While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0)

by Shana Galen

“Is this she?” The voice came from behind her, and belatedly Francesca remembered they weren’t alone.

  Still glowering at her, Ethan released her shoulders. “Who else?”

  She heard a chuckle and turned to glimpse Ethan’s fellow spy. He wore a greatcoat, a bicorn hat, and a sensual half-smile on his lips. He removed his hat, and Francesca blinked. There was definitely something familiar about him. Something about the careless arrogance with which he held himself, the negligent tone of his voice, the shadowed eyes. With a start, she realized he reminded her of Ethan, and then knew why.

  Selbourne. Ethan’s half brother.

  “Miss Dashing,” Ethan said, moving to stand beside her. “May I present my brother, the Earl of Selbourne, and your neighbor from Grayson Park.”

  Francesca curtsied. Selbourne bowed and took her hand. It was all very formal for the middle of the night. She ignored Ethan’s mocking formal tone and smiled into his brother’s cool gray eyes. She’d seen Selbourne before, but now, face-to-face, the resemblance between the two men became even more apparent. Selbourne was still smiling, but his eyes, unlike Ethan’s, held no warmth, no hint of burnished fire. They were steely gray mirrors that seemed to reflect more than they absorbed. His gaze on her was unnerving.

  “My lord,” she murmured.

  “Selbourne, the Honorable Miss Francesca Dashing.”

  “Miss Dashing,” Selbourne said, kissing her hand coolly then releasing it. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” The expression on his face told her he considered it more unexpected than a pleasure.

  He glanced at Ethan, and there was a silent exchange between the brothers, the kind, having two siblings herself, Francesca understood well.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “I’ll see you at the ball next week, then?”

  “I’ll come in from...London for it.” Selbourne ran a hand through his hair, and Francesca didn’t fail to notice the pause and the tightness in his voice around the word London.

  Selbourne lifted his hat to her. “Goodbye, Miss Dashing.”

  She hadn’t expected him to offer his felicitations on their betrothal as she was certain he knew it to be a ruse.

  “And don’t trust him.” Selbourne cocked his head at Ethan. “He’s the black sheep of the family.” His gray eyes were almost blue with the warmth of his affection for his brother—warmth that had been missing before.

  Francesca couldn’t help but smile at him, seeing now why so many women found Selbourne attractive.

  “Thank you for the warning. I must admit—” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve heard he’s a bad man.”

  And she would know, after the firsthand experience she’d had with his debauched ways not twelve hours before.

  Beside her, Ethan chuckled, and she prayed he wasn’t remembering her behavior in the tack room.

  “Consider yourself warned.” Selbourne pushed his hat on his head and pulled it low. “Winter. Miss Dashing.” Then adjusting his voluminous greatcoat, he turned and strode through the French doors and into the storm.

  Twenty-two

  Francesca watched Selbourne disappear into the shadows of the night. She turned just in time to see Ethan exit the library. She went after him, following him up the stairs. She was almost breathless by the time he reached his room, but she made it right before he closed the door.

  “Wait!” She leaned her shoulder against it.

  “Francesca, go back to bed.” The levity was gone from him now, and his tone was harsh and irrefutable.

  “I must speak with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She tried to scoot into his room, but he angled his shoulder to block her path.

  “Let me in,” she hissed, sparing a furtive look down the hallway. “It must be close to four, and the servants will be up soon.”

  “Then go back to your room.”

  They were nose-to-nose now, and she felt the warmth of his body.

  “We’ll talk later.” He tried again to shut the door, but she wedged her shoulder against it.

  “We’ll talk now.” She hadn’t tossed and turned half the night to be put off when she had him before her.

  He pushed against the door again; she lodged herself more firmly. He scowled; she scowled right back.

  Finally, with a sigh, he released his hold, and she stumbled inside. He didn’t catch her this time. Instead, he took a step back, folded his arms, and raised his eyebrows.

  Francesca swallowed at his dark look and took her time closing the door behind her. When she turned back, he hadn’t moved.

  “I know it’s early, but I wasn’t certain we’d have another opportunity to speak privately,” she said.

  Not to mention, she wouldn’t have been able to wait another moment. She hadn’t slept all night, flopping restlessly against her mountain of pillows until they were mere hills and knolls scattered across the floor. She tried everything she could think of—reading, sewing, counting sheep—and had finally given in.

  Now, he was standing in front of her, all but growling, but still the most sensual man she had ever seen.

  She hadn’t known she could feel the way she had that afternoon in the tack room, hadn’t realized her body was capable of those sensations. Roxbury’s kisses and caresses had bored and then frightened her. But Ethan...

  “Fine,” Ethan said, interrupting her thoughts. “Let me light another candle. This one is almost out.”

  She watched him go about the task, then stared out his window at the jabs of lightning piercing the sky. Lying in bed, she’d gone over every touch, each of his lingering caresses. She’d been as charged and full of energy as the storm rumbling through the countryside. But in the aftermath of the storm, she’d felt mostly confusion. It seemed he had been leading her toward something, taking her somewhere she had never been. Then there had been the knock at the door and Pocket.

  Perhaps Pocket’s interruption had been a good thing. There was so much about Ethan that remained a mystery. Was she correct in guessing he was an operative for the Foreign Office, or had she simply misinterpreted a meeting between brothers? The truth was she knew nothing about him. Was he a hero who secretly served his country with no need for recognition? Or was he simply a callous rogue—unfeeling, uncaring, and embittered by the betrayal of a former lover.

  She couldn’t reconcile the two vastly different pictures he presented, she decided, raising her gaze and fixing it on Ethan, who had finished lighting the candle and frowned at her with impatience. Francesca took a deep breath. She couldn’t go on allowing herself to fall deeper in love with him, to become more intimate with him, to believe that there was a possibility of a future together. She had to remember that he’d been with many women, and though what she’d shared with him in the tack room might mean something to her, it undoubtedly was just another pleasant diversion for him.

  Well, she was no one’s pleasant diversion. But she’d need all of her strength to fight against the tempting picture of him standing before her now, sullen and bare-chested. She tried to focus on anything but his naked chest.

  “Yesterday—” Her gaze fixed on the tester bed behind him, and she hastily averted it again.

  “Yesterday?” Ethan prompted, shifting in annoyance.

  “Yesterday—” Her throat closed as she considered her next words. Better to say it quickly and be done with it, she thought.

  “Yesterday was a mistake,” she blurted.

  He arched a brow. “A mistake?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I don’t think we should do that again.” She stared at the rug, feeling her face burn and clenching her hands behind her back in an effort to stop their nervous shaking.

  “Do what again?”

  She jerked her head up. He was grinning, obviously finding her discomfort amusing.

  “I was under the impression that—except for Pocket’s unfortunate intrusion—everything was quite splendid, but if you feel a mistake was made, perhaps we should try again.”

  Francesc
a frowned. “You know very well that’s not what I mean. It—that—what we did was entirely improper.” The words tumbled out in an avalanche. “We’re not married. We’re not even betrothed!”

  He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer. “Everyone thinks we’re betrothed.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “But it’s not the truth! You and I know the truth.”

  He seemed to consider for a moment. “And if we were betrothed? In truth?”

  “If we—” She broke off, spread her arms. “What difference does it make? We’re not be—”

  “Did Roxbury touch you like I did?” His tone, suddenly sharp and angry, sent a shiver of fear through her. She took a step back, closer to the door behind her. His face was dark and unreadable.

  “What kind of question is that?” she said, taken off guard. She felt beads of perspiration break on her lower lip and the small of her back. “You have no right to ask me such personal questions.”

  “The devil I don’t!” His voice rose and she inched away from him again, surprised at the vehemence of his reaction.

  “You’re mine, and I want to know if that bastard touched you.” He moved toward her again, balling his fists at his sides.

  She stared at him, too shocked to speak. Her mouth was agape, wide with her astonishment.

  “I’m yours?” Her voice was breathless, almost inaudible over the sound of the wind.

  He frowned, waved a dismissive hand. “Mine to protect, I mean.”

  She pursed her lips. “And how does my past relationship with Roxbury affect your ability to protect me?”

  She had him there. She could see the frustration in his eyes. He was fast searching for an answer. Then frustration turned to anger again

  “The devil if I know.” Unexpectedly, he reached out to clasp her arm. “Just answer the question.”

  She gave him a hard look. He never made anything easy. All she had wanted was to put some distance between them, and now he was asking her to open herself up to him even more. “Fine. I’ll answer the question,” she said. “If you answer one of mine.”

  He released her and spread his arms, all accommodation.

  “What was your brother doing here tonight?”

  His gaze fossilized.

  “What were you discussing?”

  “Family matters.” His voice was gravel grinding under a carriage wheel.

  Liar! she thought. But she raised her eyebrows and said sweetly, “Can you be more specific?”

  The line between his brows deepened. “Business matters.”

  She gave him a dubious look. “And what urgent business brings your brother to Tanglewilde on a cold, stormy morning before the sun is even up?” He gave her a warning look, but she ignored it. “Could the family business be spying, by any chance?”

  “I’m not a spy.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he kept his voice level. “Neither is Selbourne. We were discussing—”

  “Traveling to France,” she interrupted. Surprise flickered in his eyes before he doused it. She relished a quick spurt of satisfaction. “Selbourne wanted to go to Paris. You said no and sent him to London.” She pushed her advantage. “Will that please Lord Grenville, do you think?” There were knives in his stare, but she didn’t care. How dare he expect her to trust him, tell him her deepest secrets, and then stand here and lie to her?

  “Lord Grenville is the Secretary of the Foreign Office, is he not?” she asked, anger mounting. “And Selbourne discussed traveling to a country with whom we are at war. How do you explain that, Lord Winterbourne?”

  He said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tightly it would probably whine in protest if he tried opening it.

  She pointed her finger at him and stepped forward. “You can’t explain it because the only logical answer is that you”—she poked him in the chest with a finger—“are a spy!” She poked him again for emphasis.

  His expression didn’t alter at her statement. He didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink, but suddenly his hands clamped around her arms. He hauled her off her feet and pressed her hard against him.

  “We will not discuss this.” His stare cut into her, the coldness of it trickling all the way into her belly. “My brother and I sometimes have occasion to travel to France. My family has French roots. We have business ventures there.” His eyes flared with anger, daring her to argue, and she realized he wasn’t trying to convince her, didn’t care that she knew he was lying.

  “That is all there is to it,” he continued. “That’s all you know. And all you will say, should anyone inquire.”

  Hot indignation and bitter disappointment flashed through her. She tried to pull away from him. “Do you think I would tell anyone? Expose you? I’m not Lady Victoria, Ethan, and I’d never betray you.”

  He held her so her tiptoes just grazed the plush carpet, and now those arms tensed and trembled. She’d pushed him to his limit, but surprisingly she felt no fear he’d strike out at her. Unexpectedly, he released her and turned away. She felt the door at her back as she stepped away.

  “Why can’t you trust me?”

  He paused, tilted his head as if considering. Her words had sounded almost like a plea. She should be embarrassed to show him how much she wanted and needed his trust, his respect. She should be but wasn’t.

  “People depend on me. Lives are at stake.”

  She froze, aware he was tacitly admitting his role as a spy. He did not look at or acknowledge her—almost as if in refusing to acknowledge her, he did not have to acknowledge the forbidden words. “I cannot afford to trust anyone.”

  His gaze met hers, and she understood. She’d asked too much. He couldn’t trust her with knowledge of his work for the Foreign Office. It wasn’t just her then, he couldn’t trust anyone with that information. The thought gave her a kernel of hope to cling to.

  “I’m sorry.” She went to him and put her hand on his arm to show she understood. “I shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have eavesdropped. It’s—” She paused, uncertain what she’d been about to say. “I’m so confused. You tell me I’m beautiful, kiss me, and—other things—” She blushed but made herself go on. “But it doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”

  He took her hand, bridging the distance between them. “Yes, it does.”

  She held up her free arm, a barrier to any further advance. “Why should I believe that? How do I know you think of me any differently than you think of other women? Did Lady Victoria wound you so much that—”

  He grasped her hand so tightly she gasped. Immediately, he released her. “Leave it alone. You know nothing about it.”

  Angered by his avoidance, she shot back. “That’s my point exactly!”

  Hands on his hips, he arched a brow. “And what about Roxbury?” The statement was an offensive move on his part, and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from rushing headlong into the ambush.

  “What about him?” She was back on the defensive now and hated it.

  Now that he had the upper hand, he advanced on her. “Are you ready to tell me what he did to you?”

  She stepped back, Ethan following her until she bumped into the door again.

  “I already told you—”

  “No, you merely evaded my questions. Don’t you trust me, Francesca?” He braced both hands on either side of her shoulders. “You accuse me of a double standard.” His hot gold-flecked gaze sliced into her. “But aren’t you guilty of it yourself?”

  Her gaze skirted away from the intensity of his stare. “It’s different,” she mumbled. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “And I prefer not to.”

  She sighed, a stalemate. It might as well have been a defeat.

  “I’m falling in love with a man I know nothing about,” she murmured to herself.

  She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but as soon as the words were out, she felt Ethan stiffen beside her. She glanced into his face, into his shocked expression, and wished she could slide under the crack
in the door. “I didn’t mean—”

  He put his fingertip on her lips, silencing her, and bent his head close to hers. She didn’t want him to kiss her. Her sole objective had been to ensure that he never kissed her again. But when his mouth melded with hers, everything except him faded. She no longer felt angry or cold or tired. Nothing mattered—not their argument, not his lies, not Roxbury. Nothing but his mouth on hers, his tongue sliding into her, his arms fitting her body to his. She knew she could lose herself in his kiss, his embrace, if she would only give herself up to it.

  She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back. Her fingers plowed through his thick auburn hair, pulling his mouth hard on hers. She wanted him closer, wanted to feel the heat from his bare chest sear into her. He growled low in his throat and broke off the kiss, nestling his lips against her neck. His breaths were short and rapid, and where she pressed against him, she felt his heart thudding. His lips traced a delicate path along the sensitive lines of her throat, and she arched for him.

  “What do I do with you?” he whispered against her jaw. His breath made the delicate nerves of her earlobe tingle. His lips moved skillfully over her skin, finding the most sensitive places and lingering.

  She closed her eyes, thinking of nothing but the scandalous sensations his lips incited and the solid press of his body against hers. His words reverberated languidly in her mind.

  What do I do with you?

  Her eyes shot open. What were they to do? She could not bring herself to tell him about Roxbury, and he either could not or would not discuss his work for the Foreign Office or his relationship with Lady Victoria. They were at an impasse, neither willing nor able to trust the other.

  There were so many secrets and lies between them, and Francesca was tired of secrets and lies. For too long, she’d concealed Roxbury’s secret outbursts and the bruises they left behind. When she’d finally escaped Roxbury, she’d vowed there would be no more secrets. No more lies.

  “Stop.” She pushed at his chest, though everything in her rebelled against parting from him.

  He frowned, raising a confused gaze to hers. She pushed him away, and he took a halting step back.