Despite his extreme distrust of her, despite knowing she was a manipulative flirt who had likely led half a dozen other suitors down the same path in the darkness, despite his deep resentment of being forced to compromise her and enter into a marriage that he most certainly did not want all in the name of the Crown… despite everything, he’d enjoyed kissing her.
He’d enjoyed how responsive she was, how her lips moved beneath his, how she’d tasted. He’d even enjoyed ripping her sleeve to further his cause and yanking down her bodice to take the sweet, hard bud of her nipple into his mouth. He hadn’t been meant to disrobe her. Hadn’t been meant to allow their embrace to escalate that far. Some kisses and a torn sleeve were all that was required.
But Sebastian had wanted more.
He still did, his cock a rigid reminder of just how much, a reminder that not even the cooling of his ardor could tame.
“Forgive me,” he said wryly at last. “I seem to have lost my head.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
Miss Vanreid remained oddly silent for a woman he knew to be quite forthright. The aunt sputtered, in fine dudgeon, demanding the situation be rectified. Carlisle did his part, offering grim comfort.
“There, there, Mrs. Stanley,” the duke said. “I’m sure the duke will make amends as swiftly as possible. Is that not so, Your Grace?”
Sebastian gave a stiff nod. “Please accept my sincere apologies for the insult I’ve paid your niece this night, Mrs. Stanley. Rest assured that I will call first thing in the morning to make a formal offer for Miss Vanreid’s hand.”
That appeared to take the wind right out of the aunt’s sails. “A formal offer?”
“Naturally,” he bit out. “My admiration for your niece is great. I would be honored to make her my wife. In the meantime, to blunt further scandal, you’ll need to take Miss Vanreid home.”
There. He’d said it. He done what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do, what he’d been uncertain he would allow on the carriage ride over. As sacrifices went, this was one of the ultimate, regardless of whether he was granted an annulment at the conclusion of the assignment as Carlisle promised. Marrying Daisy Vanreid was more than he’d wanted to give, but he had sworn an oath to protect his country. If he was willing to forfeit his life for the safety of his homeland, then he could damn well align himself with any woman in the world. Even if she was as lovely as she was deceptive. Even if he had reason to suspect she potentially possessed both the cunning and the deadliness of an asp.
By God, he would keep his distance. Tonight’s aberration aside, of course. This stunt had been necessary to ensure that Miss Vanreid’s father would agree to the marriage. There was something afoot between Vanreid and Lord Breckly, whose own mother hailed from Ireland. Some reason Vanreid was determined to wed his daughter off to an aging reprobate. Vanreid was aware he was under suspicion, and the League couldn’t be certain Vanreid would’ve accepted Sebastian’s suit, despite his being a duke.
But a ruining witnessed by the lady’s aunt would justify nothing less or risk bringing undue attention upon Vanreid and his murky dealings with the Fenians.
And so he had done all but raise Miss Vanreid’s skirts and take what he wanted: all of her.
What his body wanted, that was. For there was no denying the effect she had upon him. His mind, however, was different. He could govern his mind, and his mind could, in turn, rule his baser instincts. He would not touch Daisy Vanreid again. Not even if Carlisle told him that the safety of the Queen depended on Sebastian bedding the vixen.
Miss Vanreid finally broke her silence, interrupting the whirling tumult of his thoughts. “Aunt Caroline, I’m afraid my gown is… in disrepair.”
“Merciful saints.” The aunt actually gave a hiccup then, and he wondered just how far into her cups she’d already fallen this evening. “How will we manage to remove you without notice? Your father will be livid. You’re meant to marry Lord Breckly.”
Carlisle spoke up, ever the manipulator. “My dear Mrs. Stanley, fortunately, I am familiar with the grounds, having been a guest here on many occasions. I do believe there is a gate at the rear of the garden through which you and your niece may discreetly pass, with none of the other guests being aware.”
The aunt was so vehement in her appreciation that she nearly vibrated with gratitude. And another hiccup. “Your Grace, I am much indebted to you for your kindness this evening. Do I trust we can have your—hicc—complete discretion in this matter?”
“Naturally, Mrs. Stanley. As long as Trent is willing to make amends by marrying your niece as soon as possible, I will consider this entire event expunged from my memory forever,” Carlisle assured her.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His senior in command was being a tad too dramatic for his liking. He’d never felt more like a villain than he did then, filled with a combined shame for his intentional compromising of Miss Vanreid and his loss of control both. As a covert operative who’d spent the last twelve of his thirty years in service to the Crown’s most elite secret espionage branch the Special League, he had only needed to use women as pawns a handful of times, and he had disliked each time immensely. But he had never married any of them.
Nor had he ever wanted any of them the way he longed to slide home inside Miss Vanreid.
Sebastian shoved the unwelcome insight from his mind. “I will be more than happy to make Miss Vanreid my wife as quickly as can be arranged,” he forced himself to say. “But for the nonce, I recommend Mrs. Stanley and Miss Vanreid take their leave before we draw any further attention to the matter. In a crush of this magnitude, no one will be the wiser.”
“I do expect you tomorrow, young man,” said the tipsy aunt, capable of giving him a dressing down despite the champagne and wine she’d consumed that evening. “You have much to answer for.”
He wasn’t accustomed to being taken to task or to being called “young man” rather than “Your Grace.” “Of course, madam.” He took care to keep his tone contrite. It wouldn’t do to rile the aunt, who seemed to be holding herself together with remarkable aplomb thus far but who could lose her calm at any juncture thanks to her inebriated condition.
The aunt creating a scene was the last thing that any of them needed.
A wider audience would cause scandal and ruin to swirl about Miss Vanreid, but it also would impede his efforts as a spy in the process. The fewer who knew of their scandal, the better. The haste of their nuptials would be fodder enough.
But that was a matter for another day.
Tonight’s work had gone well, even if the doing had left him feeling oddly aroused and hollowed at the same time, as though his conscience were at war with his prick. He’d become adept at burying guilt and banishing emotion from his every action. No man could successfully keep secrets from everyone around him, lie to others, and kill for his country, without removing weak sentiment from his life like an infected limb.
Yet despite all that, despite a dozen years and missions that he’d imagined had hardened him as surely as a lump of coal being formed in the earth, he felt like a complete blighter as he faced Miss Vanreid again in the moonlight. She had remained unusually quiet but for her lone revelation of the state of her gown. He had done the tearing that ripped her sleeve, had done irreparable damage to her. To them both.
For a good cause.
But damn it if he still didn’t feel something dislodge inside his chest when he caught Miss Vanreid’s gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss. He bowed to her with drawing room formality. There was ample reason to distrust her, and nothing about the minx suggested innocence, but there was a small chance that she was not a part of her father’s diabolical schemes. That she had nothing to do with dynamite, Fenian plots, or anything more malevolent than being a horrid flirt.
Of course, there was also the chance that she was everything Carlisle suspected her of and worse. That she was colluding with McGuire. That she was using her wiles against him to garner information f
or the enemy. That she sought to cause injury—perhaps even death—to the innocents of London, and indeed, all of England.
Somehow, the latter was difficult for him to reconcile with the soft, perfectly curved, altogether beautiful woman he’d kissed and held in his arms. He took a breath, careful to keep his tone devoid of all emotion before he spoke. “Miss Vanreid, I am so sorry. Pray accept my sincere apology for any insult I paid you this evening.”
She leaned close to him, the first real move she’d made since they’d been unceremoniously interrupted. “Apology accepted, Your Grace, of course.” And then she surprised him by moving nearer still, all but thrusting her bosom into his face. Her lips grazed his ear as she whispered for him alone. “But you should know that I’m not sorry.”
Bloody hell. One thing was certain: Daisy Vanreid was trouble. The sooner he could move to a new assignment and be granted an annulment, the better. His first act as her husband would be to order her an entire wardrobe of high-necked dresses that buttoned all the way up to her throat.
singular emotion overcame Daisy when she awoke the next morning: relief.
It stayed with her, unfurling in her belly like a summer blossom, as she dressed and went about her toilette with the assistance of her lady’s maid. She took extra care in choosing a morning gown of deep purple silk that set off her complexion and blonde hair to advantage. It hugged her curves and had an elaborately flounced skirt and lace trimming on the bodice that drew the eye to her bosom.
She’d noticed that the Duke of Trent’s eyes had a tendency to linger there. And last night, his mouth had been upon her. The recollection made heat suffuse her, coloring her cheeks.
“Miss Daisy, you’re a vision in that dress,” said Abigail as they both surveyed her efforts in the glass.
“Not precisely a vision,” Daisy denied. “But this will do, I think.”
“It will more than do, miss.” Her lady’s maid was quick to refute her in that effusive way she had. Abigail had been with her for as long as Daisy could recall, and her generous smiles and flattery sometimes seemed unnatural. “Not many ladies can carry off aubergine well, but you can claim that distinction.”
“Thank you, Abigail. We both know I couldn’t carry off anything at all if it weren’t for your help. You’re such a dab hand with hairstyles.” She made a face at her reflection, dispelling the serene picture she’d presented.
If there was anything she’d learned in her twenty years of life, it was that she should never take herself or anyone else too seriously. Once, she had, and she’d paid dearly for her mistakes. She’d trusted and believed. She’d loved with the worshipful adherence of a true naïf. And she had been, like the child warned of a hot stove nevertheless reaching out to test its scorching surface, thoroughly burned.
Dreams could be dashed in a day. A heart could be so easily broken.
Nothing was forever. Nothing was certain.
She’d finally realized she had no choice, no option as a female dependent upon her father and his endless wealth and equally endless cruelty, and she had fashioned herself into a new Daisy. This Daisy knew how to dress, knew how to style her hair, knew how to flirt with a man and lure him into a dark alcove for a stolen kiss. She kept her heart from her sleeve. She was brazen and bold, and she used every weapon in her arsenal to get what she wanted.
Last night had been no different. Today would be no different.
The only thing that mattered was that she would finally achieve what she wanted most. She would be free from her father’s rule and free from being forced to marry the repugnant Lord Breckly.
“Everything will soon change for me, I think,” she told her lady’s maid with a confidence that was only slightly shaken by the knowledge that she knew precious little about the man to whom she would soon bind herself. Two meetings and a passionate embrace was hardly enough for her to call him an acquaintance, let alone marry him. But her father’s edict had been clear, and his return, along with the announcement of her betrothal to Breckly, imminent. Placed in such a position, what could she have done differently?
Where else could she turn in London, a relatively strange city to her, with no funds and no friends to speak of? She could sell her king’s ransom in diamonds, try to run free and start a new life somewhere else. But the only other time she’d attempted such a feat, her father had found her with ease. Selling a magnificent cache of diamonds had a way of rendering one’s anonymity impossible. Her homecoming had earned her a broken rib.
As she quit her chamber and made her way downstairs to meet Aunt Caroline in the salon, the relief inside her slowly withered, leaving in its wake a stern sense of misgiving. So much could yet go wrong. Her father could still refuse the match and demand that she wed his chosen bridegroom instead. The duke could decide not to offer for her. Or, worse, he could turn out to be a man who was violent against women. Or a lecher. Or something else equally odious.
By the time she entered the salon to find not only her aunt but the Duke of Trent within, she was wringing her hands at her waist, a dreadful habit she could never seem to shake whenever she was ill at ease. No matter how unladylike it was. When her gaze met the duke’s, she stopped, halfway over the threshold, and tore her hands apart.
An unaccountable burst of nervousness assailed her. He was early. Or perhaps she was late. It didn’t matter. All that did matter was that he was here. He had come. And he stood at her half-entry to the chamber, debonair in his gray jacket and silver waistcoat, tall and brooding and even more handsome than he’d been last night. His expression possessed an intensity that seemed to call for her entire attention. Her every sense focused upon the gorgeous man who just last night had pulled down her bodice and taken her bare breast into his mouth as though she was already his.
No man had ever been so daring with her.
Thinking of the wet heat of his mouth upon her nipple sent an ache between her thighs. Dear heavens, had she actually just thought about such a thing in the bright morning light, with her aunt as an audience? How shameless.
“Daisy,” Aunt Caroline said then, her tone tight with the same disapproval she had used to dress Daisy down during the carriage ride home the night before. “You kept His Grace waiting.”
Daisy couldn’t tear her eyes from the duke, who pinned her with a similar, rapt stare. “My apologies.” Belatedly, she realized she had yet to enter the room. She forced herself to move forward with as much grace as she could muster while his eyes all but consumed her. “Good morning, Aunt Caroline, Your Grace.”
“No apology is necessary, Miss Vanreid, as such loveliness is more than worth any wait,” said the duke with smooth charm.
Daisy seated herself on a settee at her aunt’s side. “You’re too kind, Duke.”
He inclined his head, as if his manners wouldn’t allow him to argue the point. The air became stilted as silence fell upon the sunny chamber. A mantle clock ticked. At last, Aunt Caroline disrupted the uncomfortable quiet.
“As I was informing Your Grace before my niece arrived, Mr. Vanreid will be arriving in London soon. He was attending business in Liverpool, but he has been apprised of the… situation. He telegrammed this morning to say that he alone will conduct all further matters with you directly upon his return, Your Grace.”
Her father was in Liverpool? Daisy had thought him still traveling across the Atlantic. The knowledge that he wasn’t both troubled and surprised her. Apparently, Aunt Caroline was privier to her father’s business than Daisy was. The realization made Daisy look at her aunt with new eyes. No one knew better than Daisy just how ruthless and cruel her father could be.
That her father wanted to conduct matters with the duke, however, distressed her even more. For he hadn’t sent an outright acceptance of an impending marriage. A fist of dread closed on Daisy’s heart.
She refused to believe that she could be so close to freedom, only to be thwarted.
No.
Two sets of eyes swung to her.
Had sh
e said that aloud? Apparently so. She flushed. “Aunt Caroline, can you not act in Father’s stead?”
Her aunt’s eyebrows nearly touched her hairline. “You cannot be serious, young lady. We find ourselves in an untenable situation brought about by your own thoughtless recklessness and wicked behavior. I would not presume to speak on your father’s behalf. I can imagine he has a great deal to say to you and His Grace both, and I cannot think any of it will be good.”
Well. It seemed Aunt Caroline was decidedly not in her corner. She supposed she ought not to be surprised, for her aunt had been ever touting the illustrious match her father planned for her with Lord Breckly. It wasn’t as if they had ever shared anything more than each other’s company. Certainly never a warm embrace.
Aunt Caroline had no children of her own, and there was nothing maternal about her. Daisy felt the familiar, old pang of loss whenever she thought of her own mother, who’d been gone for so long she was nothing more than a lock of hair pressed behind glass on a mourning pin and a shadowy remembrance.
The duke cleared his throat, his expression growing pained. “Mrs. Stanley, I’m afraid the fault of this ‘untenable situation,’ as you’ve called it, must be laid upon no one but me. I’ve been smitten by your niece ever since I first saw her, and last night I allowed my base nature to prevail. The only way to rectify the insult I’ve paid Miss Vanreid is by offering marriage, which I fully intend to do upon Mr. Vanreid’s arrival.”
Aunt Caroline wasn’t so easily swayed. In the absence of wine, she was an absolute stickler. She directed an expression of extreme displeasure in the duke’s direction. “I’m sure you were dazzled by Daisy’s beauty. Everyone is. However, there is the matter of her impending betrothal to Lord Breckly to be considered now. Mr. Vanreid remains set on his lordship.”
The duke smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you will agree that, given yesterday’s turn of events, a match between Lord Breckly and Miss Vanreid is no longer possible.”
Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 4
