“Aye, sir. It’s all them dances the lady visits.” Rupert bowed, the lanky limbs he’d yet to grow into moving awkwardly. “Good-bye, milady.”
Angus and Young John followed suit, and soon the three of them were running out of the room just as they’d run in.
“Is that your team of spies?” Cat continued to smile at Jones, the firelight gilding every line of her face.
“They’re not much in the way of protection, but they are observant fellows. They have been checking the stone for your notes.” He was not the least bit embarrassed at hiring the Gents. He grinned, thinking of those boys and their continuous joy. “They will make excellent spies someday.”
“I don’t doubt it, with you as their mentor.” Her smile was soft, one side quirking up.
He could barely breathe. Every part of him—mind and soul and body—wanted her. Yet she could not be his. To control the lust spiraling in him, he reached for the poker and adjusted the wood and embers. When he was certain he would not do anything rash, Jones stood again and discovered her at the desk, looking down onto the pages of the book he’d left open.
His heart soared. Those gorgeous eyes would be fixed on the butterfly blue—like to like.
“What a lovely drawing.” Long, elegant fingers moved over the page. Softly. Sweetly. “I like the patterns on this brown butterfly. What is it called?” She leaned forward to read the scientific name. “Pararge aegeria tircis.”
“It is a speckled wood butterfly and can be found anywhere in Britain.” Jones strode over to the desk and looked down at the page. “Do you not see this blue butterfly?”
“Of course.” She looked up at him, a line forming between her brows. “The brown butterfly is just as lovely in its own way.”
He could not speak. She did not know—could not possibly understand what it was to be that brown butterfly standing next to a woman who shone and glistened with life as vivid as any tropical butterfly.
“You said you had never seen me lighthearted.” He set his hand over hers, moved it so her fingers touched the iridescent blue painting that haunted his dreams. “This is you, Cat. Brilliant and bright.” He moved her fingers again, down to that dull, brown butterfly beneath. “This is me. I do nothing brilliant and bright. I live in shadow and was born in the cesspools of London. There is no comparison.”
She did not speak for a long moment. Lustrous eyes held him firm, pinned him so that he could not move. The lashes fringing that brilliant blue burned pale gold in the firelight. “Why are you a spy, Jones?”
No one had ever asked him that question before. He wasn’t even certain he could answer her. Angel simply knew, because he had been there at the beginning. Some of the other spies likely guessed, but it was a question a spy never asked of another spy. None of their paths were easy. If they had been, they would all be drapers or farmers or gentleman about town.
They weren’t. They were spies.
He could not look at Cat, not while he chose his words, so he watched the crackling fire instead. Dancing red and orange flames flickered on the hearth, shedding their glow into the room. He found he could not look away, even as he spoke to the woman by his side.
“I’m a spy because it saved me. I was headed for the gallows when Angel found me. Not literally, but I would have been swinging in just a few years.” He flicked his gaze toward Cat, and when he saw her rapt expression, he turned away again. He could not look at her when he told her. He couldn’t bear to see pity in her eyes.
“There are many boys on the street like myself, Cat. Abandoned. Lost.” His palms were beginning to dampen, so he wiped them on the coarse fabric of his breeches. “The boys band together, finding shelter in the rookeries and stealing when they need to.”
He could not—or would not—tell her everything. But he must to tell her some of it, as the need had suddenly become a very real, very live thing howling in his chest. He stooped to retrieve the poker again and prodded the logs, doing nothing but moving firewood that had no need to move.
“What happened to change you from boy to spy?” she asked softly. Her skirts rustled as she spoke and he hoped she wasn’t standing and coming near him. He wasn’t sure he would be able to speak if she were close. He heard nothing beyond the rustle of clothing, and no figure hovered in his vision to send his heart pounding. Poking again into the fire, Jones fought to describe the moment—that life-altering moment.
“It was Angel. He was older than I, already seasoned by war and espionage.” That log there, surely it needed to be rearranged. He would focus on it. “He was following another spy into the rookeries—a double agent, I learned later. My friends and I, we saw where the agent had hidden himself. It was only a tavern, one of a hundred in that area. Angel paid us for the information and set off in pursuit. My friends parceled out the money and went to buy something—gin or tobacco, no doubt—but I stayed behind.”
He couldn’t explain what about Angel had fascinated him, nor the overwhelming desire to follow that had sent him careening through allies in pursuit of the spy. The hurried run through the streets was still as vivid now as the day it happened. Buildings flashing by, the sound of his footsteps on the cobblestones, Angel’s broad shoulders covered in homespun cloth as he wove through the drunkards and criminals of St. Giles.
“I followed him, Cat.” Now he did look at her, as the revelations of that day swamped him. “I followed Angel and I saw him take down that double agent with fists and knives. I followed him when he reported to his commander, and I discovered what it meant to make a difference. To do something that would impact not only lives, but countries. History.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.” She did not come forward. They were separated by the rookeries and the ton. She reached out, then dropped her hands again. “To make a difference. Be something and do something more than what you are.”
“It’s not only that.” He shook his head, not sure if he could find the words. “It was a place and people I could belong to. I could do what was right and be something more than a whelp from the rookeries. But, Cat, that’s not me. All of that, the espionage, the agents I’ve discovered betraying their country, the spies trading secrets—none of that is me.”
He could hear the despair in his voice and hated himself for it. Shame roiled in his belly, but he planted his heels hard into the carpet and looked straight at that beautiful, soft-skinned, aristocratic face.
“I’m still that whelp from the rookeries, my lady.” And oh, those words were like a knife in his belly.
“That’s not true.” Cat stepped toward him, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “You might have been born in the rookeries, but you had a choice to walk away from it, and you had a choice to begin that life as a spy. To make a difference.”
“Do I make a difference?” He could barely say the words, afraid of what he would hear coming from her lips.
“Yes. To England.” Her other hand came up, so that his face was surrounded by soft, scented skin and he could see nothing but the depth of her eyes. “And to me.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
His heart stuttered in his chest. Uneven beats driven by the love he saw on her face. More, by the love that swamped him. She set her lips to his, the kiss tender and soft.
“Be my first, Jones.” She whispered it, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Make love to me.”
“Cat, you are still promised to another.” Oh, but he wanted her. The lust was layered now with love, with longing.
“He will never have my heart. You will.” She slid her hands from his face to his shoulders. “I have learned much of Hedgewood these past weeks. He is not as kind as he seems—he is much like Wycomb. I do not want to give him my body, but I will have no choice if we are wed.”
Every part of Jones burned with fury, knowing that Hedgewood would marry her and have her against her wishes. Never treat her with the compassion and love she deserved.
“I want you to love me, Jones. Just once so that I will know—and
I can look back and remember.” Her eyes were huge, her lips curved and inviting. “Give me that gift. Please.”
He was powerless to say no. Determination could withstand honor, but it could not withstand Cat.
“Yes.” He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against hers. He would make sure she was fulfilled, teach her what it was to be loved so that she would always remember. His arms went around her, drawing her in. “Not here in the study. Upstairs, in my chamber.”
Where he had dreamed of her.
She smiled softly and held out her hand. “Take me there.”
Picking up a candle, he led her up the stairs and through hallways until he reached his bedchamber. Her hand was warm in his, her steps confidant and without hesitation as they entered. He raised the candle high, throwing its light over his possessions.
What would she see? What would she think of his space? His clothes were neatly stored away in a wardrobe. Stacked on a table were the books he preferred to read, beside them a pair of pistols he had been polishing. The bed—which seemed particularly large—was neatly made. The room was simple and clean, as he liked it, without paintings on the damask covered walls or the fuss of pillows on the chair before the fire.
“Here. Let me build the fire so you aren’t cold.”
Releasing her hand, he set the candle on the table and kneeled before the fire to stir the embers.
“I don’t think I could be cold,” she murmured. “I feel as if there is a fire already burning in my body.”
His hands jerked as he laid wood on the glowing embers. He looked at her over his shoulder, pulse beginning to pound. The fire seemed pale compared to her hair in the candlelight, the heat filling the room less than what coursed through his veins.
Quickly, he finished at the fireplace so he could see her again.
Cat had moved to the bed. She sat on the edge of it, her evening slippers set side by side on the floor at her feet. She ran her hands over the plain blue coverlet and pillows, as if testing them. He did not know what her sheets would be made of, but they would be softer than his, he was certain. Though perhaps not—Angel had purchased these linens long ago.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stood, gaze steady and lips curved up as she looked at him. “I only want you for this first time.”
Jones straightened his shoulders, breathed in, and felt some part of his soul strengthen. She trusted him. It was not him giving Cat what she asked for, but Cat granting him her virginity. That was the gift—she was a gift.
“I love you, Cat.”
He pulled her close, pressed his mouth against hers. Her arms circled his neck, and though she had not removed her evening gown, she had removed her gloves. The skin of her inner arms was like silk and drove his need for her higher. He wanted to touch every bit of her skin, learn every hill and valley of her.
She leaned back to look at him. “I cannot undress myself, Jones. Will you?”
“You might be a virgin, my love, but you certainly know how to tempt a man.” He had not intended for his voice to rasp, but his throat released the words as a growl just the same.
Her laugh was as bright as the candle glow. “Only because I want you to undress me. I might manage, but it does not seem to be as enjoyable that way.”
“Then I shall oblige.” Setting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her so that he could reach the cloth covered buttons running along her spine. There were only three, the same color as the ivory gown. Around them, gold thread shot through the ivory silk and shimmered in the light. When the buttons were released, he pushed the sleeves from her shoulders so the bodice pooled around her waist, revealing the pale freckles he remembered from the woods at Ashdown Abbey. He kissed them as he had then, tasting the sweetness of her skin.
She sighed, the sound so soft it barely met his ears. “You make everything inside me turn to liquid, Jones.”
His heart stuttered in his chest, but his hands were steady as he set them to the ties on her stays. He worked quickly to loosen them, still more quickly on the ties of her petticoat, his mind losing its grip on his body. His cock was hard, nearly painful pressed against his fall-front breeches. Still, he tried to be gentle when his hands touched her bared shoulders and turned her again. Pulling the bodice and stays away, sliding the dress down her arms and letting all of it fall to the floor, seemed the most natural movements—as if he had performed them a thousand times before and would do so a thousand more.
She was lovely even in her chemise. It billowed around her, hiding her curves in white linen—but not her collarbones. Those were revealed by the wide scoop of the neckline. Jones ran his forefinger along the fine bones, tracing their shape. When he reached the edge of the chemise she stayed his hand, twined her fingers his.
“Here.” She took his other hand, brought it up to the other side of the neckline. Her gaze met his, the blue burning bright. Together, they pushed the chemise from her shoulders. It drifted lightly to the floor, covering his boots.
Cat stood before him in nothing but lace garters and silk stockings.
He could not breathe. Small, perfect breasts, tipped by a lovely pink. Narrow hips with a slight indentation above. Long legs covered with white silk. The thatch of red-gold at the apex of her legs. All of it stole his breath.
She reached for one of the garters, hand on the ribbon to loosen the tie.
“No, Cat.” He swallowed hard, but the lust in him would not be denied. “Leave them.”
“Indeed?” One brow rose. The matching smile was knowing. “As you wish, then, but I think you should make quick work of your own clothing.”
…
Jones did exactly as she asked.
His clothes were quickly stripped away. He dropped each garment somewhere to the side, but she did not see where. She could only see Jones as each bit of him was revealed. The broad shoulders she so loved were more magnificent without clothing, the strength of his character matching the strength of the muscles there. The lean torso begged to be stroked, his chest perfect to rest her cheek on.
It was his manhood that held her, however. It stood before him, ready, she knew. Cat had lived in the country, had listened to maids gossiping. She was a virgin, but she understood well enough the mechanics of it.
She had not counted on the fact that his need for her would be so compelling. Every part of her filled with a yearning so sharp, so tight that her breathe came in a gasp.
“Enough,” she whispered. “Do not play, Jones.”
The man that scooped her off her feet had hot skin and a hard body, but was gentle as he laid her on the bed. Quickly he climbed onto the bed, but slowly he pressed a kiss to her lips.
So like her Jones.
“I will not play long,” he whispered against her skin as he moved his lips to the hollow between her breasts. “But I need a few minutes. Just a few.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, gripped the thick locks as he took her nipple in his mouth. She cried out, arched toward him, as exquisite sensation shot from her breast to her toes. The laugh low in his throat sent the same thrill through her. He brought his mouth back to hers, seemed to devour her. Mouth, body. She could feel his erection, hard and hot, pressing against her core. Straining, but not entering. Oh, he wanted her. It would have made her smile, but she needed so much she couldn’t move her lips in anything but a kiss. Heat. More. Lips to lips, tongue to tongue.
The hardness left, replaced by his finger. He pulled away from her, looked down at her face as it entered her. She shuddered, and a second finger filled her. They moved in and out, stretching her. Touching some place in her that made her entire body gather everything together to a single spot.
“I want to see your eyes.” The whisper barely rumbled from his chest.
That deep, demanding sound matched the pounding in her blood. Matched the need inside her. His thumb touched a secret place she hadn’t known she had and her body shuddered, though every bit of her being was taut and t
ight and waiting. She gripped the sheets, certain she would break apart—and kept her gaze on his.
So dark. So focused.
“I love you, Cat.”
Somehow, she came apart. Everything inside her shattered in a glorious burst of sunrise and star set. She clung to him—this man who was strong and ready for her.
While that bright pleasure still swirled through her, Jones set his body against her core. He filled her, easily sliding in as if he belonged there. A dart of pain wove through the joy, but it was so fleeting she simply let it fly away again. Instead, she reveled in the feel of being held and loved. She wrapped her legs around him, heard him groan in response, and delighted in the slow stroke as he moved inside her.
He pressed his face against the curve of her neck, kissed her there, then met her lips as he slowly drew back and then thrust into her again. She gasped, clutched at his shoulders.
“Again, Jones. Again.”
He did, still careful, but deeper. More. As if he would do his best to give her his soul. His breath came fast, but his body rocked in a slow rhythm that began to build something inside her yet again. He watched her face, seemed to draw something from her. Even now, in this moment when he could take his pleasure from her, he focused on her. Waited for something.
She knew what it was as sensation shot through her, as if gold coursed through her veins. She gasped, held her breath, but could not look away from his gaze. He thrust once more, kissed her as if she were everything worthwhile in the world, and pulled his body away from her to finish.
His lips never left hers.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cat lay on her side above him, cheek propped in one hand. The pins in her hair had scattered so the curls rained down over her shoulders and onto the bed linens. A few stray locks brushed the hand lying quiet on the sheets.
Jones rubbed a thumb across the ridges spanning her knuckles, then turned her hand over so he could see the palm. She was so rarely without gloves he had yet to learn the lines crisscrossing the pale expanse. They were not deep, as his own were, her skin free from wear and calluses. He stared hard at thin lines, thinking to commit them to his memory. Someday, he would not be able to touch her hands. Someday soon they would be gone from his life.
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 23
