“He certainly does.” She wanted to ruffle the girl’s hair. “So who won your war this afternoon?”
“I did. I ’most always do. Uncle Angel says I’m quite blood-thirsty.” Pride beamed out of her. “And look, I have one of my soldiers right here. I carry him with me everywhere. Uncle Angel says he looks like my papa, and so if I carry him, my papa will always be with me.”
Blue paint had flecked off to reveal the dull metal beneath the soldier’s coat. Painted eyes stared sightlessly up. The tip of his tin nose had broken off. He was as battered and beaten as any true soldier after battle. But Maggie held the shabby toy in the palm of her hand as though it were the most wonderful of treasures.
“I think your Uncle Angel is very, very wise.” The lump rising in her throat threatened to bring tears with it. “Your soldier is quite handsome.”
“Thank you,” the girl said solemnly.
A sniff sounded across the room. Lilias glanced up and found the dowager marchioness’s eyes wet and shining. Lilias smiled softly at her. A mother should never outlive her children, but if she did, to have such a wonderful son and granddaughter remaining could only make her proud.
“You may come play war with me, if you would like.” Maggie slid the soldier back into her apron pocket.
“I would like that very much.”
Someday, perhaps. Assuming she lived. There were a few pesky assassins she needed to hide from first.
And then she saw him. He filled the doorway, or at least he seemed to. His hair was disheveled from the wind in Hyde Park. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the white waistcoat beneath. Her breath caught, held, as she drank him in. Why did her heart stutter beneath her stays?
His gaze traveled once over her, as though ensuring all parts of her were intact. She felt it in her skin before his gaze flicked over the rest of the room.
“Maggie, my love,” Angel said, finally resting his gaze on the youngest female. “You’ve bested me again. Not only did you humiliate me on the battlefield, you beat me into the house.”
Maggie hooted with laughter and scampered over to him. He picked her up and propped her on his hip, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He chatted with her a moment, laughed, kissed her nose. Lilias’s belly clutched at the sight. This was a facet she could not quite fit into the puzzle that was Angel.
His gaze turned back to Lilias and her breath caught in her throat. There was purpose there, and a stark need that he barely hid behind the casual façade. “Mrs. Fairchild,” he said, setting Maggie onto the floor. “A delight to see you again.”
She ignored the self-satisfied smile of Angel’s mother and curious gazes of his sisters-in-law. All that seemed to matter was the little bump of her heart. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to see him. Foolish, she thought. Foolish and female. Still, it was Angel she wanted to spend time with, not his family.
“And you, my lord.”
He strode into the room and took a seat on the settee beside her. The two inches between their arms was as noticeable to her as if it was solid matter. How could that tiny space send her pulse scrambling?
“Mrs. Fairchild says she’s fully recovered, Angel,” the dowager said, pouring a cup of tea for her son. “She’s a strong woman to bear such an incident with such grace.”
“Indeed, she is.” He accepted the cup from his mother, his longer fingers carefully cradling the delicate porcelain. “But I don’t know if she’s strong enough to endure the three of you poking at her.”
Lilias choked on her tea and tried to hide it in her cup. It didn’t work. Angel reached over and tapped her back. Just that ordinary touch sent little waves of sensation climbing up her spine. “I’m sure I can endure the three of them. It’s you I’m not certain I can endure.”
He slid her a sidelong glance, sly and amused. “No? Well, you shall have to a bit longer. I still have a full cup of tea.”
Maggie leaned against Angel’s knee, drawing his attention. She cocked her head and eyed Lilias with interest. “I am impressed Mrs. Fairchild didn’t have the vapors.” Her little nose scrunched up. “I think the vapors are silly. Do you?”
“I do, indeed,” Lilias said. “Have you ever had the vapors?”
“Of course not!” Shocked, Maggie’s eyes went wide.
“Well, if you do find yourself having the vapors, do you know what you should do?”
Maggie shook her head and moved closer to hear the secret.
Lilias leaned forward, all seriousness. “You should find the nearest piece of sturdy furniture and kick it. You’ll feel ever so much better.”
“If Maggie starts kicking furniture,” Mrs. Whitmore called from the other side of the room, “I’m coming after you two!”
“I didn’t do anything,” Angel protested, putting his hands up in the air. “It was all Mrs. Fairchild’s fault!”
“Oh, how chivalrous of you to blame me.” Lilias laughed.
“Guilt by association, Angel,” Mrs. Whitmore continued. “The two of you are mirror images of each other.”
Chapter 32
“SHALL I TAKE your cloak, ma’am?” Jones asked blandly as he shut the front door behind Lilias. His dark eyes were as inexpressive as ever. If he thought her late night visits—or rather, early morning visits—during this past week were improper, he never showed it.
She really ought to be embarrassed. She wasn’t in the least, and wondered if that spoke to some lack of moral fortitude.
“Thank you, Jones.” She passed the hooded cloak to him. Tipping her head to the side, she studied him. He was handsome in that easy way some gentlemen had. Brown eyes, a nice, lean face. Lips that never smiled, though they were full and mobile. “Jones?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He folded her cloak over one arm, exhibiting as much care as he would the king’s garment.
“Are you a spy, or a butler with many talents?”
He didn’t blink. “A spy, ma’am.”
“I thought as much. Have you been with Angel for a long time?”
“A while.” He regarded her steadily. Patiently. Waiting. One hand lay over the cloak. Competent fingers smoothed wrinkles from the material as though he had nothing more pressing to do.
“That’s precise.”
His eyes smiled at her, tiny lines fanning out at the corners. “Yes, ma’am.”
What secrets did Jones have tucked away behind those expressionless eyes? “Where is Angel?”
“In the study, ma’am.”
“He always is.”
When she opened the door to the study, she could see his booted feet propped on a footstool and crossed at the ankles. She couldn’t see the rest of him, as he was hidden by the back of the sofa. His gold head peeked over the carved mahogany ridging at the top of the sofa.
He didn’t hear her enter, which was unusual. Angel always seemed to know where she was. But he didn’t move when the door opened, or when she closed it again.
She pursed her lips, angled her head. Considered the unmoving Hessian boots. Very relaxed, those booted feet. A quiet snore competed with the crackle of flames in the hearth.
With soft steps, she circled the sofa. He slouched against the luxurious upholstered sofa, pillows propped beneath his back. He wore no coat, no waistcoat, no cravat—only a fine lawn shirt open in a V at his neck. One hand lay palm up on the seat beside him, fingers curled inward. The other hand held a slim volume against his chest, pages open and pressed against his shirt.
Beyond relaxed. The spy was quite, quite asleep. No surprise, as he was guarding her more than any other agent. And then she would visit his lodgings, as she had tonight, and neither of them would get any rest.
She had never seen him sleeping before, though they had dozed together after making love. The firelight flickered over him, shadowing features softened in sleep. He looked almost beautif
ul without the edge of danger. The glint in his eyes was hidden by lashes. She had not noticed how very long they were until now.
The fingers curled around his open palm twitched. He would be waking soon, no doubt. Her reticule scuffed against the polished top of a side table as she set it down. Angel didn’t stir. Treading lightly, she moved toward the sofa. She bent over him, heard his strong inhale. This close, she could see every eyelash, the light dusting of stubble on his jawline. He breathed in again. Long. Deep. A smile curved his lips.
She set a hand on his chest for balance and kissed that mouth. He tasted of brandy. Of man. She could smell the light spice that meant Angel. She felt wakefulness slide through him. Even in half sleep, his lips firmed beneath hers. His chest muscles went from lax to hard, then relaxed again beneath her fingertips.
“Lilias.” The word was barely more than a breath. A caress of sound and soul. “I dreamed of you.”
His eyes fluttered open. The gold had deepened, holding her trapped. There was no barrier between them. No spy to filter out the heart of him. For an instant, she could see all of him.
Her heart stuttered in her chest. She could not breathe. Not at all.
His free hand slid around her waist, drawing her down beside him. The book fell to the floor as his other hand cupped her cheek.
“Lilias,” he whispered again.
A log snapped in the fireplace, sending out sparks as bright and sharp as the thumping of her heart. His lips were soft. Gentle. They played over hers, as easily and delicately as his fingers over her cheeks.
“I was hoping you would come tonight.” He drew back, tipping his head up to see her better. “I haven’t seen you in a few days, aside from through a window or across the street.”
“Only two days. Not so very long.”
“Too long.” He kissed her again. A quick, familiar kiss. It eased the wild beat of her heart.
She slid into the space between his arm and his body. Drew her feet up so they curled beneath her. A snug fit. Two bodies. Two interlocking puzzle pieces. “What did you do today? Any exciting espionage-type exploits?”
“Followed around a pretty blonde.” He nuzzled her neck, pressed a kiss there. “She went shopping on Bond Street—not a safe venue, I might add—and then to a small dinner where she conveniently stayed away from windows so a shot could not be fired. Although it made it damned hard to keep track of her.”
“I’m sure she tried her best to follow all the rules you have imparted to her in the past week.”
His eyes smiled at her. Warm and soft, though more guarded now. He was fully awake. She missed that unfiltered bit of Angel already.
“What were you reading?” she asked.
“Poetry. John Donne.”
“Ah. I thought I had read his name on the spine.” His shoulder made a surprisingly comfortable pillow. She nestled in. Watched the flames dance in the fireplace. “You like poetry. Music. Quite unplumbed depths for a spy.”
“Even a spy must have a respite.” He tipped his head so that his cheek rested on her head. His hand skimmed down her shoulder, her side, then rested along the curve of her hip.
It was soothing to sit this way. No urgency. No demanding sexual desire, though it hummed just beneath the surface of her skin. She could turn her head, just so, and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Or she could nibble on his ear. Both might turn the hum to a spark.
She did neither.
“Why Donne? Why not Shakespeare? Or Byron, for that matter?” Her fingers played with the open V of his shirt. The light sprinkling of hair on his chest was stiff and rough beneath her fingers.
She felt his cheek move against her hair as he smiled. “A man that can write a sonnet entitled ‘A Hymn to God the Father’ and an elegy entitled ‘To His Mistress Going to Bed’ must have quite the dual life.”
“You would be familiar with a poem about a mistress. Come to think of it, I should be as well.” She tipped her head back to look up at him. “I am your mistress, more or less.”
“Mistress.” His fingers twirled one of the curls that curved around her cheeks. He frowned. “No, that doesn’t seem right.”
“What else would you call our relationship?” She was not certain she wanted to know. There could be no correct answer.
Chapter 33
HE WAS MADDENINGLY silent for a moment. She thought to fill the silence, but that would give him an easy retreat. So she waited, embarrassingly nervous about his answer. Which was ridiculous.
“I don’t know.” He sounded baffled. Endearingly so. “I don’t know, Lilias. But you are not my mistress.”
Odd. That made her feel ever so better. She felt quite buoyant, in fact, and decided to turn the conversation. “I barely remember the mistress poem. I do remember it was quite scandalous, though.” Naughty, but she couldn’t help adding, “Will you read it to me?”
His chuckle was a low rumble in his chest. “Perhaps.” She shifted as he retrieved the fallen book, then nestled in against his shoulder again. He flipped through the pages. “Here it is. ‘To His Mistress Going to Bed.’”
He dipped his head. Warm lips pressed against the curve of her neck. The hum beneath her skin intensified. A simple kiss could have such effect.
“Come, Madam, come; all rest my powers defy / Until I labour, I in labour lie.”
“That doesn’t sound enjoyable.”
He laughed, then set his fingertips against the page to follow the print. She didn’t listen to the words, only the baritone tenor of his voice. Strange that it could vibrate inside him and still sound so smooth.
“Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glitt’ring . . .”
“Oh. Well, that is more exciting.” She set her lips to the underside of his jaw. Just where the skin arched over bone. Stubble scraped her lips in rough welcome.
“License my roaving hands, and let them go / Before, behind, between, above, below—”
“Angel!” She sat up, laughing at his outrageousness. Improperly outrageous. Scandalously so. “You concocted that bit on your own. Don’t embellish!” she chided.
“I did not embellish. Look.” He set his fingers on the line.
She read it carefully, then laughed herself. “Donne was a randy fellow, was he not?”
“No more than I.” His eyes were bright. Gold and bright and so, so focused on her. “I want you, Lilias. Always. I think about you when I should not. When I cannot take the time to think of you.”
They were not romantic words. But they struck somewhere deep within her. The stuttering of her heart began again. “When will it be too much?” she wondered aloud. “When does it become so all-encompassing that it becomes too much to bear?”
“I don’t know.”
It frightened her, this consuming lust. But it was more. It wasn’t desire. Or not just desire, though it had begun there. She couldn’t name it. Didn’t want to. But she did want him. Inside her. Around her. With her.
Leaning over, she set her hands against his chest. She kissed him once, twice. The moment called for softness. For sweetness.
“Now off with those shoes, and then softly tread / In this Love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.” He whispered the words against her mouth.
Oh, his words were a stroke to the heart. And they were for her. She heard them, internalized them. Craved them. Her body went weak. Femininely so. Her breath was quick, her stomach muscles quivering as he reached for the edge of her bodice and slid it down her shoulder.
“Lilias.” One hand followed the bodice, sliding over the curve, calluses satisfyingly rough against her skin. The other hand drew her toward him. “It is new. Each time, it is new and fresh. I know what lies beneath your gowns already, but each and every time I discover something different. A sigh. A whisper. A trembling.” He kissed the underside of her jaw, much as she had done to him. More kisses
trailed down her neck, flirted with her collarbone. Then her bare shoulder.
Her skin was alive under his touch, under his lips. She could only concentrate on breathing, on sensation. On the gentle pleasure burgeoning inside her. She wanted to reach for him, to pull the clothes from his body. From hers. But she could not. Her muscles were too yielding, her sighs too content. She was powerless against his hands as he pulled her beneath him. As his mouth touched hers, she accepted his weight. He did not crush her, but held himself just above her. The control reverberating through his muscles drew out sheer feminine delight.
She smiled up at him as she brought his thoughtfulness into her. He did not smile back. So serious, this Angel. A sober man, bent on seeking out every hidden drop of pleasure.
Hands framed her face, fingers skimming into her hair to tangle in the taut strands. But his lips did not leave hers. He tasted, possessed, then gave to her. It was not their first kiss. Yet it felt new. Captivating. But perhaps it was new. This grave Angel was someone she had not seen before.
It wasn’t fire that streaked through her when his tongue stroked the seam of her lips. It was warmth. It wasn’t urgency or hunger that sent her hands to his biceps, or her legs twining with his. Closer. She wanted to be closer.
The kiss deepened, a stroke of his tongue. The scrape of his whiskers. One clever hand skimmed along her body. The first touch. The thousandth touch. She could not decide. But it was not enough. She arched against him, telling him she wanted more. So much more. Her breasts pressed against his solid chest, one leg slid up his to press him against her.
“Not enough room on the settee for what I have planned,” he growled.
And then he was standing, looking down at her. Did she appear wanton, with her hair beginning to fall from its pins and her petticoats rucked up beyond her knees? She did not move, because she saw how his body strained against his clothes, how his breath heaved in his chest. So she let him look his fill, then look again. His eyes skimmed over her body as slowly as his lover’s hands could do. Now he smiled, just a little bit wicked. And oh, she saw plans in his eyes.
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