Her body undulating beneath him, Caro responded with a whispered, “Yes.”
It was all the invitation he needed.
Lifting himself over her body, he settled atop her, shoving the fabric of her nightrail beneath her bottom before he pulled his own entirely from his body.
Sliding his hands beneath the globes of her bottom, he impaled her in a single thrust. Matthew allowed a long sigh as he felt her legs wrap around his back and heard her gasp of surprise. “I apologize,” he managed between attempts to breathe.
“Don’t you dare,” she countered, her hips suddenly lifting to counter his first thrust.
Matthew swore into her shoulder, fighting the urge to simply allow his release. When had Caroline ever initiated relations between them? He couldn’t remember her ever doing so, although she had never rebuffed his overtures at lovemaking. I’ve been a fool, he thought before he pulled himself almost entirely from her body. He thrilled at the sound of her protest, thrilled at how her splayed hands gripped his buttocks and pulled him back into her body. The invitation was undeniable, her whispered pleas of, “Yes,” merely adding fuel to the fire that had him repeating his thrusts in hard, even movements. At one point, he managed to kiss one of her nipples. A few thrusts later, he kissed the other. His release, well beyond his control, gripped him and stopped his movements at the same moment he heard her final, “Yes.”
Suspended above her for the time it took for the pleasure to completely register, Matthew gazed at his wife and wondered why they weren’t doing this every night. And then oblivion took him under, took him to ecstasy, and left him there to lose his grip on sanity and the here-and-now.
Physically spent, Matthew could do nothing more than collapse upon the soft body of his wife, his head settling into the pillow next to her head. “You minx,” he managed to whisper before sleep took him under.
Caroline closed her eyes and managed a grin, her last thoughts of how warm she finally felt just then.
“We shall have to do this more often,” she whispered as she lowered her legs from around his body and reveled in the afterglow of lovemaking. Especially since you still need an heir.
When Matthew didn’t respond, Caroline knew he was sound asleep. Sighing, she plotted how she might have to awaken him in the middle of the night with a plea to warm her again.
What worked once might work again, she reasoned.
Chapter 4
A Nocturnal Visitation
Later that night
Lydia awoke with a start, sure something—or someone—had come into her bedchamber. Holding her breath a moment, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room. The scents of sandalwood and spice had her blinking.
Turning her head to the right, she was stunned to make out the silhouette of a man standing next to her bed. She was about to let out a yelp when she instead took a deep breath. This cannot be happening, she whispered to herself. “This is just a dream,” she reasoned, rather glad to hear her voice in the stillness. Why ever would there be a man in her bedchamber, after all? Her late husband was... well, he was dead, and Oliver was about to be married and off on his wedding trip to the Continent.
“That explains it, I suppose. What a relief.”
The sound of the hoarse whisper had Lydia sitting up straight in the bed, her sudden inhalation of breath rather loud in the otherwise quiet bedchamber. She pulled the bed linens up to her neck and was about to scream when she realized it might really be just a dream. If so, she would seem rather ridiculous waking the entire household over a figment of her nocturnal imagination. She instead elected to ignore the man and simply stare straight ahead into the darkness.
Had she been dreaming? The wisps of whatever she’d been experiencing just before she woke up danced before her eyes. A man, caressing her face, his lips barely touching hers... a whisper to sleep... the sensation of warmth...
She could remember nothing else. Relaxing a bit and just about to settle herself back into the pillows, she was startled to discover the apparition was still there. The dark shape hadn’t disappeared but had instead settled onto the edge of the bed. She knew it because she felt the mattress depress a bit. The unmistakeable sound of boots falling to the floor had her gasping again. “Who is there?”
In the dark, she could make out a shirt being removed before the man returned to his feet. “Who would you like me to be?”
Gone, Lydia almost replied, but thought better of it. This had to be a dream, after all. Why not allow it to play itself out to its conclusion? “Who would you like to be?” she whispered in reply, rather liking how breathy the question sounded in the stillness.
Two could play at this game.
“Your protector.”
Lydia blinked, a bit disappointed at the simple response. “Oh,” she managed before allowing a sigh, not bothering to hide her disappointment. Well, this is most curious. She rather hoped the man would say something like, Your knight in shining armor, or Your next lover.
“Your next lover, perhaps.” The words were spoken out loud, although they sounded gentle, almost too quiet in the darkness.
Could the man read her mind?
Well, of course, he could! He was a player in her dream!
A thrill of excitement shot through her body just then. The same kind of thrill she experienced when Oliver arrived and informed her he would be spending the night in her company. A thrill that had her breasts growing heavy, and the space at the top of her thighs throbbing in anticipation.
If only Oliver had been as good a lover as he thought he was, she might have discovered just why her body reacted as it did. Why she was always left feeling as if there should have been more to a lover’s caress. More to what happened during intercourse.
“Eventually, at least. I hope,” the man added in a whisper.
The thrill ceased.
“Oh?” she whispered, attempting to mask the sense of disappointment she felt at hearing his qualifying comment. Even before she could put voice to a query, she was aware of the linens and quilt being pulled down. The mattress once again depressed, this time to accommodate an entire body. One of his arms reached around her waist, pulling and turning her body so her back was suddenly pressed against the front of his. She managed to quell the urge to cry out, instead concentrating on the feel of his muscular forearm beneath her questing hand, the way in which his knees bent behind her own, the way the back of her thighs settled against his... bare thighs? They had to be, for her own were barely covered by her nightrail, and she felt no prickly wool through the fabric. Her bottom ended up tucked into his bent body, the evidence of his arousal pressed into the fine lawn covering her backside.
The slight tug at the neckline of her nightrail told her the bow was no longer tied. The fine lawn slid over one shoulder, baring it to the cool air of the bedchamber.
She inhaled softly when she felt the pressure of his firm lips on the top of the exposed shoulder. The kiss, barely there and yet so compelling, left a bit of moisture behind. Aware of his breath on it, she nearly shivered as it suddenly cooled the spot.
“Go back to sleep, my sweeting,” he murmured.
Lydia blinked. “But I thought I already was,” she whispered in protest.
The arm around her waist slowly relaxed, and it was then she realized the hand at the end of it cradled her bare breast. Somehow, the man had managed to open the front of her nightrail. Or perhaps I did, she thought with not the least bit of shame, remembering when the tie had come undone.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood once again apparent in the air. He smells like the man at the museum, she thought. Adonis.
Such a beautiful man, she remembered with a sigh. Despite the scar that marred his cheek and the look of hurt that seemed to haunt his eyes, he was a beautiful man.
I was so rude to him, she remembered. How could I say such a thing to a man I have never met before?
Another part of her argued that she had no choice. The
man had proved an annoyance. A potential scandal for a widow, even if her mourning period had reached the one-year mark and was, for all intents and purposes, complete.
I’m so tired, she thought with a sigh, allowing her body to settle against the one that held her, deciding she would simply accept the dream and allow it to run its course.
What harm could come from being held by a dream?
The moment she reasoned her nocturnal visitor had to be real, had to be Adonis—in the flesh—she opened her eyes. Struggling to sit up, she was stunned to discover she was by herself in the bed. In fact, in the dim light of morning, she could find no evidence of him—or anyone else—anywhere in her bedchamber.
A combination of disappointment and relief settled over her as she returned her head to her pillow, ignoring the scent of sandalwood that wafted from the pillow next to hers.
She was saved from giving it too much thought when her maid peeked her head around the edge of the bed curtains. Goodness! She hadn’t even heard the maid come into the bedchamber!
“Good morning, my lady. Are you ready to dress?”
When the sound of rain didn’t make itself apparent, Lydia allowed a smile. “I am,” she replied with a happy sigh.
Dreams could be rather satisfying if she just let them happen. She would have to work on making sure the next one wasn’t so chaste, though.
Chapter 5
On the Topic of Spies
The following morning, June 18, 1816, at the Foreign Office in Whitehall
Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain, rubbed his cheek with an ink-stained hand and cursed. Loudly. He might have started the day on a rather happy note—he awoke to find the warm, soft body of his wife nestled against the side of his rather misshapen, overweight body and remembered the quiet lovemaking that had sent him into a deep sleep just before dawn—nothing good had come of his first few hours at Whitehall. He had a brief thought of simply leaving the Foreign Office and heading for home with the thought of bedding his wife again. No wonder Grandby is always in such a good mood, he thought as he remembered how positively joyous Milton Grandby, The Earl of Torrington, had been at White’s the night before.
Chamberlain’s clerk, Andrew Higgins, trained to at least appear on the threshold of his open door whenever the viscount called out, was on his way to do so when his attention was suddenly diverted to the man who appeared at his own office door.
“Hello, Higgins,” Adonis Truscott said as he gave the clerk a nod.
Higgins blinked, obviously stunned. He blinked again. “You’re not dead,” he whispered in response.
It was Adonis’ turn to blink. “No. At least, I don’t think I am,” he replied, his brows furrowing until a crease appeared between them. His eyes suddenly widened. It had been some time since he had been in contact with the Foreign Office. His last orders were to simply return to London and report when his leg was healed enough to allow him to walk. Although he still required a cane on occasion, he could walk, albeit with a limp. “Was I supposed to be? For if I was, I didn’t receive the order...” He stopped speaking, realizing it was rather unlikely he’d be ordered to die, and putting voice to the possibility seemed rather ridiculous just then.
It would, in fact, only add to the rumors that he was insane.
The clerk shook his head while waving his hands in front of him. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just... we didn’t receive word of you after Ligny,” he said as he hurried to lead Adonis to the viscount’s office. “Or, at least, I didn’t.” He dared a glance in the direction of the director’s door, realizing Lord Chamberlain probably knew all along that Adonis Truscott was alive and in one piece. “Chamberlain will be relieved to see you, I’m sure,” he added in a huff.
Adonis nodded, realizing just then that Higgins hadn’t been informed of his survival. He was quite sure Lord Chamberlain knew, for the orders he had received whilst he was still in a Brussels hospital were quite clear.
Take the time you need to recover. When you can walk again, pay a call.
The paper had been folded into a neat square and secured with Chamberlain’s seal.
At least, it might have been secure when it left Chamberlain’s office.
There was evidence the note had been opened more than once on its way to Brussels. Given its lack of an apparent code or secret message embedded therein, it reached him in relatively good condition.
At the memory of the day he had received the missive, Adonis was tempted to simply halt his steps and give the memory its due. Spend a few minutes remembering everything about where he was at the time—a hospital in war-torn Brussels filled with wounded and dying soldiers.
Everything he heard—voices speaking medical phrases in French and German.
Everything he smelled—the iron tang of blood and the sickening scent of putrefaction.
Everything he touched...
He suddenly stopped in place and jerked back to the here and now when he heard the viscount bellow his clerk’s name again.
“Perhaps I’ll just wait until he’s finished with you,” Adonis suggested, one finger of the hand that held a sketchpad lifted to point toward the door of the man who was in charge of planning and strategic operations for the Foreign Office.
Higgins shook his head. “Please, sir, if you would? He’s been... perturbed about something all morning. I’m sure your appearance will change his poor nature.”
Rolling his eyes, Adonis murmured, “You owe me,” before dutifully stepping into Matthew Fitzsimmons’ office. Higgins did so a moment later, standing at attention until the viscount finally lifted his head.
And did a double-take.
“About damn time you made an appearance,” Chamberlain stated as he pushed back his chair and stood up. The words might have sounded harsh, but the viscount displayed a huge grin as he said them.
Adonis nodded. “Reporting as ordered, my lord,” he replied, leaning heavily on his silver-topped cane. He moved his sketchpad so it rested under his left arm.
The viscount approached and held out his right hand. “Better late than never, of course,” he countered, shaking Adonis’ hand as he clapped his other hand against his visitor’s shoulder. His attention went to Higgins, who hovered in the doorway. “Shut the door, and don’t let anyone in.”
“Of course, my lord,” Higgins said as he backed out of the office and pulled the door closed behind him until the latch clicked.
Adonis was sure he heard the man’s sigh of relief at not having to spend another moment in Matthew Fitzsimmons’ presence. Something had the viscount upset, or at least it had before Adonis appeared.
The viscount indicated the chair in front of his desk as he moved to take his own. “I’m sure Higgins must have thought he saw a ghost when he caught sight of you,” he murmured in amusement.
Adonis angled his head to one side. “Something like that,” he replied. “But surely you’re not surprised I’m still alive.”
Chamberlain set aside the letter he had been writing and regarded his operative. “Of course not. I’ve just been careful in whom I’ve let know about you.” He paused a moment. “The king knows, of course, since you’re scheduled to be knighted tomorrow morning. If you didn’t show up of your own accord today, I was afraid I was going to have to hire a Bow Street Runner to find you. Would have made my office look mighty incompetent if one of my men didn’t appear for the ceremony...”
Adonis blinked. “Knighted?” he repeated. “Tomorrow? Why wasn’t I informed?” Well, Jasper Barrymore had intimated he would earn a knighthood for what he had done that day near Brussels. But how did the news get to the Foreign Office? His commander and fellow spy had died on the battlefield, and as far as Adonis knew, no one had been tasked with recording any last wishes.
Well, there had been the man’s one last directive, although it had nothing to do with service to King and country.
“Why?” he asked as he reached down for the sketchpad and opened it to reveal one particular
drawing.
Allowing a shake of his head, Chamberlain grinned. “I don’t think I need to spell it out for you,” he replied. “For one thing, you and two others of mine managed to survive. And, as for the other, I think the fact that Napoleon was defeated thanks to your false communiques with his agents is quite enough, Sir Donald,” he added, saying the name with more emphasis than it deserved.
Sir Donald. Well, it did sound better than ‘Sir Adonis’, he supposed, knowing the viscount was well aware of his real name. The name his mother had bestowed on him when he was still a child.
His father would never have approved, but at that point, Franklin Truscott was dead and buried in the family plot in Kent.
The comment that he and two others had survived meant at least one of the other two men had been able to deliver their messages to Wellington—he knew he had failed that fateful day. He was fairly certain Oliver Preston hadn’t made it to the rendezvous point, either. That just left Alistair Comber. The second son of an earl, Alistair had a commission and should have acted as an officer in the British Army, but he had instead gone undercover for Chamberlain to determine who might be acting as a double agent—the Foreign Office was quite sure one among them was acting for the French, and might still be doing so.
Adonis tore the drawing from the sketchpad and held it out. “I brought this as a means of documenting what happened that day.” He didn’t add that it was the last decent drawing he’d been able to complete. All the others in his sketchpad looked as if they’d been done by amateurs—by children—as if his mind’s eye could no longer form complete images for him to use as models. When his subject was right in front of him, he could still do a decent rendering, though, so he knew his skills as an artist were still intact.
Frowning, Chamberlain took the thick parchment from Adonis and stared at it for several seconds. Extremely detailed and nearly life-like in its rendering of Jasper Barrymore, the drawing depicted the moment when the commander was stabbed by a French soldier. All around him, the chaos of battle was drawn with the same attention to detail, as if Adonis had memorized everything else that had happened in the nightmarish scene. “Jesus, Truscott,” the viscount murmured as he gave the drawing another look. “May I... keep this? I know there has been some question as to how Barrymore died,” he said, his attention still on the drawing. He brought it closer to his face and reached for a pair of spectacles to more closely examine one particular part of the drawing.
The Enigma of a Widow Page 3
