He was shaping her feet against his palms, learning the contours of her arches, and losing all interest in talk of treason and schemes.
“If you join me in this bed, Matilda, I cannot promise that sleeping is all we’ll do.” Her garters had been tied in simple bows, which Duncan released without raising her skirts. He rested his forehead against her knee, trying to collect his wits, to check the headlong rise of desire.
Desire—the third-to-last imp to leave Pandora’s box?
Matilda brushed her hand over his hair. “I can assure you, Duncan Wentworth, we will share more than slumber tonight, but first you have to help me out of this dress.”
* * *
The roads in rural Berkshire were a horror worthy of Dante’s purgatory, though Parker had no choice but to put up with them. The coach had broken a wheel in a frozen rut, and now—a few scant miles from his quarry—Parker was in a bitterly cold saddle, John Coachman riding beside him. A quarter moon on the snow made traveling on to the nearest inn possible, which was fortunate for Parker’s frozen backside.
The grooms, wheelers, and coach had been left in the last village, which, God be praised, boasted a wheelwright among its denizens. No lodging was to be had, though, and Parker wasn’t about to go into enemy territory after dark without a subordinate.
“I should send word to his lordship of our mishap,” John Coachman said, his breath clouding in the night air. “The marquess likes to know his vehicles are well maintained.”
Oh, right. Tattle to his lordship over a minor mishap. “What is your name?” Parker asked.
“Angus Nairn, sir.”
The name had been given after a slight hesitation. Coachmen were proud of their office, second coachmen doubtless prouder still.
“You’re a Scot? You don’t have an accent.”
“The burr was beaten out of me. I’m a coachman, and I wear his lordship’s livery. That’s all anybody need know of me.”
A fine answer that subtly emphasized Parker’s lack of authority. The marquess held Nairn’s loyalty, and not simply because he provided Nairn’s livelihood. In the military, Parker had enviable rank, but he was nonetheless a mere employee. One whose life was forfeit in the interest of a king who’d never done an honest day’s work in his exorbitantly expensive, indolent, royal life.
“Do you ever resent that livery, Nairn?”
“No, sir. I have honorable work, good teams, and generous pay.”
The breeze was picking up, and at this time of year, all breezes were bitter. Parker was bitter, unlike the coachman, who was grateful simply to stay out of the wet. Parker’s pay was not generous—not in peacetime—his shaving water was rarely as hot as he liked it, his tea never strong enough.
While his lordship the marquess, who’d never charged into enemy bayonets, had all the luxury and comfort a man could waste.
Matilda held the key to improving Parker’s fortunes, and he honestly hoped to spare her any criminal repercussions. She was sensible for the most part, and she’d bring some wealth to the marriage—always a fine thing in a bride.
“The White Pony is on the right,” Nairn said, as a huddle of buildings came into view at the bottom of a gentle declivity. “Humble, but it’s as close to Brightwell as we’ll get, if those two swindlers can be believed.”
“They played an honest game, Nairn. I simply wanted to curry their favor with some easy coin. Their directions have proven accurate so far.” Herman and Jeffrey had been left with the coach in the last village, the better to afford Parker time to gather intelligence unobserved. “We’ll scout the terrain tomorrow while the coach is being repaired. Miss Wakefield has been wandering this long, she won’t leave a comfortable nest when she doesn’t have to.”
“And if she chooses to remain in that comfortable nest?”
The village huddled in the bleak winter moonlight, a feeble glow spilling from a few windows.
“I’ll arrest her if she proves difficult. I care for my intended very much, but I know my duty.”
Nairn remained silent, though Parker had spoken nothing but the simple truth. Either way—arresting Matilda or marrying her—Parker’s fortunes would improve, and no superior officer would fault him for that objective.
Chapter Fourteen
“I would like to hear Stephen’s version of your stay in Prague,” Matilda said. “Yours was enraptured, agog at the beauty and history of the city.”
Duncan had given her the first turn behind the privacy screen, and yet, she needed to hear his voice as she took down her hair, needed to know he wasn’t summoning the footmen. The fear was ridiculous. Duncan Wentworth had given his word to help her, and he was spending the night with her.
Nonetheless, she was uneasy, once again thinking like a fugitive.
“Prague is unlike any other city we visited,” Duncan said. “I gather you’ve never been?”
“I have not. Moscow, three times, but never Prague.” The woman in the mirror was familiar and strange. She resembled the Matilda who’d seen much of the Continent with Papa, and yet, she was older, wiser, no longer innocent.
No longer simply Thomas Wakefield’s chess-playing oddity of a daughter, a woman without a country, or an eccentric nobleman’s British wife.
“I cannot believe the average Englishman will go much farther afield than Paris and Rome.” Duncan spoke over the sound of covers being turned back and batted smooth. “A pity, when great treasures lie farther afield. You could run, Matilda. Take up residence overseas.”
You could run. “Would you run with me?”
“Yes. We can leave in the morning.”
She braced herself against the washstand, unprepared for that swift, affirmative reply. “Duncan, if you come with me, you are…never mind.” They’d had that argument, and Duncan was nothing if not astute.
She unpinned her hair and applied the brush. “You should send your essay on Prague to the London publishers. Everybody raves about or complains about Paris or Rome. Your material is fresh, and your style original. People pay money for good writing, I’m told.”
Wearing nothing but his silk trousers, Duncan appeared behind her in the mirror. “If we leave England, we will live a precarious existence, always anticipating the Crown’s reach. Our children will be raised to the same life you abhorred, never staying in one place for long, never forming lasting friendships. Always wondering why Mama and Papa change the subject when their quiet conversations are interrupted by a child. Is that what you want, Matilda?”
That was exactly what she did not want. “I want to live. I want my father to live to a ripe old age surrounded by good art.” She also wanted a family with Duncan.
And a home of their own. Ah, well.
Duncan took the brush from her and used it in long, soothing strokes. “We will consider your situation at greater length in the morning. Their Graces are due for a visit any day, and Quinn is adept at survival under difficult circumstances. He has resources I lack, and he will put them at our disposal if I ask him to.”
“He’s that loyal?”
“He is, and Jane’s loyalty approaches the ferocity of a blood oath. May I have a lock of your hair?”
He asked, even about such a small gesture. “Of course.”
A soft snick followed, then Duncan was braiding Matilda’s hair. Where had he learned that skill? “What was your dream, Duncan? When you put that sad business in York behind you, what did you aspire to?”
“I aspired to be a schoolteacher. To guide the minds of the yeomen’s and tradesmen’s children. The wealthy have their universities, their public schools, and tutors. I sought to contribute where learning was a more precious commodity.”
A worthy, honorable dream. “You took on Lord Stephen’s education, and then you were saddled with Brightwell.”
“One of Jane’s more inspired notions.” He brushed Matilda’s braid aside and kissed her nape. “Her best, as it turns out. Shall we to bed?”
Matilda bundled against him, grateful be
yond words for his steadfast calm. “I’m frightened, Duncan. I was afraid before, afraid to die on the end of the rope, disgraced and condemned. Now I am afraid for you too. You really should have that dream.”
His arms came around her, secure and sheltering. “Most challenges benefit from measured consideration, and virtually every problem can wait until morning. Brightwell is of no interest to anybody, a neglected estate in the hands of a duke’s obscure relation. You are safe here with me.”
Six of the most precious words in the language, though the sentiment is entirely reciprocated ranked even above them. Matilda kissed him for that gift, kissed him for all of his many gifts, laid at her feet for no reason she could fathom.
“Take me to bed, Duncan.”
He obliged with lovemaking, when Matilda would have gloried in a mindless tumble that drove her worries aside for a few minutes and yielded a dreamless sleep. Duncan instead began with slow caresses, a tactile exploration of Matilda’s curves and hollows, her responses and sighs.
His kisses were tender, then plundering, then consuming as he backed her toward the bed and followed her down to the quilts.
“I want—” She yanked on his trousers.
He braced himself on one arm without breaking the kiss and kicked free of his clothing.
“Your chemise,” he muttered, skimming his mouth down to where her neck and shoulder joined.
Tossing aside her last garment took Matilda about three seconds, then she and Duncan were naked and panting. He settled over her and she twined her arms and legs around him.
“I want forever with you,” she said. “I want chess matches and travelogues and—” Children. God willing.
He kissed her before she could admit to that folly. “We’ll visit Prague on our honeymoon. In spring.”
“Please, yes.”
He began the joining with maddening self-restraint. Matilda marshalled the tattered remnants of her patience and set about to outlast him. He was relentless and determined. She was more determined still.
They played to another draw, both of them ceding the game at the same moment amid a conflagration of pleasure that stole every thought and worry from Matilda’s grasp.
“I’m done for,” she whispered, fingers trailing through Duncan’s hair. “Ruined for all time.”
He kissed her nose and levered up enough so that cool air eddied between them. “Ruin was never this satisfying before.”
Nothing in Matilda’s experience had been as satisfying as making love with Duncan. The gratification went beyond mere sensation to an intimacy of the heart and mind she’d never shared with another.
I cannot leave him. The thought coalesced as Duncan padded behind the privacy screen, his naked flanks gilded by firelight. I cannot abandon a man who has made my problems his own and promised me Prague in springtime. This was not a decision so much as an acceptance of the inevitable. Matilda’s path and his were one, no matter where that path took them. He was her home and her heart, and she, his.
He returned to the bed, a flannel in his hand. “For my lady.”
While Matilda tended to herself, Duncan banked the fire. He was comfortable in his own skin, a surprise given his reserved nature, and Matilda loved looking at him.
“How can you be dignified even when you have no clothes on?”
He set the poker on the hearth stand and pushed the screen against the stones. “Wentworths set little store by dignity, but we very much value our self-respect.” He climbed back under the covers and drew Matilda against his side. “You are tempted to resume worrying.”
“Worry has become a habit.”
“While solving puzzles is my habit.” He kissed her temple. “Go to sleep, and dream of our next game of chess.”
She fell asleep, dreaming of Duncan, and not of chess.
* * *
“Parker continues to sniff at each bush and hitching post,” Carlu said, “and his coach was last seen not five miles from Brightwell and making straight for the estate village.”
Thomas Wakefield pretended to study the letter on his blotter, though he already knew damned well what it said. “If you intend to bruit family secrets about, at least close the door.”
Carlu folded his arms. “Everybody in this household knows you’ve left Miss Matilda to the wolves. What we don’t know is why.”
Wakefield was having some difficulty with that question himself. “Because larger issues come to bear on her situation. Matilda should never have bolted the way she did.” Much less taken an epistle not intended for her eyes.
Carlu prowled the study like a hungry cat. “Parker has all but found her, and you wait here in London, sipping your tea and reading your mail. That is not the behavior of a loving father.”
That was the behavior of a desperate man. “Parker has not found her, more’s the pity. He’s a gentleman, he’ll deal with her carefully. She can tell him she simply lost interest in his suit and left London rather than give him his congé.” Please, ye saints and angels, let that be Matilda’s strategy.
Carlu advanced and slapped both palms on the desk. “She trounces Russian princelings at chess. She married a German duke and likely spent the wedding breakfast telling him how to run his duchy. Sending one presuming Englishman packing would not have challenged her but for your damned schemes.”
A promise of slow death burned in Carlu’s dark eyes. Perhaps he, like half the Continental nobility, had fallen in love with Matilda.
“Carlu, you forget yourself. I suspect you’re growing homesick.”
Carlu leaned nearer, bringing with him the scents of wool and leather. “I do not forget myself, Thomas Wakefield. The coach will be out front in a quarter hour. You and I, Petras and Tomas, are traveling to Berkshire.”
Wakefield rose, though his height would be no defense against the reflexes of a younger, angrier man.
“I have sent missive after missive to the general since Parker took a notion to go searching for Matilda. I have heard nothing in response. Now I learn damned Battersleigh was called to Gibraltar on some emergency or other, and I have no idea to whom I could take this matter in his absence.”
Carlu straightened. “Then you should have marched yourself down to Horse Guards and asked a few discreet questions. You excel at discreet questions. This whole scheme was General Battersleigh’s idea.”
A quiet little favor, Battersleigh had called it. A matter of military housekeeping.
“In Battersleigh’s absence, I will do as any experienced operative does when the lines of communication have gone silent. I’ll remain at my post and wait for further orders.”
Carlu’s mouth quirked in a smile rife with deadly charm. “Oh no, no, no, Mr. Wakefield. That might be the protocol for the military mules, bound in harness to their chain of command. Those of us entrusted with more delicate matters know that when we are without guidance from our superiors, we use our own judgment and make shift as best we can. Pack a bag, sir. We’re off to rescue a fair maiden.”
Leaving nobody to rescue her father. “Without Battersleigh to take a hand in matters, Matilda can see me hanged, Carlu. Parker would love that. Catch me out, now that I’ve retired, and Battersleigh nowhere to be found. That’s not how this game was supposed to end.”
Carlu headed for the door. “Parker all but has your daughter. This is no longer a game, and for as long as you took the coin of any willing to pay your price, you probably deserve to hang.”
“Then you hang with me.”
“We must, indeed, all hang together,” Carlu retorted, “or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.”
He was quoting some dastardly American, traitors the lot of them.
Which was fitting, given the situation.
* * *
“What do we know for certain?” Stephen asked, settling onto the wooden bench at the edge of the parterre.
Duncan knew absolutely that he was in love with Matilda Wakefield, and that—oddly and inconveniently—made analytical thought di
fficult. He tossed Stephen his coat and picked up the scythe.
“We know that one Colonel Lord Atticus Parker might consider himself her suitor, that Thomas Wakefield bides in London looking like a harmless art dealer, that Matilda is terrified. If her father was carrying secrets for foreign powers or stealing military plans to pass along to Britain’s foes, then her fear is justified.”
Stephen poked at the melting snow with his cane, making a pattern of holes in a perfect semi-circle.
“We have precious few facts, Duncan.”
Duncan took a swipe at the overgrown hedge. “We know Parker came upon Matilda translating a message that dealt with England invading France through the Low Countries.”
“Why invade France?” Stephen asked, resting his cane across his knees. “England is in a poor position to resume hostilities. The bulk of our seasoned troops are cashiered out or serving in far-flung locations, and the national exchequer is sorely depleted. Then too, the French pose no threat to anybody.”
Stephen was right, of course. Napoleon’s frolics had left France bankrupt, all but devoid of healthy men below the age of fifty, and plundered by its own army. The next crop of cannon fodder had yet to reach its majority, and, more pertinently, France had no functioning cannon left to speak of.
“In my essays,” Duncan said, swinging his scythe, “I mention the sad state of the French countryside, the devastation, the legacy of ruin left by the emperor.” Not because an Englishman was tempted to gloat, but because until the very end of the war, Napoleon’s fighting hadn’t taken place on French soil.
France had been looted by her own leadership and would be decades recovering.
“You mention the devastation,” Stephen said, pushing to his feet, “in the essays you’ve done nothing to see published. Matilda says you’re a literary genius.” He took up a rake, and in a halting, careful fashion, swept up the trimmings Duncan had cut from the hedge.
“When Matilda is under threat of death at the hands of the Crown, my scribblings are of no moment.” Be careful, Duncan wanted to add, because Stephen was none too steady on his legs, and the most difficult tasks for him were those that challenged his balance.
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