Do You Want to Start a Scandal

by Tessa Dare

  "Wrong again."

  "If not art, then . . . secrets? Ah, I have it. You were an international spy, completing dashing missions and foiling assassination plots under the guise of a diplomacy career."

  "Don't be absurd."

  She stopped dead in the lane. "Oh my goodness. Oh my word. That's it."

  "That's--"

  "That is it. That's the truth. You were a spy." Her eyebrows soared, and she clapped both hands over her mouth, squealing into them.

  Damn it.

  He took her by the elbow, steering her out of the lane and pulling her into a dark, narrow alleyway.

  "I tell you, I am not--"

  "Don't bother lying to me. I've learned how to tell when you do." She raised her hand to his face. "Your left eyebrow. It wrinkles every time."

  "I," he said, ignoring her touch by sheer force of will, "am not a former international spy. There, did it wrinkle?"

  "No," she said, disappointed.

  Piers relaxed. "Well, then."

  "So you're not a former spy." After a brief pause, she gasped. "You're an active spy."

  Jesus Christ.

  She gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "Oh, well done, you. And you have the world believing you're just a boring, stuffy, proper lord? No wonder your brother looked like a cat who'd swallowed the goldfish. This is tremendous, Piers."

  Tremendous?

  This was decidedly not tremendous. This was a grave problem. And, quite possibly, the end of his career.

  He'd been good at this once. Hadn't he?

  She had some naive, fanciful idea of espionage that involved downing stiff drinks and swanning through gaming hells. If she knew the cold, brutal reality, she would regret having ever guessed.

  He took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "You must let go of this silly notion. The truth of it is, I am a boring, stuffy, proper lord. There are no dashing missions, nor thrilling escapades. And I am most emphatically not a sp--Down."

  He pushed Charlotte to the side.

  A footpad lunged from the shadows, reaching for her reticule strings with one hand and brandishing a grimy knife with the other.

  Years of training took control.

  With his left hand, Piers grabbed the cutpurse's wrist, immobilizing his knife hand. Then he lowered his right elbow in a vicious strike--not quite hard enough to break the rogue's arm, though he would have deserved it.

  Once the knife went clattering into the shadows, he dealt the scum a swift kick to the stomach and flung him into the gutter.

  It was over in less than five seconds.

  As the criminal lay doubled up and groaning, Piers straightened his gloves.

  Charlotte's eyes widened. She looked at the cutpurse, then back at Piers. "You were saying?"

  Charlotte ought to have guessed how well Piers would take it when she unraveled his secret.

  Which was to say, not well at all.

  He abandoned any further discussion, hustling her with purpose to the corner where his coach stood waiting, and all but shoved her into it.

  "It's all right," she assured him, once the carriage was in motion and they were alone. "I promise, I won't tell anyone."

  He looked straight ahead. "There's nothing to tell."

  "I really can't believe I didn't guess earlier. I should have known from your special Finch pistol. Or the stickpin that opens locks."

  "Any pin would have opened that lock."

  "Do you have other spy tools?" She began to look around the carriage compartment. "False mirrors? Bullet-deflecting doors? Oh, I'll wager there's a hidden compartment under this seat."

  "Every carriage has a compartment under the seat."

  "Secret codes tucked in your hatband, perhaps? Ooh, what about this walking stick?" She reached for a cane he kept on the back of the seat. "A man in his prime of life doesn't need a walking stick. I bet it's really a sword or a rifle, if one knows the trick of opening it." She turned it this way and that, swishing it experimentally through the air.

  He wrested it from her and set it aside. "It's a walking stick. Nothing more."

  "But you're an agent of the Crown. You must have some kind of exciting, lethal weapon on your person."

  "Since you mention it . . ." He caught her by the waist, dragging her onto his lap. He said in a seductive growl, "That's not a pistol in my pocket."

  She laughed. Where had he been hiding this wicked, dangerous charm?

  The irony was rich. She should not have been so keen to uncover his secrets. This revelation made him desperately attractive. She might start to like him even more. Not only in flashes and rare moments, but at regular intervals.

  From there, it was only a short jaunt to friendship. Then a mere hop to affection . . . or worse.

  Oh, drat. Why had she been so curious?

  But there was no undoing it now.

  She hadn't nearly puzzled him out yet--but she'd gathered enough pieces to understand this: The entire picture of Piers Brandon was wider and more complex than she'd ever dreamed it could be. He wasn't maddeningly perfect.

  He was perfectly thrilling.

  "Are you on a mission here in Nottinghamshire? Is that why you hid in the library?" She slapped a palm to her brow. "Of course. It all makes so much sense now. You couldn't leave your assignment. That's why you insisted on proposing. No one's that honorable, and I knew it couldn't simply be that you'd taken a fancy to me."

  "Listen to me." He caught her chin in his hand, forbidding her to look away. "You are dead wrong about me in almost every particular, but you are right about that last. I hadn't simply taken a fancy to you."

  "No?"

  He shook his head slowly. His thumb traced the shape of her lips. "Fancy doesn't begin to describe it. This is closer to . . . an obsession. An enchantment, or perhaps a curse. You're like a little fair-haired witch who cast a spell on me, and I can't concentrate. I can't sleep. I can't think of anything but hearing you laugh and holding you close and imagining what you'll look like naked in my bed. Do you understand that, Charlotte?"

  She nodded, breathless. His left eyebrow hadn't moved once.

  The longer he stared at her, the more excited she grew. This was a game they'd been playing all day . . . his hand on her waist at the coaching inn, his breath on her ear at the perfume shop.

  "What's your plan, Agent Brandon?" she whispered. "Do you mean to kiss me so long and so hard that I'll forget your identity?"

  "No." His hand slid to the back of her head, tangling in her hair--so tightly she gasped. "I mean to kiss you so long and so hard that you'll forget yours."

  His lips fell on hers, and this time he offered her no light, patient kisses as a preliminary. He claimed her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep to toy with hers.

  She clung to his neck, trying her best to keep pace.

  He bent to kiss her neck, her ear, her cheek. She loved the urgency in his kiss, how much he seemed to want her.

  Perhaps even need her.

  Arousal pounded through her body, made her swell and tighten and yearn. It was as if the more boldly he tried to possess her, the more independent she felt.

  He gave her power, and she wanted to use it. She wanted to choose passion over propriety, knowledge over innocence.

  He stroked her breasts through the fabric of her frock and spencer, driving her mad with need. It wasn't enough. She needed more. His hands on her bare skin. His fingers pinching, pulling. Anything to ease the ripe, coiling tension in her nipples. The need was so intense, so urgent, it made her wonder how she'd lived this long without his touch.

  Her shame was gone, and yet she didn't know how to ask for such things.

  "Please," she whispered, arching her spine to thrust her breast into the cupped palm of his hand and hoping it would be enough. "Please."

  Please touch me. You know what I need.

  As they kissed, his fingers went to the buttons of her spencer, sliding them free one by one. At the same time, his other hand slid up her spine
to find the hooks closing the back of her frock. She was being undone from both sides at once. This man had a great many skills indeed.

  Her body sang with joy and anticipation of what was to come. Once he had the edges of her jacket parted, he slid his hand inside. His fingertips found the low, bosom-skimming border of her frock's neckline. Pushing aside the gauzy fichu she wore for modesty, he pushed two fingers under the neckline and skimmed up to her shoulder, cleaving the loosened bodice from her body and then easing the sleeve down her shoulder, revealing her breast.

  He broke the kiss, staring down at her bared breast. A twinge of modesty shivered through her, but it was lost in the rapid pounding of her pulse.

  Upon contact with the crisp late-afternoon air, her nipple tightened. She felt as if a whole body's worth of yearning had gathered in that single, aching point.

  Please.

  Please, please, please.

  The first pass of his thumb was so light, so teasing. Almost like the brush of a feather. She could have believed she'd imagined it. He drew maddening circles around her ruched areola, tilting his head to examine her from a slightly different angle. As if she were a bit of clockwork and he was curious to see how she worked.

  And then--finally--he covered her nipple with his thumb and pressed down. The jolt of pleasure zinged through her. She gasped. It was better; it was worse. It was wonderful.

  He kissed her again, and as his tongue taught hers some new, sensual dance, he rolled and pinched the puckered nub between his thumb and forefinger.

  She clung to him, digging her fingernails into the back of his neck. A low, throbbing pulse began to beat between her thighs. She shifted on his lap, pressing her thighs together in an attempt to ease it. And in the process, she rubbed against the solid, growing ridge of his erection.

  He groaned softly into their kiss.

  The taste and sound and feel of that guttural confession . . . it did something wild to her. It was honest, that moan. Elemental. Raw. There was an undeniable thrill to know she had such power over a powerful man.

  She sat taller on his lap, teasing him with another slow drag of her hip against his hardness. She slid her hands into his hair, sifting her fingers through the dark, heavy locks and teasing them to wild angles. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gave it a playful, puppyish tug.

  They stared at each other, breathing hard.

  "I haven't forgotten your identity," she whispered, still teasing her fingers through his hair. "Nor mine."

  He swallowed hard. His hands settled on her hips.

  "You're Piers Brandon, the Marquess of Granville, diplomat and secret agent in the Crown's service." She ran a fingertip down the noble slope of his nose. "And I'm Char--"

  Her words were lost in a gasp.

  With the speed and strength of a whip, he had her turned on her back, sprawled beneath him on the tufted carriage seat.

  "You will be Lady Charlotte Brandon, the Marchioness of Granville, diplomat's wife and mother of my heir."

  She started to argue back. Then his mouth closed over her nipple, and Charlotte lost all power of speech, all semblance of thought.

  Along with them went any urge to resist.

  "You'll be mine," he murmured. "I swear it, Charlotte. I will make you mine."

  Mine.

  Mine, mine, mine.

  The word tumbled in endless circles through his mind.

  Piers licked a circle around her taut, dusky pink nipple.

  She moved and sighed beneath him. All arguments and questions forgotten. He reveled in the sound.

  He meant to show her just who was in control. Just whose secrets were bared.

  He tugged at her clothing, desperate to reveal more of her body to his touch, and to his mouth. As he wrenched at her frock, he heard a slight rip of fabric. He froze, thinking the sound might frighten her, or at least bring her back to awareness.

  Instead, she rolled onto her side to help him.

  She helped him.

  And once her frock was pushed down, revealing her sheer, simple undergarments, she welcomed him into her embrace, wrapping his shoulders in her soft, fragrant arms and arching her back to offer her breasts to him.

  Her lips touched his bared neck.

  When had his cravat come loose?

  Good God. Good God.

  He prided himself on control. Restraint. Careful management of both internal emotions and outward reactions. Lives had depended on it, and Piers had never let them down.

  And then along came Miss Charlotte Highwood. Announcing her own entrance into his life with the most absurd of declarations.

  I'm here to save you.

  Impossible. She was the most dangerous person he'd ever encountered. His equilibrium was in constant turmoil whenever she was near.

  She'd decoded the secret language of his left eyebrow.

  If he wasn't careful, he could lose himself with her.

  In her.

  God, the mere thought of being in her. Sinking into all that warm, willing softness . . .

  The mental image had his cock hard as Italian marble, throbbing in vain against his buttoned trouser falls.

  Piers forced himself to slow down, pushing aside the fragile muslin of her shift and exploring every inch of her bared, luscious breasts with his lips and tongue. Occasionally adding a light graze of teeth.

  No matter how much he took, she only offered him more. He couldn't for the life of him understand why.

  He slid one hand to her waist and wedged his hips between her thighs, thrusting against the soft rustle of her bunched petticoats.

  Soon, he promised himself. Not today. He wasn't going to deflower Charlotte in a moving coach. That wasn't the way he'd treat any woman, and most certainly not a woman he meant to marry. He hadn't lost all semblance of restraint.

  Besides, the journey back to Parkhurst Manor wasn't long enough.

  When he bedded her for the first time, he meant to take hours pleasuring her properly. Thoroughly. Until she sobbed his name and begged for more.

  "We're almost there."

  She gave him a sleepy, drugged look. "How do you know?"

  "The road beneath us changed from mud to gravel."

  "Always so attentive to detail." She smiled, with that adorably smug pride he'd come to recognize, and he knew he'd given himself away. Yet again.

  There was a moment of tenderness between them, and for a moment he experienced the most rare, ridiculous emotion--hope.

  Was it possible?

  She'd seen him dismantle that cutpurse in the alleyway. She knew he'd deceived not only her, but everyone. She hadn't run screaming or turned from him in disgust.

  Perhaps . . . Perhaps he could make her happy.

  Not with the Granville money or his social cachet, but just by being the man he was, at his core. Sometimes, when he looked deep into those blue eyes, it felt like anything was possible.

  But there was still so much she didn't know, about what he was and what he'd done. There was true darkness in him, and if she found her way past all his defenses, ventured into the cold, black center of his being . . . he doubted she would smile into the face of it.

  Besides, she wanted love in return. Not mere tenderness or affection, but a public love affair to convince even the most skeptical gossip. That was the one thing Piers couldn't offer her. Not even if he wanted to.

  It was useless to think of winning Charlotte's heart.

  He must stick to his first plan: securing her hand and completing his assignment here, by whatever means required.

  He kissed her brow one last time, then righted himself and helped her to a sitting position. "Come, then. I'll help you with your buttons."

  Chapter Ten

  It was well past time for Piers to settle down to his work.

  When Ridley came in that evening, ostensibly to prepare him for bed, Piers decided it was time to confer on the investigation thus far.

  "So," Piers said, unknotting his cravat. "What have you
learned from the servants?"

  "Nothing of use." Ridley lounged in a chair. "They have nothing bad to say about the man. Nor Lady Parkhurst, for that matter. Sir Vernon is only in residence a few months a year, and when he's here, he's mostly out-of-doors, living the sportsman's life. He pays wages on time; gives annual rises to all, and sets aside pensions for the most devoted. According to the steward, he doesn't meddle overmuch in routine management, but he demands regular reports and questions any discrepancies."

  "No rumors of gaming? Mistresses? Children in the neighborhood with a striking resemblance?"

  "Not that I've heard. If he has any such secrets, he's hiding them well from the staff."

  "That's unusual."

  Typically servants knew everything that went on in a house like this. They brought in the post. They swept out the grates. They gathered the laundry. Nothing escaped their notice.

  "I'll keep eyes and ears open belowstairs, of course. I've worked my way into the footmen's twice-weekly card game, and I think the housekeeper has taken a fancy to me. Anything else you'd like me to do?"

  "Nothing."

  Piers couldn't fault Ridley's attention to detail. He was the one who'd been shirking his part. He was meant to be gaining Sir Vernon's confidence. This was exactly the sort of work the Office needed a man like Piers to accomplish. There weren't many aristocrats in the service of the Crown, and even fewer who could elicit an invitation to an autumn hunting party, just by expressing a passing interest over brandy in the club.

  His rank and standing were key to gaining access and trust. In nearly a decade of service, he'd never once compromised his upstanding reputation. Then, within one night of arriving here, he'd given his host reason to believe he defiled virgins on desktops, and the heir to the manor was convinced he had murder on his mind.

  Worst of all, Charlotte had stumbled onto the truth.

  "On second thought, Ridley, there is something you can do. Come and stand in front of me."

  Ridley obliged him at once. "Here?"

  "A bit closer. No, not like that. Face me. Just so."

  They eyed one another.

  "I am going to tell you a series of falsehoods. And as I do, I want you to keep close watch on my left eyebrow. Tell me if it moves in the slightest."

  If Ridley was bewildered by this request, he did not show it. "Yes, my lord."

  "The sky," Piers said carefully, "is pink. I breakfasted on kippers and toast. I'm wearing a fashionable waistcoat." He paused. "Well? Any movement?"