by Tessa Dare
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?”
“No movement.”
“Not a wrinkle. You’re certain.”
“Nothing.”
With a curse, Piers turned aside, whiffing the air with a strike of an imaginary cricket bat. This couldn’t be happening to him. He’d perfected the art of deceit in his childhood. How the devil was it possible that Charlotte Highwood could read him, when the rest of the world could not?
After a pause, Ridley asked, “What’s wrong with the waistcoat?”
“Nothing. But there’s nothing especially right with it, either.”
“The tailors told me it’s all the rage this season, that color. Called it curry.”
Piers shrugged.
The younger man gave a sigh of lament. “Were you ever going to tell me? Here I’m meant to be a marquess’s valet, and you’ve been letting me dress you in an unflattering waistcoat.”
“Enough about the waistcoat.”
Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Put his head back on straight. Rein his eyebrow into submission. Do his bloody duty.
He couldn’t risk losing his career. He wouldn’t know who he was anymore.
The very next day, whatever sport Sir Vernon proposed, Piers would find an excuse to leave their outing early. He would return to the manor alone, head to the library, open that locked drawer, and retrieve the information he’d been sent to gather.
From there, everything would fall into place.
He would announce his engagement to Charlotte before departing Nottinghamshire. His solicitors and Mrs. Highwood would no doubt require a few months to settle the marriage contracts and make wedding arrangements. They would have a Christmas wedding. Then winter at Oakhaven to work on starting an heir. By the time he was due back in London for the new session of Parliament, he would leave Charlotte pregnant and preoccupied at his estate—where she would be well out of sight of his left eyebrow and unable to disrupt his concentration.
There. He had a plan.
Now to execute it.
“Has there been any mention of the sport for tomorrow?” he asked Ridley. “Angling? Coursing? Shooting?”
“I heard something from the gamekeeper about plans for a proper foxhunt. But I doubt there’ll be any sport for two or three days. Maybe four.”
“Damn.” He could not spend two to four days, confined to this house with the entire party underfoot, and Charlotte provoking him to all manner of disastrous mistakes. “Why?”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Ridley raised a brow. “That’s why.”
Piers was a bit peeved. “Where did you acquire that irritating talent for perfectly timed foreshadowing?”
“Perhaps you missed that day of training, my lord.”
“Yes, well. At least I’m not rubbish with waistcoats.”
Piers sent Ridley to the servants’ quarters and waited an hour or so before gathering a candle and quietly leaving his room. If it was going to rain, he wouldn’t be able to do any searching during the day. That left him the nights—less than ideal. If he was caught poking around private rooms in the dark, explanations became much more difficult. But his stay was almost halfway over, and the damn British weather wasn’t leaving him much choice.
Moving in smooth, silent steps, Piers entered the corridor and turned toward the main stairs.
He hadn’t made but a few feet of progress before he froze and tightened his grip on the candle.
A still, shadowy figure hunched in the middle of the carpet, some ten paces ahead.
Piers took a few steps forward and lifted the candle to illuminate the space. He squinted and peered into the gloom. It took a few moments, but eventually he was able to make out . . .
Edmund.
The boy sat cross-legged at the head of the staircase, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. He held a wooden sword gripped in one hand. Gesturing with the other, he laid a finger to the side of his eye, then pointed it at Piers.
“I have my eye on you,” he whispered in an unnerving high-pitched rasp. “I know what you did.”
Right. Piers passed a hand over his face. So much for searching the house tonight.
He reached for a book on a nearby side table, lifting it and waving it for Edmund’s view, as though it were his entire reason for emerging from his bedchamber. Then he turned on his heel and went back the way he came.
After closing the door, he angled his taper to read the spine of the book he’d picked up.
The Collected Sermons of Rev. Calvin Marsters.
Well. That should put him to sleep.
He flung the book aside, irritated at having been thwarted by a child standing sentry, and sat on the bench to remove his boots. He might as well go to bed.
Then something in the darkness outside caught his eye. He moved closer to the window, extinguishing his own candle to better make it out.
A tiny, warm light flickered in the walled garden below. Darting this way and that. If he were a fanciful man, he would have thought it a fairy. But Piers had no such illusions.
Someone was moving about the garden in a strange, directionless fashion, bearing a small lamp or a single candle in hand.
The sight was odd. Suspicious. He needed to investigate.
But with Edmund standing—sitting, rather—sentry in the corridor, he couldn’t go that way. It would have to be out the window. What was it Charlotte had said? Down the ledge to the northwest corner, and from there a short leap to the plane tree.
He threw on a black coat, then opened the window as far as he could. His shoulders made for a much tighter squeeze than Charlotte had likely encountered. After a few twists and contortions, he managed to pull himself out and attain solid footing on the ledge.
What with the approaching rain, the night was windy. He had to take care. Facing outward and stretching his arms to either side, he edged his way along the lip of stone. When he felt a window with his leading hand, he first twisted his neck to check for any signs of someone stirring within. After he made sure no one was watching, he slunk across.
Before long, he had a rhythm established and was making swift progress. He reached the northwest corner with little difficulty and located the plane tree. As Charlotte had mentioned, a thick, leafy branch stretched most of the way toward the ledge, like a beckoning arm.
He sized up the distance and made a mental calculation. But just as he prepared to make the jump, a gust of wind kicked up and pushed him off-balance.
Too late to the abort the leap. He had to lean into it and pray for the best. The jump was ungainly and too short by half. He only just barely managed to grab the limb with one hand. He dangled there a moment, heart pounding, then reached up to
grab the knotty surface with the other.
By using his body weight as a pendulum, he managed to sway back and forth until he could hook one boot over the branch. From there, he swung himself upright and straddled the limb.
And found himself looking straight into the housekeeper’s window. He knew it was the housekeeper’s window, because the housekeeper was staring right back at him.
Brilliant.
Just bloody brilliant.
Allowing Sir Vernon to believe he defiled virgins on desktops was bad enough. Now he’d be caught peeping in at gray-haired housekeepers in their nightgowns? He was going to leave Parkhurst Manor with a reputation for sheer depravity.
Piers froze every muscle in his body and held his breath. The squinting housekeeper slowly raised a pair of spectacles to her face.
Before those spectacles could reach the bridge of her hooked nose, Piers dropped. His fall was broken by one branch; then another, until he collided with the ground with a muffled groan. He flattened himself at the base of the tree—hoping the housekeeper would blame it all on a trick of her eyes and the wind.
Also because he was hurting everywhere.
After a few minutes had passed and no alarm had gone up, Piers decided he was in the clear. He rose to his feet, brushed the dirt from his coat and trousers, and tried not to think about the magnificent bruises he’d be sporting the next day.
Instead, he rounded the corner of the house and headed for the enclosed garden.
Because of the high walls, he couldn’t even see the flickering light from this vantage. In fact, it was probably only visible from a few rooms of the manor other than his own.
Was the light bearer waiting on a midnight assignation? Hiding or burying something in the garden?
Piers found the iron gate slightly ajar, and as he pushed it inward, the hinges creaked.
The small, yellow light bobbing in the darkened garden stilled.
And then, a female whisper: “Who’s there?”
Piers exhaled in a rush. “Charlotte?”
“Piers.”
They walked toward one another, until they stood on opposite sides of the lamp she held. She wore her night rail and a dark cape, hastily tied. One look at her face told him something was gravely wrong.
