The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  Inside his chest, his heart clenched. The heat of her skin seeped through her gown into his palm; she looked away, out the window.

  Back at Henry’s brother’s house, they congratulated one another. Caroline joined Henry and Moon in a toast to their victory, and was a dear not to mention how terrible the champagne was, even though her eyes watered at its sourness.

  Henry couldn’t tear his gaze from her face.

  This was their last night together. They’d solved the puzzle; Woodstock was gone, the diamond was in Henry’s possession. Negotiations would begin with the French tomorrow, after Henry delivered the good news to his commanding officer; he would promptly be sent back to Paris, probably by the end of the week. In the war against Old Boney, there was no time to waste.

  He no longer had a reason to pester Caroline, call upon her, expect her to call upon him. The French Blue had brought them together, and now that the diamond would go to Napoleon, Henry and Caroline would once again be parted. She would be a respectable widow once more. And he—he would go back to his work, his men, his duty. He would be in a world so far removed from hers it might as well be the moon.

  Tonight’s victory was proving a bittersweet one.

  But tonight—Henry and Caroline still had tonight. It was too depressing to think about what happened next, without her. So he would think about tonight.

  He hoped the minutes might pass slowly, so that he might savor them.

  He hoped Caroline would stay with him. He would do anything she wanted—play cards, drink wine—as long as she stayed.

  Only, she didn’t.

  “Time to go, I’m afraid,” she said, setting her half-empty glass on the bureau. “Henry, would you walk me home?”

  Forty-one

  Henry stalked through the darkness in silence.

  “Why so,” she panted, “serious? Eager to be rid of me?”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You were the one who wanted to leave,” he said gruffly.

  “Don’t you know? I only did that so that we might have some time alone.”

  Henry cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “You did?”

  “Of course I did. Couldn’t hurt Moon’s feelings by asking him to make himself scarce.”

  “That would’ve been a tad obvious, yes.” Henry grinned.

  “Dear God, Henry, could you please slow down?”

  He did as she asked. She slipped her arm through his and drew him close. She could smell just the vaguest hint of lemon, but it was enough to fill her head—and then her body—with longing.

  Together Caroline and Henry made their way through Mayfair’s quiet lanes and squares, careful to muffle their footfalls in the spaces between cobbles.

  Only when the stately façade of her brother’s house appeared did Caroline’s heart resume its beating. Relief, warm like wine, washed through her. The backs of her knees tingled; her footsteps slowed.

  They’d won. With her help, Henry had defeated Woodstock, and ensured the success of his plans for the diamond.

  Playing her part had been her confession. She loved him; she hoped he understood.

  Just outside the mews gate, she bent at the waist, resting elbows on knees as she caught her breath. Beside her, Henry leaned his back against the wall, let his head fall back, too. His enormous chest rose and fell, rose and fell; Caroline watched through the curtain of hair hanging in front of her eyes.

  She felt flush with victory, yes. Even now she smiled at the memory of their deception, and its success. Henry’s greatest enemy—well, the only enemy she knew about, anyway—would be locked away, buried in a hole so deep he would never be found again. Another traitor to England, as good as dead.

  And Caroline had helped capture him. She, a dowager countess, a gardener, a widow.

  The French Blue would be used as Henry had always intended: an enticing piece of diplomatic bait, in the hopes Old Boney would exchange British prisoners, perhaps a Spanish city or two, in his quest to collect the crown jewels.

  Henry would do his duty by England. That duty, of course, would bring him back to Paris, where he would continue his work. He was too good, too experienced, to be allowed to stay in London; Caroline had no doubt his loss these past weeks had been felt, acutely.

  Pain, black and swelling, punctured her relief. She’d always known he would go back. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  These two things warred inside Caroline: her love for Henry, a love she could no longer deny, a love she’d all but admitted by helping him win back the French Blue; and the need to protect herself, to keep her carefully tended wounds—wounds that, after twelve years, had never fully healed—from opening again.

  But Henry had opened them, and she knew it was too late to stanch the bleeding. She felt rent in two, equal parts love and fear, longing and sadness. The euphoria of having him near, and being so in love, was tinged with an ache Caroline knew well.

  She smoothed her hair behind her ear, and looked at Henry as she drew upright. Tonight. It was all they had left. The wild chase that had brought them back together was done.

  But they still had tonight.

  Henry held out a hand to her, and she took it. He brought her close, his fingers entwining with hers as she stepped into the wedge of shadow put off by the wall.

  “Caroline,” he said quietly. Would this be the last time, she wondered, that she’d hear him speak her name? “Thank you. I was an ass to believe I could do this alone. Without you.”

  She grinned. “I only had to tell you three hundred times that I could help. At last, I get my due! Tell me, is the Alien Office looking to recruit new spies? I daresay I’d be smashing at it.”

  Henry tugged her closer, set her hand to rest against his chest and covered it with his own. His heart beat strongly against her palm. Desire pulsed, dimly, low in her belly. “What about your gardens? And that book! You still need to finish that book.”

  “Oh, that book,” Caroline sighed, looking up at Henry. “I have that dreadful book, and you’ll have Paris.”

  His grin faded. He squeezed her hand, ran his tongue along his bottom lip. For a moment he looked away. “I hope—sincerely—that I have not caused you overmuch pain, coming to London like this. I never meant to take captive your life, you know. It just . . .” He shrugged, that half-grin of his returning full force, dimple and all. Caroline thought she might faint. “Happened. I don’t regret it, Caroline. No matter what happens next, I don’t regret it.”

  Tears pricked at her eyes. It was her turn to look away. “Tomorrow. This is going to hurt tomorrow, Henry.”

  With his other hand he cupped her face, his thumb brushing her eyelashes. “I know,” he said. “You and I—it seems the world conspires against us, doesn’t it?”

  Caroline scoffed. “An understatement if there ever was one.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. He was still grinning, and that gaze—it was as full as she felt.

  “I’ve waited for you,” he whispered. “And even if we were only together for a little while, it was worth every minute of the twelve years I waited.”

  The lump in her throat was so enormous she could hardly breathe. “I’ve waited too, Henry.”

  Again his grin smoothed into seriousness. “Promise me, Caroline, that you won’t wait anymore. That tomorrow you’ll start over.”

  A beat. “But tonight?”

  He dug his hand into the hair at the base of her skull. He looked down at her for a long moment, his pale eye swirling with emotion. “Tonight I want to be with you, Caroline. If you’ll have me.”

  Tears burned against her closed eyelids. Tears of relief. “Yes,” she breathed.

  And then Henry was curling his body around hers, pressing her back to the wall as his mouth came down on hers. His arm propped on the wall beside her head, he kissed her hard and well and sure. He su
rrounded her, his body, his scent, and she drank deeply, wrapping her hands around the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer, closer; he was never close enough. Desire flooded her every vein and sinew, pulsing between her legs and in her chest. She wanted him, badly.

  By now she knew his kiss, and he knew hers, and Caroline thought she could stand here, just like this, for hours, days even, and be kissed by Henry Beaton Lake. He took her bottom lip between his teeth, guiding her mouth against his own by holding her chin between his thumb and forefinger. She untied the ribbon of his queue, releasing his hair to fall over his shoulders and down his back. His unfashionably long, pale red hair. She’d miss it.

  But she wouldn’t think about that now. If she had learned nothing else, Caroline understood that the bad—that tomorrow—would come anyway, whether or not she thought about it today, protected herself from it.

  And so she wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t think at all; she would know, and touch, and lose herself in Henry, and this moment.

  “Not here,” he whispered, trailing his lips down her throat. “Where can we go?”

  “The folly, in the garden,” she said. “We’ve just got to get over the gate.”

  Henry made quick work of that, hoisting Caroline up on his shoulders so she might climb to the other side. He followed, landing soundlessly on his feet.

  She took his hand as she led him into the gardens.

  * * *

  Peonies and wisteria perfumed the air; a bright moon shone down upon the garden folly, still and silent, its curious windows gleaming silver one way, blue another.

  Caroline drew open the doors and led Henry inside. It smelled of wax, recently lit tapers; William must have come out earlier that evening to take some air. The light from the moon illuminated the folly just enough, outlining the wrinkled edges of the pillows in downy halos. It streamed through the high windows and caught the chiseled planes of Henry’s face.

  He was looking at her, intently, intensely, so much so that she looked away. Her eyes burned with tears. Why was she crying? It made no sense. She didn’t want to cry, not here, not now, on their last night together.

  He wiped away her tears with his thumbs, murmuring, “It’s all right, Caroline, it’s all right,” in her ear.

  The murmur turned into a kiss. Henry held her by her face, she held on to him by his wrists, his lips setting fire to her skin.

  They kissed for a long time, until Caroline’s lips were raw, and her desire soaring.

  Her hands dove between the lapels of his coat, urging it over his shoulders. He took off her cloak; he trailed a hand down the back of her gown, unhooking each button slowly, carefully, her heart screaming to be released.

  He undressed her like this: slowly, savoring every bit of lace, each embroidered eyelet.

  But she—she undressed him quickly. He laughed at her impatience, and nicked her naked shoulder with his teeth.

  Henry held her against him when they were at last done with one another’s clothes, his fingers trailing down the skin of her back as he kissed her collarbones and neck.

  Head thrown back, Caroline allowed him to toss her onto the mountain of pillows, a small laugh of surprise escaping her lips. The pillows felt at once foreign and impossibly soft against her naked body; she sank into them, the heaviness of her limbs a vibrant counterpoint to the liquid desire running just beneath her skin.

  Henry fell onto his knees before her. He put his hands on her and parted her legs; his hair gleamed white in the light from the windows as it dipped between her thighs.

  The breath caught in her throat as his hands slid up the inside of her thighs and his mouth met with her sex. A slow kiss, perfect, one that had her crying out, the muscles in her legs burning, tightening.

  One kiss, and she was already on the edge, already gritting her teeth and closing her eyes and clenching the pillows in her hands.

  Another kiss, and she came apart.

  It was so immediate, it happened so quickly, Caroline felt as if she were flying. The fiery pulses overtook her, poundpoundpound, filling her heart and her ears, her hands tugging at Henry’s hair.

  He was climbing over her, even as she gasped for air. He placed his forearms on either side of her head, brushing back the hair from her eyes. His belly pressed against hers, he was pushing her legs wider with his hips.

  Henry took her moans of pleasure in his mouth, his lips wild now, and impatient.

  She was still coming when he entered her. She couldn’t tell if the pain was good pain or bad, the intensity of it all. It had been so long—years—since she’d been with a man. Henry went slowly, kissing her as he slid inside her. The pain dissolved as he sank to the root, then vanished altogether. Pleasure, only pleasure now, and so very much of it.

  He reached back and wrapped her trembling legs about his buttocks, thrusting deeply. The hardened points of his hips scraped against her belly; he was taking her nipples in his mouth, first one, then the other and back again.

  Caroline closed her eyes, and surrendered.

  She met him thrust for thrust, her body as eager to know as his. Oh, God, this was as lovely as she remembered. Better, now, because they knew each other, knew their bodies.

  Henry moved onto his side, taking her with him. His thrusts became slower, luxurious. She could tell he was holding back. He didn’t want this to end.

  She would not think about the end.

  His hands moved over every inch of her skin, her sides and her back and the backs of her thighs. Caroline could not get enough of his enormous shoulders, the way his muscles moved beneath her touch.

  Henry was on his knees now, keeping Caroline on her side as he pressed her legs together and drew them up by her chest, entering her this way. It felt different. It felt wonderful.

  He had her breast in one hand; with the other he was touching the tip of her sex, urging her toward completion once more. She yielded to his touch, yielded to the rising wave when it hit her at last. She closed her eyes against the fullness she felt, the sense of wholeness.

  Henry’s movements grew more urgent, and then he was pulling out of her, covering himself with his hand. Caroline watched his face tense, his eye squeezing shut. His lips were gathered in a white line; he breathed in short, hot spurts through his nose.

  How different from last time—the first time—this care he took. How foolish they’d been then, and young, and lost in each other. Not that she wasn’t lost now.

  She reached up and took his face in her hand. His eye opened. It was narrow with satiation, the green of his iris burning gold in the darkness. It was overwhelming, the intensity of being looked at like this, knowing she was the spark that had lit this man on fire.

  Inside her chest her heart felt swollen, and strangely quiet. As if, in this moment, the eye of the storm, it was content.

  Henry ducked his head, pressing a kiss into her palm, and then he fell onto his back and reached for his shirt, tidying himself up.

  When he was done he propped himself up on his elbow, guiding Caroline onto her back beside him. He ran his fingers in slow, lazy circles across her belly. The tenderness of his gesture made her heart swell.

  “Elizabeth,” she said. “I named our daughter Elizabeth.”

  She watched the working of his throat as he swallowed. “After Gloriana?”

  “Yes.” Caroline took his wandering hand in her own and held it against her skin. “It was the red hair—I’d like to think she would’ve been a feisty one, like you, and the queen.”

  “Elizabeth,” he said, trying out the word. “It’s lovely.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you like it. When I was pregnant, I would visit Kew often—it was the only time Osbourne and I stayed in London—and I thought often about Queen Elizabeth, and Dudley, and you and me.”

  He met her eyes. His so
mehow managed to be soft and hard all at once. Hard, as if he was struggling to hold something in. Soft, as if that something was a great sadness that threatened to overwhelm the levee inside him.

  Caroline smiled, brushing her nose against his chest. She inhaled, closing her eyes. This scent—his scent, male, skin, soap—God, how she would miss it.

  As if reading her thoughts, Henry pulled her to him, surrounding her with his warmth. She melted against his skin, burrowing into the place between his arm and torso, his hand splayed across the small of her back, protectively.

  Together they were still.

  She didn’t fall asleep, not exactly. Instead she floated in the comfortable darkness behind her closed lids. Time could pass slowly, quickly, not at all; she was in Henry’s arms, that was all she knew, and in those minutes, that was all she needed.

  Forty-two

  “I don’t want to go,” Henry whispered, sometime later.

  “Stay, just a little longer,” Caroline replied, her breath a warm rush against his skin.

  He pulled her closer. How many hours did they have left? he wondered. These moments—they would be the ones he’d remember, when he was back in Paris, alone.

  Henry supposed he should be grateful he had new memories, memories of caresses, things said and done. Leaving her the first time had been excruciating. Leaving her again—God, but he couldn’t breathe.

  At last the darkness burned to gray. He hadn’t slept; Caroline had been equally restless until she finally fell asleep some time ago, her breathing deep and even.

  The good-bye would be too much to bear, and awkward besides. What could he say to her, that he hadn’t already said? She never told him she loved him—had never spoken it aloud, anyway—and he did not wish to force a confession, or pester her once more with his own. Would they embrace, meet eyes, murmur wishes of luck and fortune and peace?

  It would be a lie. There would be no peace for either of them; they both knew that.