From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  “I see,” he said in a considering tone. “If Marie is Paris, then what does that make you? London?”

  “Perhaps.” Her mouth twisted with cynical amusement. “Which would make me rainy and damp and unexciting.”

  “Hardly.” Humor deepened the lines of his handsome visage. “And, as long as you’re comparing the two, you should know it does rain constantly in Paris as well.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m no Paris and never will be.”

  “London is hardly dull. It’s teeming with activity and there are constant surprises around every corner. Have you ever seen the view from Primrose Hill at sunset? It’s rather remarkable.” His voice softened. “And there’s nothing quite so lovely as an English field filled with wildflowers. I’ve no idea what the different blooms are called, but the blues and pinks and lavenders can be quite breathtaking.”

  The wistfulness in his voice took her by surprise. “For a man who escapes England at every opportunity, you certainly seem to have developed a care for it.”

  “Perhaps I have.” He seemed deep in contemplation, with a faraway look in his eyes. “I dreaded it, you realize, being forced to relinquish my work at the Home Office in order to take up my duties here in England. But there is something about being home, in the place of my birth, tending to land that’s been in the Sparrow family for generations, that has begun to feel right.” His gaze met hers. “I realize this is my path; this is where I’m meant to be. London has never seemed more beautiful to me.”

  “Goodness.” She swallowed hard when she registered the blatant admiration in his eyes. “Which London are we talking about now?”

  His deep blue gaze took her in with unwavering intensity. “Perhaps both.”

  “I’m hardly beautiful.” She self-consciously ran a hand over the tangled hair streaming about her shoulders. “I’m a mess.”

  “Do not doubt me.” He pushed into a sitting position and came to his feet, then stalked toward her. “Like this metropolis, you’re at your most lovely when you’re so vital and full of energy and excitement.”

  “How could I doubt you?” Her eyes shifted downward, greedily taking in the view as his flaccid member began to stiffen. “When there is hard evidence that you mean what you say?”

  Reaching her, he grabbed the sketchbook and tossed it aside. “I’m flattered you noticed.”

  She felt so hot, as though someone had dipped her into the bubbling lava of a live volcano. “How could I not?” She licked her bottom lip. “It’s rather…impressive.”

  He closed his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the table. His hands slid up her thighs until they reached her intimate thatch of hair. His fingers played with her, sliding over the bundle of nerves that made her antsy and full of need. “Oh, Sparrow.”

  He pulled off the shirt, exposing her completely to his hungry gaze. The expression on his face was carnal, raw. “I feel a powerful need to immerse myself in London and all of her glorious facets.” Stepping between her thighs, he pulled her hips forward and drove into her.

  “On the table?” Delight quickly replaced her surprise. “Oh, that is good.”

  He seemed to be determined to make it great for her. Driving into her again and again, he seemed to be trying to seat himself as deeply in her as possible. The way he made love to her, as an equal partner, made her feel like a woman, rather than a girl. “Harder,” she said, unafraid to ask for what she wanted.

  He shifted the angle and pounded into her again. “Like this?”

  “Yes.” She moved with him, the tension ratcheting up inside her. “Oh, God, yes.” The urge to scream rose up so strongly in her that she found it hard to suppress.

  He kissed her hard, his tongue delving deep, demanding a response. She gave it back to him, not gentle or timid, but hot, heavy, and full of her own demands.

  “Emilia!” His exclamation sounded just before he came, releasing himself into her with jerking, shuddering motions.

  The tension in her exploded and she cried out. Some primitive guttural utterance she didn’t recognize as her own erupted from her mouth. Fighting to catch her breath, she clung to him, feeling light-headed and dizzy. She’d have fallen off the table if he hadn’t been holding her up.

  “Mmmm,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck, “the glories of London are not to be underestimated.”

  She hugged him closer, relishing the feel of his warm naked skin against hers. Somewhere footsteps sounded, sharp steps coming up the stairs.

  “Emilia!”

  Horror filled her. “It’s Papa.”

  He pulled back, alarm stamped his face. “I thought you said they were gone for the afternoon.”

  “I thought they were.” She jumped down off the table and ran to pick up her clothes, tugging them on as she ran around trying to put the room to rights. He pulled up his pantaloons and shoved his shirt over his head while reaching for his tailcoat. He hopped around as he shrugged into his left boot.

  “Sir.” Sophie’s voice sounded loudly in the corridor not far from them. “If I might have a word.”

  “Is it urgent?” came Papa’s muffled response from beyond the door.

  She couldn’t hear the maid’s response, but gratitude glinted in Sparrow’s eyes. “Good old Sophie,” he whispered as he tugged on his right boot. “Always helpful in a crisis.”

  Once Emilia had put herself to rights and Sparrow looked presentable as well, she let out a huge breath of relief. Until she spotted the nude sketch of Sparrow lying on the floor.

  He saw it at the same time because they both practically dove for the drawing. She grabbed the sketchbook first and stuck it in a precariously balanced pile of other drawing pads. She grabbed a charcoal pencil and the sketch she’d been working on when Sparrow arrived earlier just as her father walked in.

  “There you two are,” Papa said.

  Sparrow stood by the window, which he’d just thrown open. “Sir,” he said in greeting.

  “What brings you here?” Papa asked. It was not usual, nor entirely appropriate, for Sparrow to be alone with Emilia in her art studio. “Why is the window open? There’s a chill in here.”

  “Some of the paints I was mixing had an odor,” Emilia said quickly. “I was airing out the chamber.”

  Seeming satisfied with that explanation, his attention returned to Sparrow. “What brings you here?”

  “I’ve learned new information about Dominick Ware that I thought I should share with both of you.”

  “Oh?” Papa regarded him expectantly.

  “Ware is working for Bow Street.”

  Emilia snorted. “Dominick? A Bow Street runner?”

  “Ludicrous.” Papa shook his head. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “Ware himself. He assists in investigations involving the ton, since it is difficult for runners to have access to people of quality.”

  Papa had a dazed expression on his face. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “What precisely is Nick investigating?” Emilia asked.

  “Recent art thefts, particularly the one involving the Duke of Sunderford.”

  Papa seemed to consider this, then asked, “Do you still think him a suspect in the threat against Emilia?”

  “It is still a possibility,” Sparrow answered, “but less so than it seemed before.”

  As he spoke the pile on Emilia’s desk teetered and gave way, scattering the sketchbooks on the floor. Papa came down on his haunches to pick them up. Panicked, Emilia dropped to her knees and started snatching them up. “I’ve got it, Papa, don’t trouble yourself.”

  “It’s no trouble—” The words died on Papa’s tongue as he stared at the damning sketch in his hands…the explicit drawing of Sparrow lying naked on his daughter’s settee.

  Chapter 20

  Sparrow had never seen St. George’s face this particularly disturbing shade of gray before.

  “What?…How?” His face slack with shock and disbelief, Emilia’s father lifted his gaze from the damning
sketch of Sparrow in the nude to the clothed man in the flesh.

  Emilia, still kneeling next to her father, placed a hand on his arm. “Papa.”

  St. George didn’t seem to hear her. He rose heavily to his feet, never taking his gaze from the face of the man who had dishonored his daughter. “Explain.”

  Sparrow’s throat felt thick. “I have no excuse.”

  St. George walked up to him. “That’s all you have to say?” The words simmered with outrage. He backhanded Sparrow so hard that he stumbled backward from the impact. The old man was no lightweight, and the force of the blow almost knocked Sparrow off his feet. “You blackguard. I should run you through with my saber.”

  Emilia made a dismayed sound. “Papa, no!” she cried. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “It was entirely my doing,” Sparrow interrupted, his cheek pulsating with pain from St. George’s assault. “Emilia is not at fault.”

  St. George’s hard, angry gaze stayed on Sparrow. “How far has this gone?”

  Unwilling to lie outright, Sparrow swallowed and averted the other man’s gaze. Regret swamped him at having broken faith with a man he admired so greatly. St. George had trusted him implicitly with the one thing that meant the most to him in the world—his daughter.

  “I see. Your silence speaks volumes.” St. George’s breathing grew more shallow. “You had the chance to wed her, but chose instead to dishonor her, me, and this entire family by treating Emilia like a Covent Garden whore.”

  She let out a shocked breath. “No, Papa! It wasn’t like that.”

  He rounded on her, vibrating with fury, his expression ferocious. “And you,” he said with contempt. “You are to be married in less than a week.”

  “No.” Her remarkable eyes were bright with feeling. “I’m not marrying Edmund.”

  “No?” Her father repeated. “Have you made other arrangements without informing me?”

  “I intend to marry Emilia,” Sparrow put in. The words sounded so right on his tongue. Besides, he could do no less.

  “No.” Emilia’s voice rang out strong and certain.

  Both father and erstwhile suitor stared at her. “No?” both echoed in unison.

  “I don’t intend to marry anyone.” She stood tall and proud, determination blazing in her beautiful face. “And I’m not going to wait for a husband to start living my life either.”

  “That much is apparent,” her father growled, shooting Sparrow a malevolent look.

  “I intend to go to the Louvre and finish Grandpapa’s painting,” she announced. “I’m an heiress, and it’s high time I behaved like one.”

  Her father’s brows lifted. “What the devil are you going on about now?”

  “I’ll find a companion who can act as my chaperone, and then I’m going to go to Paris on my own. From there, we’ll travel to Italy. And I would so like to see Greece.”

  Sparrow listened with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Emilia could do none of that without her father’s leave, but St. George adored his daughter and had always indulged her. Sparrow had little doubt Emilia would ultimately prevail in this, too.

  “That lets Sparrow here off the hook quite nicely,” St. George said bitterly.

  Sparrow felt anything but relief. Profound disappointment sliced through his lungs at the thought of losing Emilia to a life of art and travel. “Mr. St. George, would you allow me to speak to Emilia alone?”

  St. George’s face flushed. “Of all of the nerve—”

  “I wish to marry your daughter,” he assured him, “and I’d like a private moment to convince her of my sincerity.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Emilia interjected. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m not marrying anyone.”

  “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?” her father snapped at her. “At least hear the man out if he intends to do the honorable thing…even if it is a little late.”

  “Oh, very well.” Emilia’s mulish expression softened. “But I shan’t change my mind.”

  St. George threw up his hands. “I don’t understand either of you. It’s as though I’m standing in a room with two strangers.”

  Sparrow stared at Emilia, who glared defiantly back. “Rest assured, I fully intend to wed your daughter, sir.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Emilia muttered.

  St. George shook his head before directing his parting comments at Sparrow. “I expect you to fix this mess.”

  “I will, sir. You may depend upon it.”

  Temper flashed in Emilia’s eyes. She pressed her lips tightly together and said nothing until after her father had exited the studio. “Don’t waste your words. I’m not marrying you.”

  What he couldn’t say with words, he would say with action. He stalked up to her, pulled her soft, feminine form into his arms, and kissed her with everything in him. She parted her lips, probably in surprise, and he pressed his advantage, kissing her fully and deeply, his tongue mating with hers. She moved her tongue to avoid his, but he chased her until her tongue tangled with his, becoming just as insistent. Fire scalded his blood. She was spicy and sweet, all woman—and, he realized, the perfect woman for him. He broke the kiss and pulled back.

  She blinked, her expression dazed. “What was that?”

  “I thought it might be more effective to try to persuade you with actions rather than words.”

  “You are very persuasive,” she acknowledged.

  “We enjoy each other.” He caught one of her curls and twisted it gently around his finger. “We are tremendously compatible physically. You have said you love me. As your husband, I will treat you with utmost care and respect. And, although I don’t deserve you, I don’t quite understand why you refuse to wed me.”

  She smiled and cupped his face with her delicate hands. “I don’t want you to wed me because you feel forced into it. I don’t want to be any man’s obligation. I want to be his passion, his muse.”

  “I do feel passionate about you.”

  “You lust after me and I do appreciate the benefit of that.” She tiptoed up to give him a quick peck on the nose. “But now I want it all with a man who doesn’t just wish to bed me, but who loves me fully.”

  His gut clenched. She asked for something he could not give. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he’d lost the ability. That kind of depth of emotion was a language he no longer knew how to speak.

  After Marie, he was like a wound that had been cauterized, closed up, and healed, however messily; the scar left behind was numb to the touch. His ability to love was now marred, imperfect, and without full sensitivity. It was Marie’s lasting legacy. A sense of loss hollowed his chest. “You do deserve the best.”

  She smiled, brilliant and confident. “And I shall do my utmost to get it.”

  They were interrupted by the reappearance of her father. “An urgent message has come for you from Hastings,” he said to Sparrow. “Your man Gibbs sent it over. Graves is awake and talking.”

  “He is?” Emilia looked at Sparrow. “You must go at once.”

  He shook his head. “Not until we settle this matter between us.” Although he was incapable of giving her what she needed, he couldn’t see letting her go. The idea of each of them going their own way was unfathomable.

  “I am not going anywhere. But you must talk to the man who tried to kill me before he loses consciousness again.” She put a light hand on his arm. “Go. We’ll finish this later. I promise.”

  —

  Foul weather impeded his journey to Hastings. He rode in drenching rain and as he neared the coast, the wind whipped up in furious gales that left him bone-cold.

  Thoughts of Emilia kept him company along the way, warming him somewhat against the elements. Her smile, her temper, her obvious intelligence, liberally doused with insouciance, surprised and delighted him. Bedding her had been a singular experience, possibly the most intimate encounter of his life.

  His relationship with Emilia raised doubts in his mind about whether he’
d ever really loved Marie. Their tumultuous affair had led him to assume that all passionate romantic entanglements were, by nature, complicated and torturous. He’d most definitely been sexually obsessed with the beguiling French widow, but perhaps that was all. Emilia was passion itself, but with her freshness, honesty, and openness, she also meant so much more to him. No woman, including Marie, had every affected him as Emilia had.

  Which meant what, exactly? The truth sharpened in his mind until it was so crystal clear that he wondered how he could have ever missed it.

  He loved Emilia St. George.

  It wasn’t the idea of life with Emilia by his side that frightened him; it was the prospect of waking up every morning without her. Emilia’s words from earlier that day replayed in his mind. I want it all with a man who doesn’t just wish to bed me, but who loves me fully.

  She wanted more than lust. She wanted his love. It struck him as plain as day that she already had it. He just hadn’t realized it until this very moment. He wanted to shout the newfound revelation from the rooftops, to turn around and race back to town to tell her.

  Up ahead, through the fog and pouring rain, Foxhill came blurrily into view and the importance of his mission came back to him. Beneath the thatched-roof stone cottage lay Pierce Graves, the man who could tell him who wanted to harm Emilia. The professional assassin was the one person who possessed the information that would keep the woman Sparrow loved safe from harm.

  With a kick, he encouraged his mount up toward the cottage overlooking the bluff, where not so long ago, Boadicea had shown exemplary bravery by smashing Graves in the head with an enormous rock. The memory brought a smile to his lips. She’d saved his life in more ways than one. Now, it was his turn to return the favor and ensure Emilia’s safety once and for all. Only then would they be free to sort out matters between them.

  With a shout of encouragement barely audible above the roar of the storm, he directed his mount up the bluff and toward Graves. As soon as he came to a stop before the cottage, Jed appeared to take his mount and Trudy met him at the front door.