My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  “Well done, Rebecca.” Damian applauded her efforts and beamed, as would a proud sibling. “You are a fast learner.”

  “That was magnificent,” exclaimed Caroline.

  “Hoisted with his own petard,” Sabrina said with a wink. “You are simply stupendous.”

  Cara and Lance halted their match.

  “Could you teach me how to do that?” the elder Douglas asked.

  “That will not be necessary.” Lance pressed a hand to his left breast and looked on Cara. “I shall always be your champion.”

  Rebecca cursed the heat of a blush as she basked in their praise. Her heart swelled with emotion and, for the first time, she considered herself a member of the group. For a scarce second, she truly belonged.

  “May I get off the floor, now?”

  Rebecca surveyed the spoils of victory. “But you have not yet surrendered.”

  Propped on his elbows, Dirk cocked his head and cast her a lopsided grin. “I concede, my lady.”

  “And what do you concede?”

  “What do you want?”

  You.

  Her thoughts raced in all directions, but she could not be so bold in mixed company. “Have I your word that you will honor my request?”

  “You have my word as a gentleman, I will honor your request.”

  “Then I shall reserve my demand for a later date.” And a more opportune moment. He could not have known it, but the stuffy noble had just landed himself in her lap.

  A commotion in the hallway had her glancing toward the main doors. Suddenly, Lord Lockwood burst into the ballroom.

  “Caroline!”

  “Uh-oh.” The countess skittered behind her brother.

  “Coward,” Blake said as she grasped his shoulders.

  “The earl appears to be angry,” Rebecca said to Dirk, who stood at her side.

  “Perhaps he is upset because his wife is increasing with their firstborn.” Dirk chuckled. “Which seems reasonable to me.”

  While the newlyweds argued, she studied her partner’s profile. As Trevor fretted for his bride’s health, Rebecca was certain Dirk worried about her safety. She would wager her dowry that, just like the soon-to-be father, the serious viscount would protect and defend his family.

  And he would do the same for an agent of the Crown.

  But could he ever see her as something more than a spy?

  “What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Trevor inquired with a hint of panic.

  “We were fencing.” Caroline averted her gaze and bit her lip. “I left a missive with the butler.”

  “Yes, I know. Roberts stated you had gone to tea at Elliott House.” Trevor planted hands on hips. “I happen to know that tea at Elliott House has nothing to do with the consumption of hot liquids and scones. For the love of Christ, Caroline, you are with child.”

  “Should we be hearing this?” Rebecca whispered to Dirk. “It seems a tad personal.”

  “What does it matter?” he replied. “We are family.”

  “I refuse to be confined for nine months while you come and go as you please!” Caroline stomped a foot.

  “There is nothing to worry about,” the earl explained, with a pained expression, to the group. “Dr. Handley said she might be a little moody.”

  Rebecca stifled a snort of laughter as five powerful men shuffled their feet and stared at the ceiling. None appeared inclined to help the expectant father.

  “Darling, I am only trying to care for you and the babe.” Trevor placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Perhaps I should spend more evenings at home.”

  “Ho-hum.” Caroline yawned. “What does it matter to me?”

  “Are you tired, sweet?” Trevor pressed a kiss to her temple. “What say we go home and take a nap?”

  “A nap?” The lovely young countess seemed to soften in an instant, and her cheeks flushed a charming pink as she accepted her husband’s proffered escort. “Well, if you insist. I do need my rest.”

  Rebecca stared in fascination as the lovebirds all but ran for the exit. “Why do I get the feeling their idea of an afternoon doze has nothing to do with sleep?”

  With a shake of his head, Dirk chuckled. “At the pace those two have set, I would not be surprised if Caroline gives birth to twins.”

  Grinning, her heart light, Rebecca imagined how it would be to have someone watching over her with such doting affection and tender love. Never had she envisioned herself a wife and mother. Never had she considered having a family. But at that very second, Rebecca would give anything to occupy Caroline’s slippers.

  Only, in her dream, Dirk was her ideal mate.

  But how could one catch a husband while attempting to trap a traitor?

  #

  Inauspicious specters of doom and gloom, their malevolent, twisted faces covered in blood, followed her, nipping at her heels, clawing at her flesh. No matter how fast or far she ran the sinister emissaries of the underworld, haunting and taunting, gave chase. And she was cold, so very cold.

  Rebecca bolted upright in bed.

  She glanced at the windows, then toward the door. After a few tense minutes, she gathered her wits and realized she had suffered another nightmare. Desolation and despair settled deep in her chest, as somewhere in the cavernous mansion a clock signaled the hour. It was two in the morning, and she was unharmed and safely ensconced in her chamber at Randolph House.

  Earlier, with a curiously dour Dirk, she had passed the evening at yet another garish fete epitomizing the gross opulence that was the Season. Never had Rebecca danced so many unproductive waltzes. With nary a traitor in sight, she was restless, frustrated, and in need of something to soothe her frayed nerves. Tossing the covers aside, she dangled her legs over the edge of the mattress and eased her feet into her slippers. In the dark, she located her robe, draped it across her shoulders, and belted it tight at her waist.

  Brandy was her elixir of choice as Rebecca stepped into the hallway without the slightest sound. With the practice and expertise born of on-the-job training, she tiptoed down the hall and through the magnificent gallery. The painted images of Dirk’s ancestors seemed to trail her movement, and she dipped her chin in tacit salute.

  Quickly, she descended the grand staircase and veered in the direction of a full suit of armor occupying a corner in the foyer. Plush carpet cushioned her footfalls, and soon she stood at the entrance to Dirk’s study. With a quick check of the hallway, she palmed the knob. As she eased open the door, a wave of gold light gave her pause.

  Inside, a fire burned in the hearth, and the room was warm and inviting. In an overstuffed chair, Dirk sat with his nose in a book. The creak of a hinge announced her presence.

  The viscount lifted his head. “Becca? What are you doing up at this hour?”

  Seconds ticked past as she pondered her predicament.

  Why in bloody hell had she ventured beyond the sanctuary of her chamber?

  “I could not sleep.” Clutching the folds of her robe, an immodest garment that left little to the imagination, she hugged herself. “I thought perhaps a brandy might help.”

  “Ah.” Dirk closed the book and deposited it on a side table. “Brandy, we have.”

  “If it is not too much trouble.” Like a giddy schoolgirl, she remained rooted to the floor and cursed the embarrassment searing her cheeks. “And I do not wish to intrude.”

  “None at all.” Dirk stood and crossed the study. He lifted a crystal decanter from a silver tray and poured two glasses of the amber intoxicant. “And you are never an intrusion.”

  As she shivered in her night rail, though she was not cold, Rebecca wondered how he could be so calm under the circumstances.

  Could he not see her?

  Was he not affected by her state of undress?

  Dirk neared and presented the beverage. “Here you are.”

  His hand shook.

  In that instant, everything changed.

  A surge of confidence bolstered her resolve, d
etermination formed an invisible shield, and feminine wiles functioned as her weapon. Hers was a script engraved in her memory, as the cocksure L’araignee emerged from within and charged the field with familiar derring-do.

  “My lord, I believe you are in my debt.” The veteran spy accepted the offering and sipped the liquid courage--not that she needed it.

  The stoic noble blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you not recall our fencing match?” With a roll of her shoulders, she strolled to the hearth. “You promised to honor my request, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  Anticipation licked at her senses, and fire danced a slow, sultry waltz in her veins. On occasions too numerous to count she played the provocative game of cat and mouse as an agent. But this was no game. And while the underworld of espionage had always determined her quarry, tonight, the choice was hers. After all, was not seduction a prelude to love and marriage?

  “Are you prepared to pay the ferryman?”

  “Aye.” He cleared his throat. “What would you ask of me?”

  L’araignee faced her prey and smiled. “I should like, very much, to take my brandy in your lap.”

  Poor Dirk choked violently.

  She stepped forward. “You promised.”

  He retreated. “Becca, that is not--”

  “You gave your word.” She backed him in a circle about the chair in question. “Have you no honor?”

  With a mighty frown, Dirk halted. “Sir Ross does not want you distracted.”

  “What?” She drew up short. “Is that what he discussed with you in private?”

  “Aye.” He nodded once. “Sir Ross believes we should avoid situations that might induce an attachment.”

  Daggers to the heart with frightful precision.

  “And what about you?” Unaccustomed to rejection, because she always snared her man, the secret agent faltered, and disappointment weighed heavy. “Is that what you truly wish?”

  He downed the brandy in a single gulp and pursed his lips. “I refuse to compromise your safety.”

  “Does that mean you will not compromise me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  With care, so as not to spook her prospective mount, L’araignee inched close. “Dirk, I want you.”

  #

  I want you.

  The short but lethal refrain echoed in his brain. Set apart, they were three simple words, but taken together, as a whole, their meaning was anything but simple.

  Without a word, Dirk took Rebecca’s glass from her grasp, deposited both crystal balloons on his desk, and then reached for her. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he hugged her tight.

  “There is so much at stake.” He stared at the ceiling as he held the beautiful operative in a protective embrace. Her confession, achingly sweet and freely bestowed, threatened to breach the limits of his self-restraint.

  “I know,” she responded with a squeeze. “But I cannot help myself. No man has ever affected me thus. Can you not comprehend my predicament? Is it not the same with you? Do you not want me?”

  The woman would be the death of him.

  How he wanted to lie, but for Dirk, with her, nothing would do but the unvarnished truth. “Aye, I want you.”

  She shuffled her feet and lifted her head. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Before he could reply, Rebecca framed his cheeks and kissed him.

  Dirk had not known he had been praying for her to come through his door, until that moment. It was wrong, he knew it, and he cared not. Despite his attempts at self-reproach and admonishment concerning the incident in the Netherton’s orangery, and a well-composed mental pledge not to repeat the mistake, the enchanting spy evaded his defenses and scored a direct hit in his loins.

  To hell with honor and duty.

  In less than a second, he swept her into his arms, sank into the chair, and positioned her in his lap, just as she had demanded. To her credit, the sly member of the Corps never allowed a hairsbreadth of distance between their lips, even as she shifted her knees to either side of his hips, and he drank, as a parched man dying of thirst, from the luscious enclave of her mouth.

  Pulse points blazed to life, and torrid lust roared through his veins. A raging erection tested the durability of his breeches and his sanity. Dirk trailed the pearls of her spine with his fingertips, and then rested his palms on the twin swells of her derriere. A subtle tensing of her thighs signaled the start of a torturous dance.

  With something between a sob and a sigh, he said, “Becca.”

  Unlike the shy debutantes of English society, with their restrained mannerisms and refined deportment, Rebecca moved as swift and dangerous as a jungle cat, and nothing escaped her caresses. In contrast with the stifled passion of a highborn maiden, she was ripe and juicy as a succulent pomegranate. And although she dressed in the silk and lace of a proper noblewoman, she was no less aggressive than a rake. Hers was an enticing combination.

  With his fingers, Dirk walked a naughty path beneath her robe. His first contact with the tantalizing curls at the juncture of her thighs earned him an erotic, feminine moan. As she suckled his tongue, she thrust her hips, and his world rocked. How he yearned to peel the flimsy nightgown from her body, spread her atop his desk, and fill her. The urge to lose himself inside her honey walls, to taste the delights she freely offered, tempted him beyond any delectable confection he had ever before sampled.

  Had he wanted her?

  Desperately.

  Painfully.

  Unequivocally--yes.

  Through his wool breeches, Rebecca teased his tumescence, and he shuddered. Again and again, she spurred his arousal, summoned the beast. Breaking their kiss, she grasped his wrist and flicked her little pink tongue to the flesh at the inside of his thumb, then brazenly tickled the length of his finger. The implication was unmistakable.

  Dirk almost spilt his seed.

  Through a haze of desire, a warning rang in his ears.

  And then it hit him.

  Reality struck him in the face as a bucket of cold water.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind an indisputable truth deflated his passion and something else.

  “Stop,” he said with a flinch.

  “What is it?” Rebecca asked. “What is wrong?”

  “We should not be doing this.” He withdrew his hand, moist with the proof of her desire, from between her legs. “If Sir Ross--”

  “Sir Ross can go to the devil.” The operative inclined her head. “And he is not the reason you are rejecting me.”

  “I am not rejecting you, Becca.” Of course, he was, and the reason left his senses reeling and his shame reaching impressive heights. “I am merely suggesting we forestall exploring whatever we have begun until the villain is caught and our mission complete.”

  The agent searched his eyes, and he feared she might discern the cause of his behavior.

  “You make it sound so methodical, as if emotions can be placed on a schedule.” She slid from his lap and narrowed her stare. “What will happen to us when this is over?”

  “It is late, and we must prepare for another ball.” Dirk stood and sidestepped the spy and her perplexing query. “You should return to your chambers--now.”

  Save the ticking of the mantel clock, the room grew silent as a tomb.

  “I see.” The pain in her expression cut to his core as Rebecca clutched the folds of her robe. “I bid you a pleasant rest, my lord.”

  “And I bid you the same, my lady.” He bowed and averted his gaze.

  When a definitive click sounded her exit, Dirk checked to make sure she had indeed quit the study. He poured himself a brandy, drained the glass, and chased it with another healthy gulp directly from the decanter. Through the window he stared at the stars. A chill of dread shivered down his spine, and gooseflesh covered him from head to foot. Shock tore through his gut, and every fiber of his existence screamed a denial. But he could not refute the evidence.

  T
he spy with sad eyes possessed the experienced touch of a courtesan.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Bloody hell, Dalton, it is not that funny.”

  Dirk scowled at his younger sibling who was, at the moment, convulsed with laughter.

  “Ah, but I disagree,” Dalton said between guffaws and then collapsed in another fit of hilarity atop the four-poster. “My, but you are lovely.”

  Refusing to take the bait, Dirk stood, uttered a mental prayer for forbearance, and frowned at his oh-so-dapper reflection in the long mirror.

  “What with your knee breeches, you are quite the dandy, old man.” His younger sibling pressed a hand to his belly as he howled. “I say, all you’re missing is a tail feather.”

  “I am not an old man,” he replied between gritted teeth.

  As he studied his profile, Dirk suffered in silence. The truth was he agreed with the scamp--he looked like a peacock. How he loathed the ridiculous ensemble. There was only one person on earth for whom he would don the humiliating attire. In short, Rebecca was attending a ball at Almack’s.

  No doubt the patronesses had installed such requirement in order to test the devotion of ardent admirers, because no chap ventured inside the hallowed halls without first suiting up. Though many a rake avoided the legendary establishment, Dirk welcomed the distraction from his perplexing predicament, which centered on the early morning events in the study.

  Neither a brisk ride in Hyde Park nor an afternoon round of fencing had eased his mind in regard to the lady spy and her knowledge of the sensual arts. If it were any other woman, his interest would have surely faded, yet the operative remained rooted in his thoughts, an undeniable fact that spoke volumes. Which begged the question: Should her past entanglements matter? Should he concern himself with men he had not known?

  Noting a crooked cravat, Dirk neared the mirror and tugged at the yard long swath of linen. A knock at the door had him glancing over his shoulder.

  “Come.”

  “What is going on in here?” his mother inquired as she entered the chamber.

  “Mama, your youngest child seems to find my garb cause for unrestrained jollity,” Dirk said dryly.