In Bed with a Spy (21 page)

“I
DON’T THINK ATTENDING
tea with the dowager marchioness is a good idea.” Lilias tapped the prettily written invitation against the palm of one hand. She had been brooding over the invitation for days, and now the afternoon of the tea had arrived.

“Nonsense. She inquired about your health after
the incident
, and has invited you to tea. It would be unpardonably rude not to attend. And Angelstone himself may appear.” Catherine’s eyes twinkled as she pulled a gown out of Lilias’s wardrobe. “You must wear the blue muslin, dear. It suits you.”

Lilias sighed and accepted the muslin. Catherine was correct. It would be rude. But that did not make her feel any less awkward about the visit. Having tea with her lover’s mother was beyond the bounds of propriety. But she dared not argue.

And so Lilias found herself greeted by the Angelstone butler, her pelisse was spirited away and she was sitting in the drawing room with a delicate teacup pressed into her hands and three Whitmore women eyeing her over the rims of their own teacups.

She smiled politely at them and calculated how long she would have to stay.

“I was so glad you could join us at the opera, but I was shocked to hear about the abduction.” The dowager marchioness’s thin features sharpened as she pressed her lips together. “Shocked! I couldn’t believe something like this could happen right in Drury Lane.”

“Was it terribly frightening?” Mrs. Whitmore asked, gentle eyes bright with concern. “I’m sure I would have been a bundle of nerves and hysteria.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Fairchild is afraid of very many things.” Elise, Lady Angelstone, laughed. “You strike me as quite full of fortitude.”

“I’m as fortitudinous as the next woman.” Lilias quirked her lips. “I promise you, when one’s life is in danger, it is amazing how much courage one can dredge up.”

The door to the drawing room burst open on a shout. “Mama! I’ve learned my sums! It was ever so hard until Uncle Angel helped me.” A little girl tumbled in, all knobbly elbows and flying braids. Dirt edged the hem of her pretty dress and a streak was smeared across her flushed cheek.

“Maggie,” he mother said sharply. “We have a guest. You will kindly make your curtsy and then go wash.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s face sobered into a polite little mask. But her eyes danced with mirth and mischief. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What is your name?”

“Maggie!” Her mother hissed as she started to push up from her chair.

“I’m Mrs. Fairchild,” Lilias interrupted, amused. “And you must be Margaret Whitmore. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. Your uncle has told me about you.”

“Oh.” A vertical line formed between her brows. “Are you trying to warm his bed, too? Grandmamma says—”

“Oh, dear God.” Mrs. Whitmore rushed toward the door, scooping up her young daughter along the way. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fairchild. Forgive us.” She started to push the girl out the door, embarrassed color flushing her cheeks.

Lilias slid her gaze toward the dowager, who didn’t appear the least bit repentant. The older woman continued to sip her tea, a brow raised as she waited for Lilias to react.

She could only laugh. Despite the fact that the dowager was sitting beside her and Lilias had, indeed, warmed Angel’s bed, she could only laugh at the awkward tableau and the truth of a child’s tongue.

“Mrs. Whitmore, do not think a moment about it. Your daughter is truly delightful. Maggie,” Lilias said, setting her cup down on the table. “Tell me all about how your Uncle Angel taught you your sums.”

The girl scooted around her mother and half ran to the settee. She leaned against the arm and grinned. The streak of dirt beside her mouth curved up.

“Uncle Angel took me to the park. He brought my soldiers with us—he knows all about formations, he used to be a soldier—and lined them up.” She walked her fingers across the cushion. “Like so.”

“Yes, I can see how that would be helpful.” Lilias nodded, as though she, too, could see the soldiers. “What did he do then?”

“He showed me that if you have soldiers in the right flank, and you move them over to the left flank, you have added them together. Two soldiers plus two soldiers makes four soldiers. Do you see?” She lifted shining eyes. “It was ever so hard, as I said. But Uncle Angel knows everything.”

“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.”

“S
HALL
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 beautiful 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.