Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  “How are we to work together to solve a murder,” she continued, “when we can’t even settle a benign domestic issue? This is never going to work.”

  “Of course it’s not going to work. I propose—”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You’re not going out alone at this time of night in this part of town.”

  “Watch me.” She strode out of the room, and he heard the door creak closed behind her. He had just enough pride to stay where he was. He wasn’t going to chase after her.

  But he had another idea.

  Six

  Sophia stepped into the library and silently closed the French doors behind her. She latched and secured them, though she knew it was scant protection against intruders. She found the lock easy enough to pick.

  She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room. The town house was silent but for the occasional creak and settling. She could hear the tall case clock in the library’s corner ticking quietly, and it soothed her as much as the room’s smell of leather and musk.

  She realized it smelled like Adrian.

  It was after two in the morning, and as easy as it would be to assume no one in the house stirred, she knew that was a mistake. Adrian could be here. Waiting for her.

  She’d left him in the dilapidated building in the East End and found her own way home. He hadn’t been happy when she’d walked away in the middle of their tiff, but he hadn’t come after her, either.

  Not that he would have caught her.

  But if she had been caught, would that have been so bad?

  Yes, she told herself as she stomped through the library. Yes.

  This turn of events, this revelation of her true identity, was a horrible mistake. It was going to change everything. She could already see Adrian was going to behave as a typical man and try to keep her from her work. She expected no less from him or from any man.

  But his attitude would make this investigation difficult. And it would make life difficult. She had the feeling Adrian would not be so easy to avoid from now on.

  She cracked the inner library door, scanned the adjoining music room and, seeing it was clear, stole past the pianoforte and the music stands housing her much-neglected sheet music. She walked silently, used to secretly climbing the dark staircase in the wee hours, knowing which floorboards creaked and which nooks servants might use for late-night rendezvous.

  When she reached the second floor, she paused outside her bedroom door and glanced down the hallway. Adrian’s bedroom was on the opposite side, two doors down.

  She remembered being relieved when, after they married, Adrian had not insisted she take the room adjoining his. Having her room across the hall gave her much more freedom of movement on nights like tonight. Now she saw it gave Adrian equal freedom.

  She was tempted to listen at his door to determine if he’d arrived home yet, but she decided against it. She’d had enough confrontations with her husband tonight. Safer and more practical to slip into her own room, lock the door, and make plans for beginning her investigation tomorrow.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t trust herself, she thought as she slipped the key to her bedroom from her pocket and put it in the keyhole. Nothing would occur if she was standing outside Adrian’s room and he happened to open the door.

  Shirtless.

  Hair tousled.

  The same smoky look in his eyes he’d given her earlier tonight when she’d removed her mantle.

  She opened her bedroom door and checked that the trap she left had not been sprung. It was still full of ink, so she disabled it, closed the door, and leaned her forehead against the hard wood frame. She felt almost breathless remembering Adrian’s gaze on her. He’d acted as though she were stripping bare, when, in reality, underneath the mantle she wore her gown, her shift, her petticoats, and her stockings.

  She hadn’t been the least bit indecent. And yet, she couldn’t remember Adrian ever looking at her like that, even when she had been indecent before him.

  She hadn’t known he had heat like that in him. She hadn’t known it would cause something akin to a volcanic eruption in her. Her belly was still full of tremors and flutters. Now they tickled their way down, settling into a low throbbing ache between her legs.

  She almost groaned aloud before she managed to push the desire away. He was another spy. A competitor. This attraction for him was nothing more than weakness and, like any weakness that might interfere with an assignment, it had to be dismantled and destroyed.

  Now she need have but one thought—to change from these damp, filthy clothes and into something clean and warm. She stepped back from the door and reached for the tie of her mantle. She yanked on the cord once, and then her hands stilled. With effort, she kept them from shaking.

  She wasn’t alone.

  She didn’t know how she knew; it was a whisper of her intuition in her ear. Anyone else would have shaken it off as paranoia, but all of Sophia’s senses snapped to attention.

  Her eyes darted to the trap by the door—a simple string and pulley a child could rig.

  “Simple but effective,” a man’s voice said from behind her.

  Sophia whirled and watched Adrian rise from where he’d been reclining on her bed. The moonlight filtering through her curtains illuminated his face, which, to her annoyance, was free of ink. “Obviously not effective enough, my lord.” Another glance at the trap confirmed the ink that should have sprayed all over any intruder was still intact and untouched.

  Damn it!

  Adrian spread his hands. He had already changed into a clean shirt and breeches. How had he made it back so quickly? “It’s a bit amateurish. Easy to circumnavigate.”

  “Apparently.” Her hands were still at her throat, and she realized now they were clutching her mantle close to her skin. She did not think it wise to remove the outer garment with Adrian in her bedroom, so near to her bed, but she could see he was watching her—his eyes alert for any sign of weakness. If she continued to clutch the mantle to her throat, he was going to find what he sought.

  She forced her stiff fingers to tug the mantle’s cords again then allowed the garment to slip from her shoulders. She would have turned away from him, but she didn’t trust him enough. As the heavy garment slid off, revealing her evening gown, she realized how seductive the gesture probably appeared.

  She hadn’t meant it to be so, but Adrian’s eyes grew dark. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this room,” he said, voice low and husky. Her throat went dry, and she tried to ignore the blood pounding through her veins. Suddenly, she was too warm, scorched by Adrian’s hot gaze.

  “A long time,” she agreed, fumbling with the mantle. “Um, eleven months, two weeks, and four days.” She dropped the mantle. “Or something like that,” she added, knowing it was too late, knowing she had given herself away.

  Adrian tensed then moved closer. “I had no idea you were counting.”

  She shook her head, angry at herself and angry at him. She supposed he was laughing at her now, imagining her to be some pathetic, needy woman. In the months since their last encounter, he had probably bedded every barmaid from London to Rome, while she had been faithful to him.

  The more fool she, to honor marriage vows that were little more than lies.

  “I’m good with numbers,” she said flippantly. “I remember dates and times whether I want to or not.”

  She bent to retrieve her mantle, and he moved closer. She could feel the heat of his body and her own body tingled in response to Adrian’s nearness. She rose slowly, taking the time to breathe deeply. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed now, my lord.”

  “Oh, really?” He raised a brow.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Alone.”

  “Ah. That might have to wait. I have several matters I’d like to discuss with you, not the least of which is your running off tonight and—”

  She raised a hand to silence him. “I don’t want to discuss that or
anything else tonight.” She moved past him on the pretense of shaking out her mantle. In truth, she needed space so she could catch her breath and form a coherent thought. She tossed the mantle over a mahogany armchair upholstered in pale lavender and ivory silk. Wonderful. Now the chair’s upholstery would need to be cleaned, as well. She sighed. Taking a moment to glance about the room, she tried to see it as he might: the lilac walls, the lavender coverlet and curtains, the silver knobs and accents. The violets in a pretty pot on the windowsill—at least she’d succeeded in growing something.

  “I-I don’t want to argue with you,” she said, keeping her face averted. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

  It was true. She was weary in body and spirit. She didn’t think she was up to yet another battle of words and will.

  She felt Adrian’s solid presence behind her, his heat tickling her back. “Then let’s not fight.”

  His fingers traced a lazy path down the back of her neck, and she couldn’t stop a delicious shiver from zinging through her body. Lord, but his hands were so warm. She hadn’t realized she was cold until he’d touched her. Then again, his touch had always been a revelation to her.

  She was a confident, happy, independent woman. She had more money than she needed, servants to cater to her, and she was one of the best operatives in England.

  But whenever Adrian touched her, her cloak of lies was ripped away. She was lonely; she was cold; she was desperate for affection—no, desperate for Adrian’s affection.

  Much as she denied it, even to herself, her husband was a glaring chink in her armor. When Adrian touched her, she forgot how much her work mattered to her. She forgot she was supposed to be happy and independent. She forgot everything but the need to turn into him, to embrace him and give herself to him.

  Of course, she’d never allowed herself to do it. To give herself to him would make her vulnerable—very well, more vulnerable than she already was to him. King and country demanded she keep her identity secret, even from those closest to her.

  Her own heart demanded it as well. She couldn’t afford to forget Henry. Her poor brother had paid the price for his imprudence. Even now, years after his murder, a lump rose in her throat when she thought of him. She’d needed his advice countless times over the years, needed his friendship. Instead, she’d struggled through the darkest times alone.

  She looked at Adrian. Even in their most intimate moments, her secrets and walls kept her isolated from him. But keeping Adrian at a distance during their infrequent episodes of lovemaking had been a struggle that hadn’t diminished even after years of marriage.

  And now, now she stood here, after a night when one of her deepest secrets had been laid bare to him, and tried to think why she should keep fighting him.

  His touch was light and feathery—playful—but she knew from experience it could also be intense and demanding. She knew from experience she liked it intense and demanding.

  His fingers breezed along her neck, caressing her chin and moving down her collarbone. She couldn’t stop her eyelids from fluttering closed. Her head wanted to loll back, to find respite against his broad shoulder, but she resisted the impulse.

  She knew she should also tell him to stop touching her, to stop the inevitable path of his fingers down her bodice, but her lips were paralyzed. Her body was paralyzed by his fingertips—those tender, teasing, slightly roughened fingertips.

  She shuddered.

  “Do you want this?” His voice rasped in her ear like a cat’s tongue against silky fur. “Do you want me?”

  She wanted to say no, to deny all she was feeling, but her body seemed disconnected from her mind. No, that wasn’t quite true. Her flesh was blatantly disregarding her brain’s better judgment.

  Adrian’s fingers dipped into her bodice to brush lightly over the swells of her breasts. She felt her flesh heat in response, and her legs wobbled.

  “Tell me you want me, Sophia.”

  Her name. It sounded like a foreign language on his tongue. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him use it in that seductive tone.

  “Tell me,” he whispered, his hand cupping her breast. His touch was becoming more persuasive, more compelling. She knew she wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.

  “I-I can’t,” she said, voice strained and urgent. Voice mirroring what her body was experiencing.

  “Three words,” he said. His breath tickled her neck, sending new shivers of pleasure rippling through her. “Three words, and you can have what you want.”

  Before she could concede or protest, the hand that had been on her back went to work. He loosened several fastenings at the back of her dress so it slipped down her shoulders. The bodice gaped, and he pushed it down. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight and the banked fire, and still the thin material of her chemise and stays seemed scant protection against the power of his gaze.

  She couldn’t even see him, and yet she could feel his eyes on her. She heard his soft intake of breath as he freed one breast from the confines of her stays. His finger brushed over her nipple, and Sophia couldn’t suppress a tiny moan.

  That was all it took. Whatever control Adrian had been exercising seemed to shatter. Roughly, he spun her around in his arms. She barely had time to find her balance before his lips were on hers. His tongue invaded her mouth while his hands plundered her body.

  And she loved it. She reveled in it.

  She wanted more.

  His hands had freed both her breasts now, and her nipples were so hard they throbbed. She felt his thumb brush over one, and she gasped into his mouth. His response was to pull her close, cradling his erection against her belly.

  He was hard. Rock hard, and he wanted her to know.

  She moved her hips, giving him the response he wanted. His reaction was a low growl. He pulled away, and when he looked down at her, his eyes were liquid silver in the darkness. His face was a plane of light and shadow, and a wicked smile played on his lips.

  She opened her mouth, tried to speak, to say no. Her mind was still screaming at her to tell him no, to stop this plunge into madness. Instead, she stepped back slightly and arched her back, offering herself to him.

  Lord, what was she thinking? Why was she behaving so recklessly? She should be pushing him away. But when his hands circled her waist and he lowered his mouth to her breasts, all she could do was whimper with pleasure.

  His tongue stroked her, slicked over her sensitive skin, teasing her nipples until they ached with pleasure. He attended to one and then the other, his skillful fingers—he’d always had such skillful fingers—ministering to that ache. And just when she knew she couldn’t take any more, his lips brought her to new heights. He took one nipple into his mouth and sucked.

  Sophia cried out at the pleasure slamming through her. She had known it would be like this. Had known when she finally surrendered to him there would be no going back.

  And still her mind screamed warnings. She knew where this could lead. She knew the heartbreak of that empty cradle. Sophia tried to heed the warnings, but the feel of Adrian’s lips on her was too much. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only experience.

  And then he claimed her mouth again, and she tasted on his lips the orange-scented soap she used. “I want you,” he said between kisses. “And I know you want me, too.”

  She shook her head, her mind making a last bid for restraint. “I don’t. We can’t.”

  “Yes, we can, Sophia,” Adrian said. “We should.”

  “No, we sh—” she began, but she was having trouble concentrating. His lips were nuzzling her neck, and she couldn’t seem to form the words she wanted.

  “I’m your husband,” he murmured, his hands pulling her close so she could feel that glorious erection against her belly again. “Trust me. Obey me. Kiss—”

  But it was too late. Sophia’s spine went rigid, and she pushed back.

  Away from him.

  With a quick yank, she covered herself, holding the
silk material of her gown over her breasts.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Get out,” she spat. “Get out now.”

  He stared at her, appearing perplexed. Ha! She should have guessed he’d be an excellent actor.

  “Sophia.” He reached for her, but she stepped out of his grasp. “What’s wrong? I only wanted—”

  “To control me? To bend me to your will? To take my place in the Barbican group?”

  Now his expression hardened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t.” She backed up again, wanting to put as much space between them as possible. As though physical space would diminish the pain lancing through her at his betrayal. “‘I’m your husband,’” she mimicked him. “‘Obey me.’ Next you’ll be telling me to stay home while you steal my position in the Barbican group, just like you stole Ducos.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I didn’t steal Ducos from you, and I wasn’t going to tell you to stay home.”

  She raised a brow.

  “All right.” He spread his arms. “I wasn’t going to tell you that right now. I honestly wasn’t thinking of anything other than…”

  “Getting me into bed?”

  He was silent.

  “And then what? Lure me into some warm cocoon of lovemaking, and when you’d done your best to make me think I was half in love with you, you’d wheedle a promise from me to stay away from the case?”

  She saw a quick flicker of something flit across his face—something akin to anger—and then it was gone. “That’s what you think of me?” His voice was even, no note of accusation, but she felt it all the same.

  Was it possible she’d been wrong about his intentions? He hadn’t planned to use their lovemaking against her?

  She shook her head, shook her doubt off. It didn’t matter. She should never have trusted him anyway. It seemed that was a mistake she was doomed to repeat, even though she knew the consequences: trust someone, and they inevitably betrayed you. Look at what had happened to Henry! She clenched her fists, fighting the pain.