Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  Adrian was no different. In fact, he had more reason to betray her than most. He wanted that position in the Barbican group as much as she.

  And yet, he was her husband. She wished she could trust him, wished she could believe there had been no strategy behind his seduction.

  And if she believed that, then she deserved to be betrayed by him.

  It was time she saw him as the threat he was. Her feelings for him made her vulnerable, which meant she had to keep him at bay. If he ever realized the depth of her desire for him, there was no question he would use it to his advantage. He could end her career and destroy her heart in one swift blow.

  “What I think of you is of no consequence,” Sophia finally replied. “We’re competitors. I think it best we associate as little as possible.” She turned away from him and adjusted her clothing again. She couldn’t fasten and secure the various layers and undergarments without the aid of her maid, but she managed to cover herself securely. Then she lit the candles on her dresser and, ignoring Adrian, began to sort through her brushes as though preparing for her nightly toilette.

  After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder, the look on her face intentionally impatient. “Was there something else?”

  He’d crossed his arms over his chest, and the glint in his eyes could only be described as fierce. Her heart stuttered when she saw that look, but she kept her expression scornful.

  “I’m not a servant to be dismissed, Sophia.”

  “Please don’t refer to me so intimately.”

  “Oh, I’m going to do more than that.” He took a step closer, into the light of the candles, and she took a shaky breath. Yes, he was good and angry now. She could see that. But better he was angry than aroused. Anger she could deal with.

  “You want things to go back to the way they were? Me on one side of the house, you on the other?”

  “Splendid proposal, my lord. I recommend we institute it immediately.”

  “Why so eager to draw the battle lines, Sophia?” He moved closer.

  “I told you not to—”

  “What are you afraid of?” He was so close now she could have kissed him with very little effort.

  She turned her head away. “Don’t flatter yourself. You don’t frighten me.”

  “Good, because while you may want to keep me at arm’s length, I subscribe to a different theory—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

  “I see.” She was having trouble breathing again. The way he was looking at her was not at all congruous with his tone. His eyes were burning into her, all but daring her to resist touching him again. “I see,” she said again, hating the breathlessness in her voice.

  “I doubt it, but you will. I’m going to keep you close, Sophia.” He reached out and stroked a lock of her loose hair. Wrapping it around his finger, he tugged gently, pulling her a whisper from his lips. “So close you’ll think we’re the same person. We’ll eat together, sleep together, breathe together. You’re mine. Again. Always.”

  Seven

  Adrian watched Sophia’s dark eyes go darker yet. He could tell his nearness affected her. She wanted him. Badly.

  Gently she lifted one arm and cupped the back of his neck. A simple gesture, and yet, he could feel himself growing hard all over again. Another kiss, another one of those urgent moans from her lips, and he would be unable to stop himself from laying her down on that bed and plunging into her.

  She leaned close, her cheek against his, her lips touching his ear. “Get. Out. Now.”

  Not exactly the words he’d been longing to hear. She pushed away from him, which wasn’t exactly the response he’d been yearning for, either.

  “You don’t like my proposal?” he said, talking to her back as she moved away from him. “Abandon this case. Then I won’t have to worry about you.”

  She spun to face him. “Worry about me?” She closed her eyes in what appeared to be disgust. “The only thing you need worry about is that position in the Barbican group, because I’m not giving it up.”

  Damn it. Why the hell did she have to be so unreasonable? And why did she have to be so damn tempting? Even now, when he needed all his faculties to argue with her, he couldn’t stop thinking how to get her into bed.

  He gripped the back of her small desk chair, a delicate three-legged armchair with claw feet. If he sat in it, he’d probably flatten it. “Sophia, listen to logic.”

  She raised a brow—never a good sign from a woman.

  “No, never mind logic. Listen to your husband. I don’t want you involved in this case. In any cases from now on. It’s not safe. Had I known you were involved before, I would have put an end to it.”

  “Oh, really? You think you have that authority?”

  “I am your husband.”

  “And I married you only because I couldn’t move up in the ranks otherwise. I was an operative before you knew me. I worked for the Foreign Office long before I met you.”

  He stared at her. He didn’t believe it. Her father would never have permitted it.

  “My father not only allowed it—that’s what you were thinking, was it not?—he encouraged me.”

  “But how—?”

  “You’ve heard of the Black Baron?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Of course. It makes for a good story. A myth, nothing more.”

  “No. My father was the Black Baron.”

  Adrian almost snorted, but something in her eyes made him swallow the sound. Peter Carlisle, Baron Carlisle, was the Black Baron? He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why? Because he doesn’t look the part?”

  Adrian didn’t like to admit it, but that was a large component of his reasoning. Sophia’s father was a small, thin, unassuming man. He wore spectacles and disappeared into his library whenever company called. Soft-spoken, the baron avoided confrontation of any kind. Peter Carlisle was the furthest thing from a spy that Adrian could imagine. “It’s not possible,” Adrian said finally.

  “Just like it’s not possible that I was in London’s East End tonight. That I beat you in combat—”

  “You didn’t beat me.”

  “Ask yourself how I know Lord Liverpool so well. Ask yourself how I became involved in the Barbican group.”

  Damn it! Everything she said made sense, and he was acting like an amateur who judged on appearance alone. But if what she said was true, she’d been raised by one of the best spies England had to offer. Was spying a family business for her? Exactly how long had she been an operative?

  “Since I was twelve,” she answered.

  He scowled at her. “Stop doing that. Stop reading my mind.”

  She gave a dainty shrug. “I can’t help it. It’s one of my many talents.”

  “If I didn’t want you to know what I was thinking, you wouldn’t.”

  She didn’t argue.

  How could she? After all, for five years now, she’d known nothing of his life as Agent Wolf.

  And he’d known nothing of her life as Agent…? What was her code name? Did Melbourne know of her? Adrian knew there were some agents whose identities were secret, even from the secretary.

  Adrian suddenly felt bone-weary. Pushing the chair aside, he made his way to her bed and sat, head in his hands. The spot behind his eyes throbbed. All this new information, all of these revelations were too much.

  “You may retire to your own room at any time,” Sophia said, voice full of ice.

  Adrian ignored her. He’d leave when he was good and ready, and that wasn’t going to be before he’d accomplished at least one of his objectives: end her career or get her naked and into bed with him.

  An image of his hands cupping her ripe breasts flashed in his mind, and his mouth went dry. He clenched his hands.

  Pull yourself together, Adrian.

  First things first: make her forget about pursuing this position in the Barbican group.

  He looked up at her, tried not to notice how swollen her lips were from his
earlier kisses, tried not to notice the flush on her cheeks or the way her hair fell over one shoulder in chestnut curls made fiery by light from the hearth. She looked back at him, and he wished he hadn’t noticed the stubbornness in those chocolate eyes. This was not going to be easy.

  Perhaps if he convinced her to work with him…

  He glanced down again to hide a smile. Yes, if he convinced her to work with him, then he could give her some safe, time-consuming work, and he could take the dangerous part. He’d solve the case before she even had a chance to realize what happened.

  And if that didn’t work—well, there was always Plan B.

  Adrian groaned inwardly. He really hoped he didn’t have to use Plan B. He glanced up at her. “You want me to leave?”

  She raised a brow in that cheeky way he was beginning to like.

  “Then say you won’t pursue Liverpool’s investigation.”

  She sighed. “You’re wasting your time.”

  He pretended to acquiesce. “Fine. Then say you’ll work with me.”

  She stared at him, openmouthed, and Adrian knew he’d surprised her. Good. He’d have to keep her guessing at his every move.

  She was shaking her head. “That won’t work. There’s only one position in the group.”

  “So we work together on the initial investigation and part ways when it comes to the actual apprehension. Best man—er, operative—wins.”

  “I prefer to work alone.”

  So did he. “Rubbish. What is it people always say? Two heads are better than one?”

  Adrian stood and moved closer to her, a tactic designed to rattle her. It had the added benefit of putting him in close enough proximity to catch her citrus scent. God, he hoped she agreed soon, so he could move on to his second objective. Her bed looked extremely inviting.

  “Not when one of the heads is yours. I don’t like arrogant men.”

  “And I don’t like stubborn women, but I think we could help each other.”

  She let out a bark of laughter. “And how exactly can you help me, Lord Smythe?”

  “You’re forgetting I was the man who snatched Ducos from under your nose. Obviously I have some talent.”

  He could tell by the way she narrowed her eyes he’d snagged her interest. The Ducos affair still bothered her.

  Good, he could use that to his advantage. “Aren’t you wondering how I knew where to find Ducos when everyone else, including the top echelons of the Barbican, was certain he’d returned to France?”

  “I didn’t think he’d returned to France.”

  Adrian inclined his head. “See, already we think alike.”

  She couldn’t stop a smile then. He knew he was being a bit audacious, but he could also tell she liked it.

  “Very well. If we think so much alike, if we’re the perfect team—as you want me to believe—then tell me how you knew where to find Ducos that night.”

  “Good question.” And it was, but his answer might reveal more than he wanted. On the other hand, caution hadn’t worked for him thus far. Perhaps he ought to try disclosure. He leaned one shoulder against the wall, effectively cornering her. She didn’t move away, but Adrian felt her tense at his nearness.

  “Simple answer,” he said. “I put myself in Ducos’s boots. I read every letter from his hand we’d intercepted. I talked extensively with those who had come into contact with him. I made a detailed chart of every sighting we’d had of him for the past six weeks, and I logged each on a map. Then I compiled all the evidence, and the conclusion was obvious.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes. Ducos had no reason to return to France. He’d planted the rumor because he knew we were getting close to him, and he wanted to throw us off the scent. It almost worked.”

  She nodded, evidently impressed by his thorough, detailed analysis. “So, basically, you were lucky.”

  Adrian gaped at her. “Lucky?”

  “Yes. You don’t really believe in all that mapping and charting, do you? You had a feeling, and you followed it.”

  “A feeling.” He clenched one fist and then relaxed it. “Is that how you knew Ducos hadn’t left for Paris? A feeling?” Now who was the lucky one, eh?

  “No, I knew Ducos hadn’t left for Paris the same way I knew Turnbull was hiding in Amsterdam.” She must have seen his eyes widen at the name of the infamous double agent, because she added, “Yes, it was I who captured him, and I didn’t need a map or a chart. I used a spy’s true weapon—instinct.”

  Adrian barked out a laugh. “So basically, you were lucky. You had a feeling.”

  She gave him a long, disapproving look. “I didn’t have a feeling. I used instinct.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Instinct is a skill, sharpened and honed. Instinct is what tells you to ask an informer one more question. It’s what tells you to duck during a fight to avoid a blow. It’s what led me to Ducos.”

  “Preparation is what tells an agent the questions to ask an informer, practice tells him to duck, and luck is what led you to Ducos.” He leaned in close to speak the last few words, close enough to see the sprinkle of freckles on her nose. They were light, almost invisible on her otherwise porcelain complexion.

  “Are you saying you never think on your feet?”

  He shrugged. “Rarely necessary. I always have a plan.”

  “But what do you do, sir, when you encounter a situation for which you have no plan?”

  He frowned. “Never happens. I have a plan for every contingency.”

  She shook her head. “Impossible.”

  “Not impossible. Effective. It worked with Ducos, and it will work to capture Jenkinson’s killer.”

  “That I would like to see.”

  Adrian knew an opportunity when it arose. “Be my guest, but I must say you are not an ideal partner. I need someone who can strategize and plan. Someone with an analytical mind. That’s obviously not you.” And yet he intended to keep her busy—and out of danger—analyzing maps and letters and anything else he could get his hands on that related to Jenkinson. She might not catch Jenkinson’s assailant, but he’d teach her something about strategy and analysis.

  She’d probably end up thanking him.

  “Capturing Jenkinson’s killer will require intuition and quick thinking. I need a partner who is flexible and dependable. That, sir, is obviously not you.”

  “Would you like me to prove you wrong?”

  “I can think of no better amusement than to watch you try.”

  “Good, then it’s settled. We meet first thing in the morning to discuss strategy.”

  She shook her head. “We meet first thing in the morning and see where our intuition leads us.”

  He gave her a tight smile then reached out and wrapped one of her curls around his finger. “In the meantime, there are other matters I’d like to settle.”

  She raised a brow. “And what might those be?”

  He leaned in to kiss her, but she stepped back. He followed, and she moved just out of his reach again. He frowned. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “And I’m not playing a game, my lord. I asked you to leave.”

  He scowled, anger churning inside him. He knew she wanted him, damn it. Why was she refusing? Was he so repulsive? Did she feel nothing for him? “I’m not leaving.”

  “Fine.” She scooped up her mantle. “Then I will.” She made to sweep past him, but he caught her arm.

  He felt her stiffen and instantly released her. Good God. Even his touch repulsed her. “I’ll go. You’ve made it clear my advances are distasteful.” He turned, walked to the door.

  “Adrian.”

  He stopped, hand on the handle. She never used his name. Never.

  “Your advances… you aren’t distasteful. I just—I can’t do it all again.” Her voice wavered, the first sign of emotion she’d shown.

  He looked at her. She was staring at him, fists clenched.

  “Do it all again? What does that mean?”
He’d never even known her before. Tonight felt like a new beginning.

  She frowned at him, the gesture indicating he should have known what she referred to. “The pregnancies,” she said, her voice wavering. “The losses. I can’t go through that again.”

  He wanted to go to her, then. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, cradle her. He wanted, more than anything, to take away the pain he saw in her eyes. He hadn’t been able to do it at the time. He’d felt inept and incompetent. He’d taken assignments instead of staying with her, grieving with her. He’d thought she’d do better without him near. But he could see now she’d been more hurt by the losses than she had let him, perhaps anyone, see.

  “Sophia, I—” But what could he say? He didn’t know what to say. It won’t happen again? But how could he know that? It had happened three times. And then she’d shut her door to him.

  And tonight he hadn’t been thinking about the consequences of their lovemaking. He just wanted her. She was his wife. He was entitled to want her. But now he saw it wasn’t so simple, not for either of them.

  He thought of Cordelia’s congratulations. “Then I take it you’re not…?”

  “No.” She closed her eyes. “Cordelia is a fool.”

  “Yes.” He moved closer to her, but the look in her eyes warned him not to try and touch her. “I know the past was… painful.” God, he sounded like an idiot. How did one have a conversation like this? He was no good at it. Still, he must stumble forward. “But we don’t know what the future holds. Things might be different next time.” He wanted to be a father, the kind of father he’d never had. “I’d like a child.”

  “And you think I don’t? You think I didn’t want those children with every fiber of my being? You think I didn’t take every conceivable precaution when I suspected there was even the slightest possibility I could be with child?” Her voice rose, and tears sparkled on her lashes, but she shook her head, swiped at her eyes, and swallowed. “Perhaps we’re not meant to be parents. Lord knows we’re no good at being husband and wife. How much worse would we be at raising children?”

  He sighed. Should he agree? Argue? Remain silent?

  He wanted to say he thought she’d be a wonderful mother. She was so patient. She could sit through an entire opera and appear interested. And she was thoughtful. Somehow she knew all the servants’ birthdays and remembered when he’d be home for dinner and had Cook prepare his favorite meals. She took care of everything and everyone. She’d dote on a child. But would she want to hear such words? Thankfully, she spoke again.