The Viscount's Seduction: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 2)

by Alina K. Field

  The scent of him flooded her, brought all of her senses alive. The horses outside clopped along steadily. She was surrounded by men—Shaldon’s men. Screaming would not help her.

  She should think. But, oh, the rascally man would only allow her to feel.

  His lips moved to her cheek, and between kisses he murmured, “Be still,” and “I’m sorry,” and “It’s what Shaldon said,” and “We’ll do this together.”

  And then, “Do not cry, love.”

  Damn, damn, damn.

  She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, soaking her glove. “I’m a bloody fool. Shaldon’s son? I’ve married Shaldon’s son. What was I thinking?”

  He handed her a handkerchief. In the dim light of the coach’s lantern, his eyes sparkled like fairy dust.

  “You weren’t thinking. Neither was I. Marriage is usually a rational endeavor, but not in our case. You were using your woman’s intuition. Here’s a strong, sensible man, you said, rich, too. And he genuinely wants me.”

  “Oh, yes? And what of you? Were you using your man’s intuition?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The kiss that followed was less gentle, more determined. His hand at the back of her head kept her fixed and held her in place when the coach turned a corner and threatened to topple her. A sigh worked its way from inside her, and when her mouth opened, his tongue touched hers and began to explore.

  It was…oh. His hand moved up her bodice, still spanning her side and keeping her stable, while his thumb began to search for her nipple. The layers of fabric—her pelisse, her petticoat, her gown, her stays, her chemise—intruded. She grasped the back of his head and hitched herself closer.

  He traced the line of her bodice and trailed his fingers under the fabric. The deep curve of her décolletage made the journey a short one, and soon she was gasping while pleasure streaked through her.

  He let go of her lips then and nibbled her cheeks down to a spot on her neck, and the feel of it made her groan.

  This was not Shaldon’s son. This was James, Lord Bakeley, the man she’d just entered into mad holy matrimony with to save her men from his father, the Spy Lord. Only they were really Shaldon’s men, not hers. And now the crafty old Lord wanted her to call himself Father.

  It was beyond madness, even for an Irish girl.

  He gave up on her breast and before she could cry out in protest he had captured her mouth again, distracting her so much she didn’t notice his hand had moved up under her skirt to above her knee, where he was wreaking a havoc of sensation. She swept her tongue against his and gave back completely, burying her fingers in his thick hair.

  His hand made a rapid advance to the crux of her legs and began a gentle assault, sending such bliss through her that she groaned with it.

  When he stilled his hand, she pulled back, and realized the carriage had stopped.

  He opened the shade. The lights of the townhouse poured brightly through the open front door where the housekeeper and her husband stood waiting.

  “We’re home.” Eyes glittering darkly, he straightened her skirt and bodice, eased her onto the seat and rearranged his trousers.

  Chapter 14

  Bakeley looked into Sirena’s wide eyes. She’d noticed his bulge.

  He couldn’t help grinning. “See what you do to me?” He planted a quick kiss on her swollen lips. “Come along then, Lady Bakeley. They are waiting.”

  A groom rushed to put down the steps and he brushed the man aside, turning to help Sirena himself.

  She lifted her eyes to the bright lights and the crowd of Kincaid’s guards that had gathered. “Is there to be company?”

  “Company?”

  “The lights. This crowd. I had much rather not entertain.”

  “Heaven forbid. I would send them all away.”

  That brought a shy smile from her.

  Desire roared through him. It took all his control to hand her down gently, but once her feet touched the ground, he swept her up into his arms.

  She gasped, the same noise she’d made when he’d fondled her breasts. Another surge of lust swept him.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  Like a conquering hero, I’m taking home my spoils. “Carrying my bride across the threshold,” he said. “To placate the house gods. You’ve heard of that custom, have you not?”

  “Am I not too heavy?”

  Heavy? He felt as powerful as a savage. “Not heavy at all.”

  “You’re huffing and puffing.”

  “That is anticipation, love.”

  In the light of the landing, he could see her face flush.

  They crossed the threshold and he set her down. She greeted the servants politely.

  The housekeeper curtsied. “I’ll assist you, my lady, until you’ve selected an abigail.”

  “Not tonight,” he said. “You may lock up and retire. If we need anything we’ll raid the kitchen for ourselves, shall we not?”

  Sirena rewarded him with a smile.

  “We’ve laid a cold repast in your chamber, but should you want more, there’s fresh bread in the box and good butter in the cold cabinet.” The housekeeper rubbed her hands together. “I’ve filled a kettle. It will just need to be heated.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Sirena said.

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Come along, missus.” Mr. Windle took hold of his wife, fighting a smile.

  Bakeley turned the key in the bedchamber door’s lock, and then hauled his bride up into an ardent kiss.

  She didn’t seem quite as willing as before. Not wholly stiff, either. He set her back and studied her face.

  She was nervous, he decided. Or perhaps hungry. She’d picked at her food during the wedding party. In any case, when the time came, he wanted her willing. He’d never forced a woman in his life.

  “Shall we check out Mrs. Windle’s cold repast?” He dropped her hand and went to the table, removing covers. He poured two glasses of wine, and carved off a hunk of bread.

  She shook her head at the wine. “How can you eat?”

  “I’m hungry. Keeping up with Father was spoiling my appetite. Is that why you also limited yourself to two bites of food at Hackwell’s?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “’Tis a strange way I’m feeling.”

  He pulled a chair out, sat down, and patted his lap. “Come and tell me about it.”

  She sighed. “Would you first help me out of this dress? I’ve never had anything so lovely, and I would so hate to spoil it.”

  She’d been reading his mind. He fisted his hands to control his own urge to rip the gown from her. “Come here then and turn around.”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder, a shy smile forming on the lip he’d kissed to a dark shade of pink.

  “You’ve never been undressed by a gentleman before?”

  The smile faded, a deep blush formed, and she turned away, so that all he could see was the knot of blonde curls quivering on the back of her head.

  Something inside him twisted. He’d assumed she was an innocent. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  And would it matter?

  He went to work on her laces. “It’s a very nice dress, made lovelier by your beauty. You know you shall have many more dresses, Sirena. As many as you wish.”

  “The pin money you agreed to is very generous.” Her voice was shaky, breathless.

  When all the fastenings were undone, he pushed the dress off her shoulders and began to unlace her stays. A tight knot at the top needed extra attention. The smooth skin of her back, and the quivers that rippled through her at his touch, kept distracting him.

  “There is a damned knot,” he said.

  She tensed. He kissed her shoulder. “Pardon my language.”

  “I am still a virgin,” she said, her voice low and husky. “He did not v-violate me.”

  He pulled the knot free, anger roaring through him. Whoever the man was, he was dead.

  Rather than speak and frighten h
er more, he put his lips to a cool stretch of skin, making her shiver, and went back to the laces.

  “It was my cousin, the new Glenmorrow. The moment he arrived, I smelled trouble. He w-wooed me. ’Twas improper, and I knew it. There I was, in the same house, a poor relation, no family or chaperone to see to me. I tried…” She paused to swallow, “the vicar sympathized, but he had the living off the new earl.”

  “Shhhh.” He turned her around. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  Her lips pressed together firmly and she shook her head. “You say you don’t wish for lies, my lord. I should have told you before…” She took in another deep breath. “He went after me during the dessert course of Sunday dinner. Gr-groped me. I told him…told him to wait until later, wait until the servants were abed. I knew I would have time to sneak away after the meal. He didn’t care about the servants. The footman went to the housekeeper, and she laced his brandy with laudanum, which I didn’t know until later. He bade me sit with him while he drank, but I ran to my room for the bag I’d packed. He followed me and r-ripped my best dress.”

  “But you stopped him.”

  She shook her head. “The butler bashed him. He was so woozy, you see, from the laudanum, it didn’t take much. They carried him back to the dining room. Propped him in his chair with his head on the table.”

  “He didn’t notice?”

  “We worked it out so he would blame me.”

  “It would be hard to have everyone keep the secret.”

  “They sent a maid to distract his valet. And many of the servants had a half-day. In any case, I haven’t heard that he’s sacked anyone. Lady Jane wanted me to bring charges against him, but...”

  But, no one would take her word against Glenmorrow’s, a girl this lovely.

  She stepped out of her dress and stays, picked them up carefully, draped them over the back of a chair, and faced him in only her chemise.

  Blotches of anger colored her cheeks and her hands fisted.

  “’Twas that the servants would’ve had to testify, and after the man was exonerated, they’d have been put out without references, or worse, perhaps falsely accused of some crime.” She pounded her fist into her palm. “My father gave into the drink, but he was a worthy man. This man is not worthy.”

  If the new earl were here, he’d toss him straight out the window. He looked around the room and could not spot her night clothing. He went into the dressing room, retrieved his dressing gown, and helped her into it. The dark satin swallowed her like the dark trappings of a funeral byre.

  An appropriate thought for the way this evening had progressed.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer.

  He raked his hands through her hair, pulling out combs and scattering pins. “Tell me the new earl’s name.”

  “Glenmorrow.”

  “No. Who was he before he became Glenmorrow?” The coil of hair cascaded over the dark fabric like a river of gold, making his insides clench.

  God, she was lovely.

  “Sterling Hollister.”

  “Where is he now?”

  She turned to him, face blotched with pink, and his heart all but stopped and started up again, bashing against his ribs. Damn, damn Sterling Hollister, new Earl of Glenmorrow.

  “I don’t know. I know he was once a soldier but he sold off his commission. He’ll be wanting to make his title official. He’ll be wanting to enter the Lords.”

  If he’d been in the army, Hackwell or Bink might know of him.

  But he wouldn’t be entering the Lords unless he was one of the Irish elected peers, and he’d doubt if an upstart new heir would be even considered. Unless…

  “Did your father serve in the House of Lords?”

  “No.”

  “Come,” he escorted her over to the table. “You must eat.”

  “I couldn’t.” But she came and let herself be seated. He filled a plate for her.

  The red rage had drained from her and she looked ashen.

  “I’ve not studied the law,” he said, “but I know enough of it. And for what I don’t know, I can employ the very best of those who do. Eat, my dear.”

  She frowned at him and picked up her knife and fork.

  “You’re looking for your brother to displace this villain.”

  She stopped her fork midway to her mouth, put it down, and stared at him, biting her lower lip.

  “It’s a good plan.” He speared a piece of ham and chewed. “Eat Sirena. I’ve heard the French say that revenge is best as a cold meal like this, or some such.”

  She stared at him, that little frown creasing her brow. He swallowed and took a drink of wine. “Pardon, my lady. One does not speak with one’s mouth full. There’s also the good Bard’s line: ‘Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.’”

  She smiled. “‘Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’”

  “You know your Shakespeare.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “A bit. ’Twas my mother’s doing.”

  “Excellent. We’ll have no more tears tonight.”

  “I was not weeping, Bakeley.”

  “You are not eating either.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep if I eat now.”

  He locked his eyes upon hers, set his palm upon her hand, and walked his fingers up her arm, under the dark brocade, watching as her color rose again.

  “’Tis our wedding night,” she whispered.

  “You had forgotten.”

  “No only… how did we arrive at Julius Caesar?”

  “You were explaining that you are still an innocent.”

  “I am.”

  He drew his hand away and patted his knee. “Come here.”

  She paused to drain her glass—for courage, he thought—and settled daintily on his lap.

  He kept his hands braced on the edge of his chair. “What do you want from me tonight?”

  She looked at him a long moment. “A wedding night.” She nodded. She sounded breathless, and her chest was rising and falling like she was having trouble breathing.

  “You look very fetching in my robe.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hadn’t expected shyness. “I’ve played your maid, yet I’m still fully dressed, as you see.”

  A smile danced on her lips. “I will valet you, my lord.” She went to work on his neck cloth. “Though I shall not be able to tie anything so elaborate for you in the morn. Your valet is quite the artist.”

  “I tied that myself.”

  Her eyebrows rose as she tossed the white cloth away. “It’s talented you are.”

  “As you shall see.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Shall we stand to remove these coats?”

  “No.” He leaned forward, close enough to smell the scent of lilacs. “Slip your hands under my lapel and push.”

  “Oh.”

  Her slim hands on his chest made his heart thump and his trousers tighten as though about to burst.

  “Like a glove, it fits. Who is your tailor?”

  He grunted as she wrangled the sleeves, her breasts touching his chest, her silky hair floating against his cheek. “Henry Poole.” He watched as she put the inside-out sleeves of the coat right, folded it, and tossed it onto her vacated chair.

  God, a man should never marry a woman who’d been in service.

  He had to find some way to move this event along. “I have an idea, my lady. I fear you are getting a crick in your neck. If you straddle me, this undressing will be easier.” He lifted her bottom and pushed at her skirts. “Separate your legs, my dear.”

  She had her lips pursed. If he had any doubts of her innocence, the color rising there told him all he needed to know.

  “There. Now you may unbutton my waistcoat.”

  Chapter 15

  Sirena settled on the very edge of his legs. Her fingers
trembled on the slim shiny buttons of his waistcoat, and she kept her eyes focused on them, trying to avoid looking at his trousers below.

  Heat pulsed through her. He’d left his hands bracketing her hips, the warmth of them sending her insides quaking.

  When she glanced up, he was watching her in that dark, slack-eyed way that nevertheless seemed to glitter.

  “There,” she said, keeping her voice nonchalant. She pushed his waistcoat off. “Lean forward, sir.”

  He did, pushing her robe back, hooking his hands around her back, and pressing himself to her while she slid off the waistcoat, leaving him clad in only his shirt. He fell back, taking her with him, only her chemise and his shirt keeping their flesh apart.

  And ’twas only her chemise and his pantaloons keeping her hot center from his hard erection. The pounding she felt might be her heart or his.

  He pushed the robe off her, skimming his hands over her bare arms. “There. What do we have left?”

  She felt his fingers trail down to the hem of her chemise and underneath, moving up the silk of her stockings to the ribbon garters holding them.

  “You have the loveliest legs.”

  “Go on with you. You’ve not even seen them.”

  He gave her knee a squeeze. “I have taken a peek at your ankles. As for the rest, I’m going by touch. Which is telling me that the rest of you is lovely also.”

  She turned her head to argue and his lips captured hers, at once startling, yet familiar. This was Bakeley, and he was her husband, and he’d promised her she had nothing to fear. She’d shared her last secret.

  She let herself sink into the kiss. Perhaps he was keeping secrets. He was Shaldon’s son after all.

  But wasn’t this the surest way to gain his confidence?

  And she wanted this. The heat that raced through her seemed to pool in the spot where her private parts met his.

  His lips slanted and moved, his tongue stroking, and she found herself matching him, kissing him back. The desire he kindled in her roared to life and she trailed her lips down his jaw, savoring the prickle of his stubble. He’d not stopped to shave for the wedding or the party after, and she was glad. She liked the feel of the scratchy dark scruff against her lips and her cheek.