by Anne Renwick
Listening to the words of men who visited Father in the dark of night had become a habit, and quite some time had passed before she’d been caught. Enough so that she knew too much. With reluctance tinged with pride, Father had brought her into his fold. If he’d thought to stop her eavesdropping, he’d failed. At some point, she’d overheard a discussion concerning shadow boards, a group of scientific-minded gentlemen who worked together to bypass official protocols. One such board aimed to study individuals in possession of unusual traits or abilities: The Committee for the Exploration of Anthropomorphic Peculiarities—CEAP.
It fit. Who else would be interested in a human with bones that could not be broken?
Her heart stopped a moment, then began again, galloping like a clockwork horse whose springs had been wound too tight. She swallowed. Could Father be involved with Warrick? No. Her mind rebelled at the idea. Absolutely not. Neither he nor Ian would betray their country in such a manner.
On the other hand, Ian had stolen equipment from a laboratory and transported it to Germany. Technically, that was treason.
How to label this shade of gray?
“I found no evidence of such a board, no matter how I searched, no matter who I questioned. Warrick disappeared along with the cells. Scandal erupted. An internal investigation was conducted. My laboratory was turned upside down in a hunt for evidence of intent. They found nothing. In the end, I had to take responsibility.” Ian paused. His next words were grim. “They were my cells.”
“You are not to blame for Warrick’s actions.” She squeezed his hand. Not to blame, but she understood his guilt. His work had inspired and motivated Warrick’s actions, and such vile research had to be terminated.
“I was responsible for his oversight and on that regard, I failed.” Ian turned his head on the pillow and looked directly into her eyes. His next words came slowly, heavy with the weight of implication. “Your father himself accepted my resignation.”
Her breath caught. That meant… he was—or had been—a Queen’s agent. It explained much. “For my father?” she asked, doing her best to project ignorance. She might have agreed not to conceal her intelligence from Ian, but she wasn’t yet convinced she ought to reveal her place within the organization. “How? You work at Lister University.”
Dawn had arrived, and Ian lifted her hand so it caught the light pouring in through the windows. His fingertips brushed across the odd calluses and scars she’d acquired fiddling with steambot mechanics, punching tin and copper cards, picking locks. “Do you remember telling me you were a spy?”
“I did no such thing!” She was nearly certain.
She tried to pull away, but his arm held fast about her waist, keeping her pressed against him. It seemed there would be no escaping him or the topic under discussion.
“True. You said you wished you were. A spy. Why would a pretty, young woman like you want to be a spy?” He was smiling now, a deliberate attempt to lighten the dark mood while still hunting for information.
Pretty. But not beautiful. Or, it seemed, kissable. Yet he’d shared so much, he deserved a measure of honesty in return.
“Do you know how tedious it is to be a respectable young lady of the ton? The hours wasted shopping. The days spent at endless teas, balls and garden parties. The years spent behaving impeccably. All in search of a husband.” Olivia huffed. “Only to lose the one thing you thought you’d secured at last.”
“You never did mention why Lord Snyder abandoned you.” His breath was warm on her hair. Why, then, did it make her shiver? Especially when every inch of her skin burned for his touch.
“He did not wish a wife tainted by family scandal.”
“Family scandal?” he scoffed. “Your sister married an earl. Your brother, the daughter of a viscount.”
“You pay no attention to ton gossip, do you? My youngest sister, Emily, ran off with her gypsy lover.” Beneath her cheek smooth linen and hard muscle shifted as Ian’s chest rumbled in her ear. Laughter. He thought the impropriety amusing? “It’s not funny,” she protested. “Her behavior reflected upon me, and no gentleman wants to marry a woman who won’t conform to the expectations of society.”
“Are you trying to tell me you wish to live a conventional life?”
Olivia pressed her lips together and stayed silent. How was it he so easily saw through her pretenses? One by one he stripped them away.
“Exactly. So perhaps he had good cause,” Ian pointed out. “You too are a rebel, teaching yourself difference engine programming.”
True. Mollified, she allowed herself a smile. “And robotic engineering skills,” she bragged, tempted for the first time to reveal her degree from the Rankine Institute. “Among other things. Can you blame me for wishing to have the opportunity to put such skills to use?”
“So you’re not a spy,” Ian concluded. “You’re simply an unusually talented young woman whose father took advantage of her, tasking her with planting acousticotransmitters in the luggage of an unmarried gentleman while she conveniently traveled aboard the same airship.”
“Yes.” Close enough. No need for him to know all her secrets.
Casually, Ian’s thumb began to trace a path back and forth across the base of her palm. Her breath caught as his touch ignited a low flame beneath her skin, one that flared hotter with each sweep. Not that he noticed.
“What did he promise you in return?”
Several heartbeats later she lifted her gaze to his. What could it hurt? “A chance to find an Italian husband.” His thumb now stroked the sensitive inside of her wrist, making a clear and logical mind nearly impossible to maintain.
“You sound disinclined to matrimony,” he said, studying her as if she were a puzzle he was determined to solve.
She was. Or, at least, she had been. Why could Lord Ian Stanton, Earl of Rathsburn not have been her assigned target? “A duke’s daughter has little choice.”
“Is that why you locked yourself in my storage closet?” His mouth was inches from hers.
Behind her lock pick-lined corset, her heart tripped, recovered, then picked up its pace. “A decision I soon came to regret.”
“I’m sorry I’m not the gentleman you believed me to be.” His fingers stilled.
No. She didn’t want this moment to end. She closed her eyes and clarified. “I regret the location and the circumstances, but not the man.” She tipped her face upward and let her lips part slightly. There could be no clearer invitation.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, but there was nothing tender left in his voice. Instead, it grew rough and caustic. “Because you’ll need to kiss me.”
Chapter Eighteen
“NEED TO…” Bewilderment tinged her voice but there was no time to explain. “I don’t see how—”
Tugging on her wrist, he pulled her against his body, crushing her generous breasts to his chest. He kissed the soft skin of her neck just below her ear and whispered, “Someone has cracked the door open and is watching.”
She stilled, but attraction still sparked between them. The pulse at her neck fluttered. Her eyes were dilated. Her cheeks flamed. A most gratifying response to his demand, but considering the implications was for later. For now, they must act.
Ian caught her face in his hands, brushed both thumbs along her cheekbones. “Don’t look. There is much doubt as to the truth of our relationship. Give them something to whisper about. Kiss me.”
“Pull the bed curtain,” she breathed. “Let them use their imagination.” Wiggling, she lifted an arm to do exactly that, but he caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm before moving it to his shoulder.
Seconds ago she’d been all but begging for a kiss, and now she resisted? A woman was entitled to change her mind. He wouldn’t force her, but neither was she pulling away. Perhaps it was the audience.
“You are missing the point entirely.” He slipped his fingers into twists of soft, golden hair that had tumbled free again as she slept. Cupping her head, he turned her f
ace away from the door and nibbled on her earlobe.
“Explain,” she gasped. Her fingers dug into his shoulder.
Desire, pure and simple. She craved his touch as much as he craved hers. Lust exploded through him and blood rushed to his groin, refusing to concede that this was all an act, doomed to end in nothing but frustration.
Struggling to keep his kisses gentle, he brushed his mouth along her jaw as he spoke, moving ever closer to those full lips he’d tasted all too briefly aboard the dirigible. “The count knows much about me,” he whispered. “He knows nothing about you. Our marriage was unexpected and sudden. He will have doubts. Perhaps he suspects an alliance rather than a marriage. I would not want him to suspect a spy in his midst.”
“I’m not,” her objection came on a whimper, “a spy.”
“He likely requires proof.” He reached down and slid her thigh suggestively across his own before pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. She smelled sweet, like caramelized sugar. “An enthusiastic kiss from my new bride—when we think ourselves alone and unobserved—would help substantiate our claim.”
Olivia pulled away and looked down at him, her dark blue eyes wide. Tangled curls framed her face. He couldn’t imagine a more beautiful sight. Save, perhaps, one in which her lips were swollen from his kisses. He was enjoying this far too much when he should be worried that the band of his iron self-control had snapped.
“I… I…” She stuttered, then the words came out in a soft rush. “I’ve never kissed a man before you. If a convincing performance is required, you’d best provide firm direction and stage whispers.”
Never?
Before he could respond, she dipped her head. Soft and tentative, her lips skimmed over his mouth, as if searching for the perfect fit. A new surge of heat shot through his body in response to her uncertain explorations and dragged forth a tortured groan.
She hesitated. “Did I…?”
“More.” He tugged her face back toward his own, brushing his thumb across her lips and hooking it in the corner of her mouth. “Open for me, let me in.”
Her lips parted with a shaky breath, and he tipped her face, capturing their soft sweetness with his own lips. When she melted into him, when her heart pounded in time with his, he deepened their kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth, tasting, teasing. As he ran his hand down her side, past her narrow waist to trace the generous curve of her hip, to cup her round buttocks, it took every ounce of control he had to remind himself that this was all for show.
For her enthusiastic response made it all too easy to believe what they shared was real. If only she was his bride in truth, if only they were truly alone and on their honeymoon, he would roll her over and introduce her to the many pleasures of his lips, tongue and teeth, beginning with those taut nipples that peeked from beneath the edge of her corset. If only.
But she was an innocent. A duke’s daughter.
Not mine.
Sensing his hesitation, she pulled away, her eyes hazy with desire. “Do they still watch?”
“I don’t know,” he rasped. “A blatant look would reveal our game.” Pushing his hand against her corseted waist, he shifted her back onto the mattress, away from his throbbing arousal. Ian dragged in a breath and forced the words past his lips. “Loosen my cravat. Tug it from my neck and toss it to the floor. Unbutton my waistcoat. As you do, sneak a glance at the door.”
Her long, clever fingers made short work of his cravat before working their tortuous way down his chest, button by button. When she tipped her face downward and pressed a kiss to the skin of his neck, he moaned as pleasure became frustration. Want and need fused leaving him rock hard.
Warm lips brushed over his earlobe. “Still there,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s a guardsman, the pervert.” His self-control—stretched to the limit—almost snapped at the erotic promise of her next words. “Time, perhaps, for a bit more drama?”
They had to stop.
Yet greedy, he caught her mouth once more for a final kiss. “He’s seen as much as I intend to allow,” he whispered several long moments later. “But if you’ll voice an objection to the open curtains, we could provide quite an entertaining performance backstage.”
“Oh?” Her lips curved in a conspiratorial grin.
Ian threw back the covers and sat up, pushing her back onto the mattress. He raised his voice. “On your knees, wife. This corset must go.”
A look of panic crossed her face.
“I’ll only loosen the ties,” he murmured, skimming his palm over its satin surface, his hand stopping beneath her breast. “It’s a wonder you can breathe at all wearing this torture device.”
Turning, she pushed onto her knees to present her back to him. “Sweet torture, I’ve been told,” she said, lifting her hair to provide him better access, “for those who look upon its accomplishments.”
If she were his—he dragged his index finger down the nape of her neck—he would kill any man with the effrontery to talk to her in such a manner. “Play your role,” he grumbled under his breath as his fingers fumbled with her laces. This torment needed to end.
“As you wish.” She smiled coyly over her shoulder and raised her own voice. “Ian! Anyone could walk in at any moment.”
A sharp tug closed the curtains. Dark, gray light engulfed them. Suppressing primal instinct, he dropped her laces, dragged in a deep, steadying breath and moved away.
“Now what?” she breathed.
“On your hands and knees,” he whispered, forcing a mischievous grin onto his face and ignoring the ache in his groin. Humor. That would diffuse the sexual tension that still arced between them. He demonstrated. “Bounce. Rock. Thrash. Gasp and moan with pleasure, for I am a fantastic lover.”
She grinned back. “Such arrogant male pride.” But she followed suit, matching him cry for cry. The ropes beneath the feather mattress creaked, and the wood frame shook as they nearly brought the bed canopy down upon them.
After an acceptable length of time—he wouldn’t have his endurance criticized—Ian groaned loudly. Then whispered under his breath. “Now cry, scream—whatever—but bring it to a fever pitch. Stop abruptly and drag me down onto the bed with you.” And she did so with such enthusiasm that when they collapsed onto the mattress, the guardsman would be forced to report that the couple did indeed enjoy robust marital relations.
A minute later, he peeked from behind the bed curtains. The door to their chamber was firmly closed.
As they lay there, shoulder to shoulder, he smiled broadly, unable to recall the last time he’d enjoyed himself so thoroughly—if, perhaps, incompletely. He turned his head to stare at his wife. Her hair spread across the pillow, her cheeks rosy, her lips swollen. Except for the fact that she still wore her undergarments, Olivia was the very image of a well-bedded bride.
His body thrummed with longing. What would she say if he offered marriage in truth? He looked away. Innocent. Duke’s daughter. Not mine.
But she could be, a contrary and persistent corner of his mind insisted.
“I find it hard to believe,” he began by way of self-reprimand, “that a young woman of your beauty has never been kissed.”
“Oh, but I have now,” Olivia corrected him. “Quite well. I assure you playing the role of your wife is not at all a hardship.”
Ian’s heart gave a great thud. Lower parts of his anatomy were still quite hard, and her voice fairly purred with an invitation to resume their earlier activities. But it would be nothing but an exercise in frustration. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the canopy above him.
“I am rapidly revising my opinion on certain aspects of wedlock,” she continued.
“I can’t offer for your hand,” he began with regret. “Circumstances—”
“Oh, I know,” Olivia cut him off. “By now you’re wanted for treason, and Father would never consent. Yet seeing as how both our reputations are compromised…” She rolled onto her side and slid her hand beneath his open waistcoat, pressing h
er palm to his chest, holding his gaze the entire time.
“Olivia,” he injected warning into his voice, “this is not a harmless diversion.”
“I can feel your heart pound,” she said. Her fingers skimmed downward over his stomach. “The tension in your muscles.” She tugged the linen of his shirt free from his waistband. “And earlier, I felt—”
He caught her wrist before she touched definitive evidence of his body’s enthusiasm for her proposal. “Stop. You deserve a husband, not more scandal.”
She yanked back her hand and huffed. “Lord Rancide offered for my hand—”
“Lord Rancide? The man is—” An ancient, syphilitic rake. “How could your father even consider such a match?” He bristled at the very idea of such a degenerate being allowed to touch her.
“I agree. Much as Lord Rancide made the notion of becoming a young widow appealing, I declined. Father then decided it best that I allow the gossip in London to die down. Hence my proposed destination.”
“Until you made the mistake of pursuing me,” Ian finished. “Let’s hope it’s not a fatal one.”
A sharp reminder of their situation. Of his inability to offer her any kind of future. Save one that threatened to end badly. He had no business thinking anything of her other than to provide for her safety. But to do so, he needed her help.
“You’re right. We ought to focus on the problem at hand.” Olivia slid from the bed, snatching up a shawl. With her corset looser, her hips swayed in a most alluring fashion as she made her way across the room to the washstand. Bravely, she broke through the ice and splashed water over her face.
Ian followed her out into the sub-arctic temperatures that lay beyond the bed curtains, the cold a welcome antidote to his libido. “We need to find a way to escape this castle.”
