Lord and Lady Spy (21 page)

The flowers, the lights, the enchanting music wafting over her made Sophia smile. She was glad her work for the evening was done—for the moment, anyway. She rarely if ever attended any social function for pleasure. Now, she was allowed a few moments’ pleasure, and this ball was the perfect venue.

Adrian found them a spot next to the dance floor, and she watched the couples glide by, executing the steps flawlessly and gracefully. Dukes and duchesses, knights and their ladies, even a foreign prince and his princess danced under the glittering chandelier crystals. They were dancing a quadrille, four couples in a square formation, and Sophia hoped the next dance would be another quadrille or a contredanse. She had no hope Dewhurst would allow a minuet. It was far too staid and old-fashioned for his taste, and if he had allowed it, it would have opened the ball.

She glanced at Adrian, wondering what he made of the ballroom. She expected to see him frowning, but he looked about with interest. Perhaps he didn’t detest these social affairs as much as he claimed. He hadn’t caught her watching him, so she didn’t look away. She studied the hard set of his square jaw. It was a strong jaw, but now she noted it had a small, jagged scar near the chin. She’d never seen it before.

Knowing they were being watched and feeling as though she should give the
ton
at least something to talk about over breakfast, she reached up and traced the scar with her gloved hand. Adrian didn’t react overtly, but she felt his body stiffen. “Let me guess,” she said, loudly enough for his ears but not with enough volume to carry any farther. “Knife fight?”

He glanced at her, his eyes warm. “Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.”

“Broken bottle in a tavern brawl?”

The music was slowing and the dance ending. She took a deep breath, preparing for their dance together. When was the last time they’d danced together? She was certain it was before their wedding.

Adrian took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. She noticed several couples moved out of their way, and several others rushed to join them. She heard the first strains of the waltz and almost groaned. Of course.

Adrian turned her to face him, took her in his arms, and said, “Not a tavern brawl. A kitten.”

She shook her head. She’d lost the trail of the conversation somewhere. “What did you say?”

“The scar. A kitten scratched me.” He turned her, expertly, and swept her across the floor. Sophia’s head was reeling from the dance.

“How did a kitten scratch you?”

“Oh, it was the proverbial cat caught in a tree. I climbed up and fetched it for a little girl.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“It makes a better story than a shaving mishap.”

He turned her again, and Sophia was glad she hadn’t partaken of the champagne. Her head was swimming. It was a heady enough feeling, being in Adrian’s arms, but having him hold her closely and twirl her about the dance floor took her breath away.

She’d never danced a waltz before. Oh, she’d learned it because, as Agent Saint, she never knew when such knowledge would be required. But when she and Adrian had been engaged, the waltz was not acceptable. It was barely acceptable now. Indeed, most of the girls making their first come-outs were not dancing. Sophia recalled Adrian and she had only ever danced together a handful of times. She thought if they ever had danced the waltz, she probably would have fallen in love with him right then.

She was in love with him now.

The knowledge did not surprise her, but her admission of her feelings was not exactly welcome. She didn’t want to love Adrian. Loving him made everything so much more complicated.

And their relationship was complicated enough.

She was Agent Saint, and he was Agent Wolf, but she was also Sophia and he, Adrian. Where did one identity stop and the other begin? When she’d worked for the Barbican group, she was almost always Agent Saint. Even between missions, she held on to the one part of herself she could be certain of. Now all of that was changing. She felt more like Sophia Galloway and less like Agent Saint. How could she go back to life as a spy? How could she ever reconcile the two parts of herself?

And yet, how could she
not
go back? If she lost the position to Adrian, she feared she would wither away and die of loneliness and boredom. She would grow to resent him as well—Agent Wolf, who left her for weeks, embarking on untold adventures.

And wouldn’t he feel the same if she were to win the Barbican position?

But one of them had to win, and the other would lose.

He turned her again, and when she gasped, he smiled at her. He didn’t smile much, and she felt herself melt with pleasure at his genuine happiness. What was she doing, analyzing and thinking so much she forgot to enjoy the moment? That was Adrian’s style, not hers.

Yes, she loved him. She loved Adrian Galloway and Agent Wolf and Lord Smythe. She loved every part of him, every facet. She loved her husband. She should love her husband. There was nothing wrong in that.

She saw her vulnerability and quickly popped the bubble of fear accompanying it. When was she just going to give in to this attraction, this love, and stop trying to shield herself? She took a deep breath. Everything in her—her instincts—told her now was the time. Adrian was right. She needed to stop questioning everything, take Adrian at his word, close her eyes, and just dance. No more thinking. No more second-guessing. She would let the music, let their new life carry her where it would.

Adrian leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You look beautiful. Have I told you that tonight?”

“No, but you certainly showed me your approval in the carriage.”

He touched the rubies at her ear, the brush of his fingertips making her shiver. “But I haven’t given you the words. You’re beautiful, Sophia. The most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Thank—”

He put a finger over her lips and lingered just long enough for heat to infuse her belly. “I’m not finished. You’re not only beautiful, you’re intelligent, daring, bewitching…” His fingers traced the rubies at her neck. Rubies he’d once given her but she’d never worn. His gaze met hers. “You’re the best operative I’ve ever worked with,
will
ever work with. I’m not saying that because you’re my wife. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

She blinked at him. This was her fantasy—Agent Wolf telling her she was beautiful, that she was a skilled operative. Only this was ten times better, because in her fantasy, Agent Wolf would clearly want her, but she’d have to refuse him because she was married. Tonight, she didn’t have to refuse Agent Wolf at all. She could have him. She could do every delicious thing she’d dreamed about doing with him and not feel one ounce of guilt, because Agent Wolf was her Adrian.

She became aware of Adrian’s hand on her back, dipping toward her waist. She felt the heavy, solid pressure of it, the way he used it to effortlessly guide her. She felt his other hand, cool and strong, holding hers, and she couldn’t help but glance at their joined hands.

Adrian followed her gaze, and she smelled his scent. She would have recognized it anywhere, but now she took a moment to decipher it—leather and boot polish, she thought. He smelled masculine, just as Agent Wolf should.

And he looked so handsome tonight with his stylish cravat and his carefully tousled hair. She wanted to loosen that cravat, run her fingers through that hair, and so much more.

As though sensing her thoughts, Adrian pulled her closer, so her breasts grazed his chest. Her nipples were instantly hard, pushing achingly against the fabric dividing her skin from his.

“What are you thinking?” he murmured.

“We’re dancing far too close for propriety,” she said, studying his eyes. The gray looked almost blue tonight.

“Liverpool said to give the
ton
something to talk about.”

“We’re doing that.”

He swept her around again. “What are you really thinking?”

She thought for a moment then decided, why not tell him? “This is my favorite fantasy.”

He furrowed his brows. “Dancing with me at Dewhurst’s ball? I’m sure we could have accomplished that long before.”

“No. I used to fantasize about Agent Wolf.”

His eyebrows shot up in a cocky expression. “Oh?”

She shook her head. She might come to regret this. “I’d heard so much about him, and I admired him. I dreamed about meeting him one day.”

“And what would he say to you?”

“He’d say he’d heard of me, and I was the best agent he knew of. Of course, I’d tell him he was better, and then he’d tell me I was beautiful…”

“I don’t think I like where this is going.” He turned her, this time a bit more roughly.

“It wouldn’t have gone anywhere. I would have walked away because I was married and loyal to my husband. But tonight I don’t have to walk away. I can go home with Agent Wolf.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “I can go to bed with Agent Wolf. I want to. I want to go to bed with my husband. I want you to make love to me, Adrian.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. His steps never faltered, and his gaze never left hers as they glided across the ballroom. Sophia was aware of others watching them. She was aware of a blur of faces and a hum of voices, but only Adrian was in focus for her. Only Adrian mattered.

He brought her hand to his lips. “What does that mean?”

She smiled. Adrian, ever cautious.

What did she mean, exactly? Was she truly ready? Was she willing to risk the hurt, the pain, the chance of loss again? Adrian pulled her tighter, and she knew she was. She wanted to be his wife again. She wanted a chance at a family with him, children. And if that chance never came, then she didn’t want to regret not trying.

And if she did conceive again, this time she wouldn’t be afraid. This time she wouldn’t hide in her room and fret over every movement or jostle. She would walk in the sun and fresh air. She would continue living her life and trust that everything would be all right—no matter how a pregnancy turned out. She would trust in her love for Adrian and the new marriage they were building together.

She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way her chest hitched. “It means exactly what you think it means.” His eyes darkened and emboldened her. “Shall I spell it out for you, Lord Smythe?”

He grinned over her knuckles. “Will I be able to keep dancing without making a spectacle of myself?”

“Probably not, but you like a challenge.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I don’t want you to touch me in the carriage. I want to wait until we’re home, in my bedroom, and then I want you to undress me, slowly, kissing every inch of me as you do so.”

He inhaled. “Sophia…”

She ignored him. “And I mean every inch, Adrian. Do it softly, delicately. Kiss my neck—you know where I like your mouth—kiss my ear, my shoulder, my breast, my navel, the back of my knee, the arch of my foot. I want it so slowly and so sweetly that it drives me to madness, and then I want you to take me. Hard. Rough.”

“Yes.” He was nodding, his eyes so dark now they were unreadable.

“Make me come with your mouth, and then I want you inside me.”

He almost stumbled. She felt the slight hesitation, but she knew no one else would have noticed.

She nodded. “I want you, Adrian. All of you. I want us to be husband and wife again. In truth.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

And before she could protest, he had her hand in his and was dragging her out of the ballroom. He didn’t do as she’d told him, but then had she really expected him to? Did she really want him to?

No.

So when the carriage set off, the lights from Dewhurst’s ball fading, and Adrian pulled her into his lap, she only smiled and turned to straddle him. His arms came around her waist, his hands pressing into her back. She could feel his muscled thighs under her legs, and she ran her hands over his hard chest. She wanted to rip his coat off, loosen his cravat with her teeth, and tear open his shirt.

She could only imagine the looks from the servants if they arrived home in that state, so she settled on touching her lips to his. She meant it to be a light kiss, something to hold them over until they reached the privacy of her bedroom, but as soon as her mouth met his, everything she’d held so tightly inside broke apart. A flood of passion washed over her, and she couldn’t seem to get enough of his lips. She wanted to devour them. She wanted to somehow link her mouth to his for all eternity. How had she survived without his lips on hers these past few hours?

Adrian’s reaction to her kiss was just as frenzied. He bit her lower lip, opened her mouth, and invaded. There was no other word for what he did to her. His mouth, his tongue, his teeth overwhelmed her. She could hardly catch her breath, and she didn’t want to. She never wanted him to stop.

Their tongues twined, fought, sought each other out even as she dug into his chest with her nails and he pressed her body close to his. She was pressed against him so his heat infused her, his scent became part of her. Oh, how she wished they were naked. Her clothes suddenly felt too cumbersome and heavy. The thin silk was like a brick wall, guarding her body from his.

“Damn these clothes,” she murmured into his mouth.

“I can’t wait to get you naked and beneath me.”

She pulled back. “Who said you could be on top?”

He grinned then bit her neck gently. “I do.”

“You don’t always get your way,” she said, arching to give him better access. His hands slid down and cupped her bottom.

“Oh, yes, I do.”

She felt his hand on her calf before she knew what he was doing. And then when she realized he was tracing a hot trail up her inner thigh, she considered stopping him. After all, he was trying to prove he always got his way. But when his finger stroked the top of her inner thigh, she decided she didn’t care if he always got his way. She
liked
his way.

His hand finally reached her center, and he cupped her lightly. “You’re so wet,” he said in her ear. “Let me see if I can make you wetter.”

His fingers stroked her, teased her, made her rock against him. He put his mouth to her breast, bit her nipple lightly. Even through all the layers of clothing, she could feel the warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth. “Adrian…” she moaned.