Sapphires Are an Earl's Best Friend

by Shana Galen

  When she’d returned, she’d written to Fitzhugh, asking him or his superior to come at once. Lucifer would need to be collected, and the documents the duke had hidden away would be taken into possession by the Crown. She would lobby to keep the identity of his mother secret, but she could not guarantee such a thing.

  For all intents and purposes, her work here was done. And yet she was in no hurry to leave. Andrew needed her—or at least he wanted her beside him. She would stay until the official from the Foreign Office arrived, and then she would return to…

  To London?

  To the demimonde?

  To the Countess of Charm?

  She could. Her engagement to Ravenscroft had not been revealed—only Lady Emma and Andrew knew, and they had bigger secrets. She could return to being the last of The Three Diamonds.

  Except masquerading as an Impure held no appeal. Even her work for the Crown had lost much of its luster. She was bruised and weary after this mission. The Duke of Ravenscroft was dead, killed before her eyes. She would never erase that horrible sight from her memory. Lucifer had almost killed her, and if he hadn’t been stopped, he might have gone on to ensure Fitzhugh and the other Diamonds in the Rough were assassinated.

  But the Diamonds were safe now. Lucifer was locked away in a sturdy gaol in the nearby town. Her son was safely home, and from what she understood, had no memory of the events of the night before.

  She watched through the windows of the front parlor as the last of Ravenscroft’s guests departed, looking somewhat less gay than they had when she’d arrived. Only Kwirley had asked questions and pried into Andrew’s affairs. Everyone else had gone without fuss.

  Andrew had not seen the lot off, and as the last carriage pulled away, she turned to see him standing behind her. She was not surprised. He would not have been far. She studied him, the haggardness of his features, the strain about his eyes. His bearing was still rigid and ducal, but he was fraying at the edges.

  “You need sleep,” she said at last, going to him. “I know it’s barely time for dinner, but you have been up all night.”

  “So have you.” He pulled her into his arms, and she was surprised by how easy and comfortable she felt there, pressed against his chest. She inhaled deeply and could not resist resting her head against him. She would miss this when she returned to London. The security she felt when he held her, the warm, masculine scent of him, the tender way he held her. There had never really been a chance for them. She had only wished it so. If he were still the “Darling of the Ton,” they might have been happy together. For a little while.

  But those days were over. He was the Duke of Ravenscroft now. He had responsibilities and a title to pass on to his heirs. He would no longer be allowed the luxury of trifling with a courtesan. Even one who loved him.

  Even one she suspected he cared for very much.

  “We’re the last ones left,” he said.

  She almost laughed. Ravenscroft Castle employed a staff that numbered in the hundreds. They were not alone by any means.

  “The funeral?” she asked.

  “Will be small and without fanfare.”

  That was probably best. While no one would make an effort to brand the duke as a traitor, the truth would come out when Lucifer was tried. He took her hand. “Come. Let’s to bed.”

  She followed him, too weary to protest much, but they passed several maids and footmen, each of whom raised their brows as they passed. At his bedchamber door, she drew back. “I should retreat to my own chamber.”

  He shook his head, opened his door, and drew her inside. “Now that I have you, I am not letting you go.”

  “But the servants!” she protested as he dragged her inside and closed the door behind her. He reached around her, locked it, and bent to kiss her. “Andrew, do think what you are doing.”

  “I know exactly what I am doing.” He gave her a wicked grin.

  “You are the Duke of Ravenscroft now,” she reminded him. “You need an heir.”

  He arched a brow. “Are you offering?”

  “What? No!” She tried to push him away, but he would not release her. And his wandering hands were beginning to distract her. “I am a courtesan. Dukes do not beget legitimate heirs via courtesans.”

  “You are not a courtesan.” He bent to kiss her neck.

  She closed her eyes and struggled to focus. “I am, for all intents and purposes.”

  “Not a very good one. We shall have to work on that.”

  “No.” This time she succeeded in breaking free. “I care too much for you, Andrew. I think the sooner I leave, the better.” She started for the door, wishing he would stop her, wishing he would sweep her into his arms, carry her to the bed and make her stay. But that was a fantasy. Even if he had attempted it, she would have resisted. There was nothing he could say or do to make her stay. She had to protect his reputation and her own heart now.

  “I was going to do this after the funeral, but I suppose I do not have the luxury of time. Lily Dawson, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  There was nothing he could have said or done to make her stay, except this.

  She spun around and stared at him. He was kneeling. “Stand up,” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “I do not think so. I have studied the form, and this is correct. I am supposed to entreat you on bended knee.”

  “You will not…” She gestured helplessly. She could not even say aloud what he was doing. “You will not do this. Stand up.”

  “But I am doing it, Lily. And I am a duke. You do not order me about. If I wish to propose, if I wish to make you my wife, I will do so.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no, you will not. I will not do you the dishonor of becoming your wife.”

  Anger flashed across his features, and he rose. “It’s no dishonor. You were born to be a duchess, Lily. Look where you have been. Look what you have overcome.”

  “Exactly. I will cause you nothing but scandal. You know who I am. You know what I have done.” Tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks, and she wanted to turn and run, but he had locked the door, and when she attempted to turn the key, it fell to the floor. She went to her knees, trying to retrieve it, but he was beside her, his hands on her face, raising her gaze to his.

  “You did what you had to in order to survive. You thought of your child more than yourself. You made mistakes, and you learned from them. Neither of us are saints, Lily, but if one of us is a devil, it is certainly not you.”

  “And you are? The sins of the parents are not passed on to the children.”

  Andrew ran a hand through his hair. “I was always so proud of our family honor. I thought my mother walked on water. But it was all a lie.” He took her hand. “What I feel for you is the only truth I know.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. Not when I know Juliette will always be your first choice.”

  He was shaking his head. “No—”

  “How can you deny it? I loved you for so long.” She rose, clutching her hands into fists. “And you never saw it. You never saw me. I was invisible whenever Juliette was nearby.”

  “Lily, believe me when I say I do not want Juliette. I don’t even remember what I admired in her. This has nothing to do with Pelham or Juliette or anyone but you and me. I want you for my bride.” He took her fists, unclenched them. “Marry me.”

  “I cannot. You will regret it within a year. When everyone talks—”

  “Let them talk!” His tone was vehement, and he tightened his fingers on her hands. “I don’t give a bloody farthing what they say. I need you, Lily. I love you.”

  She stared at him, her jaw dropping open. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying. I see you, Lily. I see all of you—the good and the bad—and I love you. Exactly as you are. I love you—Lily Dawson. Only
you.”

  A tear escaped one eye and made its way down her cheek, where Andrew reached out and caught it. His hand lingered on her cheek, caressing it, and then he leaned close and kissed first one eye and then the other. He pulled back, his gaze locked with hers. “What must I do? Stand on my head again? Say the word, Lily. I will do anything for you.” He released her suddenly and bent.

  “What are you doing?”

  “A handstand.”

  She laughed and tugged at his waist. “No! Not again. It was awful enough the first time.”

  He straightened. “Then tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  His brow furrowed. He looked so young and confused and utterly adorable.

  “I said, yes. I will do you the honor of becoming your wife.”

  He blinked, and then he let out a loud holler of joy and swept her off her feet and into his arms. She laughed and kicked her feet, but he spun her in a circle then dropped her on the bed. She laughed harder.

  “You are not hoaxing me, are you? You mean it?”

  “I mean it, though I think you should change your mind.”

  “Never.” He fell on his knees beside the bed. “I do not want to be here without you, Lily. I want you as my duchess.”

  “Is that the reason? I thought you wanted to tumble me again.”

  He grinned. “Well, there’s that too.” And then he was beside her, his body warm against hers, his hands in her hair, freeing it of the pins she’d stuck here and there at some point to keep it out of her face. It felt so good to let it fall down onto the pillows, to let him work his hands through it, to look into his eyes and to see passion and admiration and, yes, love in them.

  “I cannot believe this is happening to me,” she whispered.

  He brushed his lips against hers. “Give me a few moments, love.”

  She laughed again. He was always making her laugh. “I meant I cannot believe I am going to marry you. I cannot believe you love me. Do you know how long I have dreamed of this?”

  “Years and years, I imagine.”

  She swatted his shoulder. “You are horribly arrogant.”

  “No. I am horribly obtuse. How is it I did not fall in love with you the first moment I saw you?” He would have gone on, but she put her finger over his lips.

  “Stop talking, or I shall begin to weep again.”

  “God forbid. No more weeping.”

  “Then kiss me.” She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. “And do not ever stop.”

  ***

  He had no intention of stopping, not now that she had agreed to be his. The past day had been the worst of his life. The only reason he made it through the ordeal was that Lily stood beside him. Every time he thought he could not go on, every time he thought he was at his limit of endurance or grief or anger or frustration, every time he began to seriously consider spending the rest of his life wallowing in abject humiliation rather than face the truth of who his father and mother were and what they had done, Andrew would raise his eyes and see Lily.

  There was no pity for him in her eyes. There was no condemnation. He saw only love and admiration. He’d known she loved him before she ever said the words. He could look into her eyes and see that she thought he was the most wonderful creature to ever walk the earth. Had she always looked at him thus? If so, no wonder he avoided her. He knew his faults better than anyone. How could anyone truly love him if they knew all of his faults? Better that he disguise himself with false smiles and exaggerated wit. The entirety of Society adored the Darling of the Ton. But the Earl of Darlington—a man who did not always feel jovial, who made bad decisions, who at times felt at a loss as to how to manage his estates. That man was ever so tedious.

  But Lily had not found him so, even though she’d known him as the Darling of the Ton. And there was more. He knew her faults too, and he thought he probably loved her more for them.

  He linked his fingers with hers, twining their hands as he twined his body with hers. This was why he needed her. When he touched her, he felt he was sinking into another world—a world where farmer tenants, a leaky roof, and a father accused of treason faded away for a brief respite. He sank into the scent of her, the feel of her silky skin, the sound of her breathing. Her breathing matched his, and both of them were all but panting as clothes fell away and hands and mouths began to explore in earnest.

  He would never tire of this. Never tire of the pleasure of her curves or the soft sounds she made when he stroked the dent of her waist or the swell of her breast. He was not a man who felt he could never be happy with one woman. He had always known when he married, he would be faithful. But he had never found the woman who could inspire such lofty thoughts of fidelity.

  Until now.

  Lily was all he needed. All he wanted.

  He slid down her body, tasting and touching, listening to her gasps of breath and her sweet moans of urging. He kissed the back of her knee and the inside of her thigh, his kisses trailing upward until she was writhing and bucking against him. When she shattered, he wanted nothing more than to be inside her, to bury himself deep, but she looked up at him and said, “Your turn.”

  Andrew’s eyes widened. “Lily, as much as I appreciate your eagerness to… ah… play the blanket flute, there are a few things you might improve in that endeavor.”

  He expected indignity, but she merely cocked a brow. “Do go on. I feel as though my education as a courtesan is finally to commence.”

  “This may not be the time.” He eased her back down. “I will prepare a tutorial later…” Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, her body so warm and inviting. He really could not wait much longer.

  But she pushed him back and sat. “I’m ready now. If I’m going to become your wife, I should learn how to please you.”

  “You do please me,” he protested, knowing it was all in vain.

  “I swear to reward you by acting the attentive pupil.” She pushed him down. “I promise you, Your Grace, I am a quick learner.”

  And hours later, as they both dozed off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, Andrew mused that she was indeed an admirable pupil. Either that or he was a particularly gifted instructor.

  Her elbow landed in his midsection, and he coughed. “What was that for?”

  “Practice,” she said with a yawn. “I imagine it will take a great deal of effort to keep you in line.”

  That had been his thought regarding her exactly. And for it, he was rewarded with another elbow to the gut.

  Read on for a preview of the next in Shana Galen’s Lord and Lady Spy series

  Available August 2014

  from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  One

  Somewhere in Europe, 1816

  She crept down the corridor, back to the wall, straining to place the voices of the men. Somewhere a woman was crying, a dog barked, and a horse-drawn cart rattled by. The stench of urine and blood burned her nostrils, but she moved forward.

  Two men. Speaking French, though only one was a native speaker. The other, the accent sounded… Turkish? She turned her head from side to side to locate the voices.

  Closed door.

  Room at the end of the hall.

  Three steps. Two. One.

  She paused outside, drawing her knife. She didn’t want to risk her pistol misfiring and left it tucked inside her coat, along with a stash of balls and powder. She was dressed as a man because the clothing was more practical and attracted less attention, although she wouldn’t fool anyone who looked closely. And she didn’t care.

  A man inside the room—the Frenchman—spoke again, and her hand stilled on the door’s latch.

  “Reaper is dead,” she translated silently. “He took his life in prison.”

  News traveled quickly, though not accurately. The report she’d seen claimed Foncé had gained access
to Reaper and slit his throat. The leader of the Maîtriser group didn’t tolerate failure. When Foncé realized she, an agent of his hated Barbican group, had tracked two of his men to this ramshackle safe house, their lives would be forfeit as well. Perhaps that cold fact would be incentive for them to assist her in locating their leader.

  Or perhaps it would only make them more eager to kill her.

  Either way, the games were about to begin.

  She pulled her hand away from the door, stepped back, raised a booted foot, and kicked. The thin wooden door splintered and shot open with a loud crack. The men jumped up, but they didn’t move quickly enough. Her knife flew from her fingers, catching one man in the shoulder and pinning him to the wall behind him. He screamed while the other man fumbled for his pistol. She obligingly reached for hers. “I’ll kill you before you even pack your powder,” she said in French. “Do us both a favor and lower your pistol before I’m forced to shoot you.”

  “I don’t owe you any favors, Bonde,” the man holding the pistol sneered. He was called Tueur, and he was an assassin—one of Foncé’s best now that Reaper was dead. She wished she’d thrown the knife at him. They’d met before and, since he had been trying to kill her at the time, had not parted amicably.

  But she could let bygones… and all of that rubbish. “That’s Miss Bonde to you. Shall we have a little chat?”

  “No time today,” he said and threw the pistol. She ducked, and the weapon clattered to the floor behind her. She reached for it, tucked it in her waistband, then whirled back around. Tueur had wasted no time. He waved as he raced across the room and climbed out the window.

  Bonde uttered a most unladylike expletive, her body pulled between Tueur and the Turk. She couldn’t split in half—that was the disadvantage of working alone. Working with another agent—that was the disadvantage of a partner.