Elizabeth Boyle (56 page)

The de Chevenoy servants had taken Celeste’s arrival into their midst, in her red silk skirts and colorful kerchief knotted around her head, with nary a bat of an eye, welcoming the stately mulatto to their home and apportioning the small room next to her mistress for her use.

Webb they’d given a more thoughtful and careful scrutiny, especially after Lily gave her rushed introduction that he was her fiancé and had seen her safely to Paris.

She and Webb had then been settled in the salon, while Mme. Costard went to prepare a tray for them and Costard directed the driver and guard in carting her trunks up to Adelaide’s room for Celeste to unpack.

“How long do you think it will take Mme. Costard to bring in the food? Perhaps I should go see what is taking her so long,” Lily offered, half rising from the sofa.

Webb shot her a reproachful glare that sent her back to her seat before he returned to perusing the thick book he’d plucked from a shelf.

If only, she thought, Adam hadn’t been so foolish as to be seen with the countess at the ball, she may have been able to bluff her way out of this assignment. But once Webb had laid his steely gaze on her friend with a fellow spy, she knew Adam’s life wouldn’t be worth a farthing if she didn’t offer Webb what he wanted most—her agreement to play Adelaide.

A bargain with the devil, she decided, glancing over at him, her foot tapping on the carpet.

He lounged like a young lion in the oversized chair. His tawny-brown hair lay brushed back in a very American-style queue, tied as it was with a black leather strip. One lock strayed free and curled over his forehead giving him an almost boyish look. He wore a somber black coat and buff breeches, with a white shirt and cravat completing his plain dress. Only his boots, glistening to a fine sheen, added any polish to his otherwise boring disguise.

He looked for all accounts the cover he and his father had devised, Mr. Milne, Yankee shipowner, and Adelaide’s fiancé.

Fiancé! Gads, she hated this ruse. It was bad enough having to spend the last few days jolting along in a carriage with him, but now they had to feign an affection for each other that neither of them felt.

At least Webb didn’t. She sighed softly and glanced away from him. Of that much she was sure.

Since her unveiling at Byrnewood in Adelaide’s new clothes, he’d said nothing more to her than was necessary and he’d rarely looked her in the face.

If only she could be so similarly afflicted.

But, like now, she found herself watching him, peeking out beneath her lashes and studying his hard features, the curve of his jaw, the cleft in his chin, the startling blue of his eyes.

Adam was just as handsome, she argued to herself. Some might say better looking, for unlike Webb, her Virginian neighbor knew how to smile. Yet it was Webb not Adam who made her heart quicken when he walked in a room.

Worse yet, every time he touched her, bumped into her in the carriage, the heat of his body, the touch of his fingers sent ripples of desire twining through her limbs.

Like moments ago, when he’d pulled her away from the secretary. A traitorous part of her wanted to get up and start overturning the furniture so as to have him haul her bodily into his arms.

She took a deep breath and let it out before she glanced back over at him. She tried to recall her hatred for him, issuing up images of him with Lady Marston, his hateful words that day in the maze, but the comfort they used to offer was lost. Instead it only brought another round of niggling questions.

Did he have another mistress now? Who was she? Did he miss her?

Lily knew he spent most of his time in France, so was the woman here in Paris or in some cozy country house just outside the city?

Mercy and Mary, she would drive herself crazy with this sudden return of every adolescent insecurity she’d ever possessed when it came to Webb Dryden.

If only there were a cure for this plaguing affection she’d contracted for the wrong man.

“When do you propose we start searching?” she asked, tired of the silence.

Webb closed his book with an annoyed snap. “When we can find an excuse to get the Costards out of the house. Thankfully Henri’s profession meant he kept a limited household staff, so it shouldn’t be much trouble to invent enough errands to get the pair out of the way for a good part of the day. Besides the most logical place to find the journals is in Henri’s study behind some hidden panel or strongbox, and the door to that room is locked.”

“How do you know?”

“I checked it when we came in. His study is the first door to the left. When no one was looking, I tried to open it. That’s why we’ll need the Costards out of the house—it may take me some time to pick the lock. Henri was a rather particular man about his study, and I am sure the lock on that door is the best money can buy.”

She got up, ignoring the scolding arch of his brows and paced across the room to stand by the mantel, feigning interest in the line of porcelain figurines displayed in a tidy row. Frolicking maids and lovesick shepherds. Lily turned from their bright happy faces. “What do we do until then?”

“You do what a young lady who’s spent the last few years cloistered in a convent would do, mind your betters.”

Lily sniffed. “When I meet someone who qualifies, I will.”

Webb laughed. “Just settle in. Besides the solicitor will be here soon and you’ll find out how wealthy you are.”

“Wonderful. A fortune at my disposal, and all I’m allowed to do is sit in this room.” Lily started prowling around the salon again eyeing the small tables, the portraits on the walls, and the gilt fixtures around the door and windows. “Maybe I’ll go upstairs and help Celeste unpack. At least then I’ll be doing something.” She started for the door again, but Webb was in front of her before she could take more than a few steps.

His hands went to her shoulders and he held her fast. “How would that look? The heiress unpacking her own trunks?”

She glanced over at his hand, where his fingers curled around her shoulder. His thumb rubbed against the bare skin where the gauzy lawn of her gown ended.

Unable to stop herself, she moved closer to him. She wondered again about his mistress and what kind of woman she was. Bold? Biddable? As hungry for his touch as she?

Lily didn’t want to know.

She only wanted to kiss him anew, to discover if her memories of their kisses were real. To taste once again the intoxicating ether of his lips which still burned through her veins and infected her senses.

“Hoyden,” he whispered, “don’t make this more difficult.” His hand now caressed her bare arm, his warm fingers sliding over her skin.

“You shouldn’t call me that.” She glanced up from beneath her lashes.

“Hoyden,” he said, softly, as if daring her to correct him.

She moved even closer, rising on her toes, her gaze never leaving his deep blue eyes, caught by the flickering emotion she found there, an emotion so unsettling, it almost set Lily back on her heels.

For there, reflected in Webb’s eyes, was the same raw need that coursed through her veins.

He wanted her.

She didn’t care that later she might regret it, that her eyes might only be seeing what she desired, she knew if she didn’t kiss him now, she’d never answer the questions that plagued her thoughts, both awake and asleep.

Bringing her lips to his, she let her experiment go forth.

To clear her conscience.

To appease her thundering desire.

The kiss started slowly, as if they were both tentative and unsure. The other two times they’d kissed had been born out of passion and anger, but now there seemed to be something else.

Longing.

As her mouth opened and welcomed his exploration, she knew her desire for him was only going to get worse.

Webb’s kiss was something worth dying for.

His tongue curved and danced with hers, teasing her to follow his enticing motions.

She sighed softly, stretching her body against his. Her arms wound around his neck, entwining her fingers in his hair.

He pulled her closer, his hands running along the small of her back and working their way up, stroking her and moving her just that much closer to him.

Webb wondered at his own sanity, as he deepened his kiss. He still couldn’t believe the seductive woman in his arms was the same annoying little hoyden he’d spent so many years avoiding.

How he wished for her damned bombazine again. At least wrapped in her hideous black gown, she didn’t stop his heart every time he looked at her.

His senses reeled as her hands roamed over his shoulders, caressing him, while her hips rocked expectantly against his.

His body responded with a hardening awareness of her every touch. His fingers toyed with the slim sleeve of her gown, teasing to push it aside.

For a second, Lily pulled away, her breath rapid and hot in his ear. “Webb, I …”

He didn’t want to hear anything other than her acquiescence, and so he covered her mouth again, kissing her deeper until the only sounds he heard were those of her soft moans of longing.

“
Aa-hem
.” The polite cough at the door drove them apart.

Webb whirled around to find Costard and a blinking rabbit of a man standing in the doorway.

So lost in kissing Lily, he hadn’t even heard their approach or that of the door opening.

Webb Dryden, the pride of the Foreign Office caught unawares because he’d been too preoccupied kissing?

He could hear the howls of laughter from his peers and the underlings in the hallways of the Thames-side government building.

“Ah, young love,” Costard said, nudging his elbow into the other man’s side. “Isn’t it a sight to make you long for your youth, eh, Troussebois?”

“Well, I … I …” the man said, blushing about four shades of red.

Behind him, Webb gauged from the sound of her frantic movements, Lily was doing her best to repair the damage and straighten her gown, for when she stepped around him, her serene appearance belied the passion that had been boiling between them not moments earlier. For himself, he could only tug his jacket down and hope he didn’t look as disheveled as he felt.

“Mistress,” Costard said, inclining his head to her. “My apologies at this interruption, but this is Monsieur Troussebois, your father’s solicitor.”

“How kind of you to come by on such short notice, Monsieur Troussebois,” Lily said, crossing the room, and allowing the solicitor to take her hand and bring it to his lips. Her brilliant smile seemed to fluster the man further, for he spilled the contents of his portfolio all over the carpet.

The man blushed scarlet and knelt to hastily pick up his papers, mumbling his hasty apologies and greetings in a jumbled mess.

When he’d composed himself and gathered his papers, stuffing them rather haphazardly into the black leather folder he carried, he stood and stared at her.

“I told you,” Costard said. “The very image of her mother, isn’t she?”

Troussebois gulped. “You forget, Costard. I never met the Comtesse de Chevenoy.”

At this point, Mme. Costard arrived bearing a heavy silver service, the tray laden with cakes and breads, along with a fragrant pot of coffee.

“Husband,” the lady said, “go find our dear lady’s portrait. It is in the attic, I think. The old master put it away after her death, for it grieved him to see what a treasure he had lost.” Mme. Costard smiled at Lily, her whiskery chin wobbling as she held back another bout of tears. “Would you like that, mistress? To have your mother’s portrait hung in this room?”

She inclined her head politely. “That would be lovely.”

With that the Costards left. Following Lily’s cool lead, Webb sat down next to her on the sofa, deliberately placing himself where they wouldn’t touch.

He hadn’t really given much thought to the type of man Henri de Chevenoy would hire—after meeting the kindly Costards, he certainly hadn’t expected this nervous man.

Bernard Troussebois stood no higher than Lily, his little pinched nose twitching like a rabbit’s as she introduced Webb as her dear fiancé.

Troussebois tipped up his spectacles and eyed Lily carefully, as if he didn’t quite believe this was indeed his new client.

Webb glanced at her and watched her cool demeanor. It was as if they’d never kissed, for he couldn’t see a trace of the fiery woman he’d held. She’d disappeared behind this professional mask.

He didn’t know whether to marvel at her skill or wonder if her entire performance, from the moment she’d stepped into his arms and driven his senses wild with her erotic touch until they’d been interrupted, had been an act.

Her punishment to him for forcing her to come to Paris.

Sweet torture indeed, he thought, considering the possible weeks ahead they would be in each other’s company until they found Henri’s journals.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to throw the little solicitor out right now and start searching the house immediately or delay finding the journals for as long as he could.

Lily heard Webb issue a deep sigh of resignation, or perhaps frustration, and glancing over at him, offered him a small smile. “Coffee, my love?”

He didn’t speak, only nodded at her in that tense sort of way of his.

Mercy and Mary
, she thought as she poured him his cup, adding the heavy dose of sugar and cream she knew he preferred, did the man have any heart to him?

Instead of an encouraging glance or any sign that their kiss had touched him in any way other than lust, he sat there poker straight, as if the entire meeting bored him.

Meanwhile, M. Troussebois shifted his tiny frame this way and that, until he seemed to find a comfortable spot in the chair. He’d tasted his coffee, then set it aside to open the leather folder he’d brought with him, sorting through his papers, absentmindedly dropping some, reviewing others, and for all Lily could tell, he had forgotten his client altogether.

Lily glanced over at Webb.

He shrugged his shoulders as if he too were at a loss as to what to make of the de Chevenoy solicitor.

Feeling ill at ease with the lack of conversation, Lily said, “Would you like some cake with your coffee, Monsieur Troussebois?”