakfast.” His voice sounded reassuring, but it wasn’t enough.

  “But you said Nat was attacked. Who—”

  Ethan’s grim look cut her off. “He was found behind the Roman wall.”

  Shock stabbed through her, cold, painful as frostbite. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words. She felt a quaking—shaking that once begun might never stop—threaten to erupt in her belly.

  Winterbourne put one of his hands over hers. “Francesca?”

  She nodded, unable to focus on him, barely able to make her body execute the movements she desired. “Was it—was it the same man?” Her voice was hoarse, a mere hum of sound.

  “I don’t know.” His hand was warm over her frozen one. She glanced at his face and saw that his eyes were just as comforting. “I don’t see how it can be a coincidence.”

  She didn’t, either. She felt dizzy, dangerously close to collapse, and her thoughts were rushing at her like water from a broken dam.

  He had been there last night. Watching and waiting. Watching even as she and Ethan crossed the park on their way back to Tanglewilde. She felt a prickle on the back of her neck, spiny fingers tickling her just below the hairline. The terror, the panic threatened to take over, and she had to do something, anything to take her mind off it.

  Nat.

  She could make herself useful by looking after Nat.

  Releasing Ethan, she pushed past him and ran to the door. He was beside her in an instant. “Where are you going?”