One Night With a Spy (9 page)

Stupid fellow. Marcus knew better.

But damn, she was good.

She'd had a lover, perhaps many. She'd likely drawn in man after man with that dewy, "protect me now" façade…

"Oftimes the best way to play a target is to use their own game."

Wise words from the Prime Minister—and quite probably the answer to Marcus's dilemma. He had the advantage. He knew her deepest weakness, her lustful nature… he also knew she found him attractive despite her caution.

There might be a reasonable explanation for the exotic pet. There might be a rational purpose behind the strange household staff. There might even be some sort of understandable reason for the wicked diaries—although he doubted it.

Yet he would never know unless he became closer to her—much, much closer.

As usual, he acted instantly.

He stood smoothly, one eye on the lion, who did not object this time. Marcus bowed deeply, smiled, and held out his hand. "My lady, would you care to walk with me through the garden?"

Julia blinked at the inviting light in his green eyes.
The garden
? There was little to see there but mulch and brown vines… yet her hand rose to nestle into his anyway.

"Yes," she heard herself say. "That would be lovely."

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The scent of the rose petals beneath seep into my bare skin until I feel steeped in perfume and passion and him.

Well, damn
. Marcus looked about him in alarm. The garden was a mess, all brown and dry. The rose garden he'd pictured from her diary entry was nothing but rows of skeletal sticks, truncated a foot from the ground. There was nothing but stripped vines covering the grim stone walls and nothing but yellowed grass and gravel on the ground. In the pearly morning light it looked more like a graveyard than a garden.

How was a bloke supposed to stage a seduction in such surroundings?

Lady Barrowby walked slightly ahead of him down the gravel path, her hands clasped behind her back. He noticed that her fingers were twisting together. Another display of girlish nerves from the Beauty of Barrowby?

That was reassuring, but also a reminder of their other companion, the great Beast who padded along at the lady's side, his tail twitching ominously.

Why was he having so much trouble with this mission? He knew what he needed to do and he knew how to make her respond to him. He was a charming fellow usually, prone to making ladies smile and flip their fans his way. What was it about Lady Barrowby that left him tongue-tied with mingled lust and fury?

Lust he'd felt before, so it must be the fury. He'd charmed the knickers off a few widows in his time, but he'd never faced one who held the power to destroy his dreams.

He was going to have to put his mission from his mind, that was all. He was going to have to pretend that she was just another pretty widow, albeit one with a penchant for lions and making love out of doors.

He bottled his fury, stoppered it and put it away for the day he would need it—the day he destroyed her. Finally, with a mind cleansed of anger, he stepped smartly up to her side and smiled down upon her with easy sincerity. "Lovely day, is it not?"

She blinked in surprise. Surely he'd not been all that much of a bear?

"Well," she said slowly. "It is chill and damp, I don't have a wrap, and I think I smell something dead over in the alliums."

"No," he said firmly. "It is a lovely day." He shrugged free of his coat and slipped it over her shoulders. "You do have a wrap." He steered her away from the alleged deceased down a pretty path lined by small trees whose arching branches in the summer must have met overhead in a charming shade. "And I don't smell anything but roses."

Thankfully, the Beast preferred to investigate the smellier portion of the garden and left them to their own devices.

She snorted. "Nicely done. The roses, however, exist only in your imagination, I fear."

He leaned close and inhaled deeply. Her eyes grew wide at his forward behavior.

"No," he said, his voice a caress. "I most definitely smell roses."

He saw her swallow hard and hot triumph flared within him. He fought it down. He was Marcus Blythe-Goodman now and Blythe-Goodman actually
liked
Lady Barrowby.

He straightened and grinned down at her. "Your name is not Julia," he declared, apropos of nothing.

She went very still. "W-what did you say?"

Interesting reaction, but to be stored away for later review. Now, he lightly touched a gloved finger to the tip of her nose. "I dub thee Helen, or perhaps Persephone."

Her breath gusted in a small, relieved laugh. "Oh, you are stuffed like a sausage full of blarney, Mr. Blythe-Goodman. And here I thought you a more discerning sort." She turned away, shaking her head.

He caught her hand and pulled her back to him. "Why?" He moved closer. "Because I compared you to legendary beauties?" He kept his voice low and intimate. "Or because I think you are a woman to tempt the gods?"

Her eyes locked on his. He felt her fingers tremble in his and felt his own body answer her shiver. Her lips parted and her warm breath feathered against his mouth.

"And are you tempted?" she whispered.

Hot need ignited in him and this time he let it flare. There was no chill now. Instead, there was heat, between them and around them, until Marcus feared they would set the desiccated garden aflame.

There was a ruin ahead, a garden affectation that had been fashionable a generation ago. Marcus took her hand tightly in his and dragged her several feet down the path until he came to the raised dais of the Roman-style temple.

Then he turned and wrapped his hands about her waist and lifted her to stand on the dais. She gasped, breathless from their run. Her cheeks were pink and her blue eyes alarmed. He liked her that way. "Mr. Bl—"

He couldn't wait another moment. He kissed her hard, with his hands in her hair and his body pressed to hers.

The hell of it was, she kissed him back.

She was going to hell, there was no doubt about it. Here she was, a widow of only a week, kissing another man.

And oh, sweet heaven, what a kiss!

His mouth was hot and needful and his hands were pulling her hair too hard and she felt his erection pressing into her belly through the layers of her gown—

She became aware that her own hands were fisted white-knuckled in the front of his weskit and she was making sure that her lower body didn't miss a bit of his.

And she'd never, ever heard that pleading hungry sound come from her own throat before.

No. I am not that woman.

She pushed him away, shoving hard against his shoulders until he staggered back. He stood there, his gaze blank with lust for a long moment.

"Sir, I fear you've gained the wrong impression of me."

He shook his head sharply and passed a hand over his face. "I am most assuredly impressed, my lady, but I think I am in the wrong." He laughed regretfully. "Have no fear, Lady Barrowby, I think I am definitely going to pay for overstepping so severely." He bowed. "My deepest apologies and my most heartfelt thanks. Good day."

With that confusing remark, he turned briskly on his heel and strode away, leaving his coat about her shoulders and a small helpless smile on her face.

Impressed, was he? And here that had been her very first kiss.

Marcus strode from the sleeping garden with his head down, fighting his own compulsion to return to the heat and pent-up passion that was Julia.

She'd kissed him as if she'd been waiting all her life for his lips on hers. God, she was a seductive creature. He reminded himself of all the men who had come before him. She had filled volumes with her exploits, for pity's sake!

The hell of it was, he ought to go back for the sake of his mission. He ought to press her, to work his advantage, to seduce the seducer—

"You bloody piker." There was no mistaking Elliot's supercilious drawl. Marcus lifted his head to see Elliot standing in the drive with the reins of two horses in his hands. A groom came forward to take them from him, but Elliot shook his head sharply. "No, Mr. Blythe-Goodman was just leaving."

Marcus narrowed his eyes, for it certainly seemed that he was about to embark on a journey. There stood his stallion alongside Elliot's nag, fresh and shiny from his pampering in the Middlebarrow stable, fully saddled and packed with what looked to be everything Marcus had brought with him on this mission.

"You really orta let me take them 'orses, sir."

Elliot ignored the groom, who shrugged helplessly and turned back to the stables.

"You cleaned out my room at the inn." He turned his gaze back to Elliot. "How thoughtful of you."

"Yes. I stopped by there late last night to tell you 'no hard feelings' and what did I behold? You weren't in bed as you'd claimed. I waited, thinking you'd decided to visit the privy after all the ale you drank, when it occurred to me that you spent the evening nursing a single flagon. And if you weren't drowning your sorrows, you had a reason to make me think you were."

"You came up with all that on your own?"

Elliot did not ease his glare. "I'm smarter than I look."

Marcus folded his arms. "One would hope."

"So I searched your room."

Marcus blinked. "You're bloody cool about it."

Elliot nodded slowly. "Do you know what I learned about you last night?"

Not a bloody thing
. He'd made sure there was no evidence of his real identity in his belongings.

"Not a bloody thing," Elliot said. "No letters, no medals from the war, no miniatures of your mother. Tell me, what sort of fellow carries nothing personal with him?"

An idiot, apparently. Damn, he ought to have fabricated Blythe-Goodman more carefully. And he sure as hell ought to have investigated Elliot No-surname immediately!

"So I decided to give you a hand with your packing. No real point in you staying on, after all." Elliot held out the reins. "Mount up. Your visit to Middlebarrow is over."

"Leaving so soon, Mr. Blythe-Goodman?"

Marcus turned to see Lady Barrowby exit the garden. He was about to answer her when Sebastian followed her through the open gate.

The two horses went instantly mad with fear. Elliot was pulled from his feet as both his nag and Marcus's stallion reared and spun about to race away down the drive. The groom came running back at the equine screams, but he was too late to do anything but help Elliot from the gravel as they all watched the shiny haunches of the horses disappear down the long drive. All except Elliot, of course, who gaped at Sebastian, blinking forcefully as if he were trying to convince himself that he wasn't really mad.

"Told you I orta had took them 'orses," the groom muttered.

"Thank you, Quentin," Lady Barrowby said with warning in her voice. "Do put Sebastian to his breakfast, if you will."

Quentin sighed heavily. "Yes, milady. Come on, 'Bastian. Let's get you a leg o' mutton from Cook."

The groom strolled off, hands in pockets, followed by the lion with long, eager strides that boded certain ill for some mutton's leg.

Elliot remembered to inhale at last. "My lady, I must inform you that your pet cat is not what you think he is."

Julia smiled. "Do tell, Mr. Elliot."

Elliot blinked, then glared at Marcus anew. "You weren't surprised at all!"

Marcus sent a nonchalant glance after Quentin and Sebastian. "Oh, about the lion? Heavens, no. Sebastian and I are old friends."

Lady Barrowby's lips quirked. "Absolutely ancient. In fact, Mr. Blythe-Goodman was just about to help me bathe him. It seems Sebastian found something deceased to roll in."

Marcus blinked. "Er, yes… well… I would, you see—can't think of anything I'd like to do more, but now I must chase down my horse. Elliot would be more than happy to assist you, I'm sure."

Elliot blinked. "Er… ah… I fear my horse has run off as well. I hate to leave you in the lurch, my lady, but—"

"Shall I call Quentin back to aid you?" She turned to call after the groom.

"No!"

She turned to look at Marcus, surprised by the force of his refusal. The thought of Quentin strolling back with lion in tow was more than he was truly able to cope with at the moment.

Elliot was violently shaking his head as well. "Thank you but no, my lady. I'm sure Quentin has more important matters to attend to."

Lady Barrowby shook her head. "Oh, go on. Run off like a pair of spooked horses. You may return for luncheon later, if you like."

Elliot bobbed a quick bow. "I shall return, my lady, but I'm sure Blythe-Goodman wishes to get an early start—"

"I'll be but moments, my lady," Marcus said briskly. He slid a glance at Elliot. "My mount won't run far. He is well trained, unlike some."

Lady Barrowby put up a hand. "Do stop growling at each other and go fetch your horses."

They quieted, but not before Elliot got the last word in. "My horse won't run as far as yours because he can't."

"Now that I believe," Marcus shot back, as they watched Lady Barrowby stroll away.

When Julia had settled Sebastian back into his quarters—he stank after rolling in the dead thing, so she rubbed him down with dried mint leaves, leaving him smelling like something that had died from eating too much mint—she made her way slowly back to the main house.

She'd kissed Mr. Blythe-Goodman. Really, truly kissed him—open lips, battling tongues, urgent hands and all. That was a terrible thing to have done, especially since only last night she had promised herself to Mr. Elliot.

Mr. Blythe-Goodman brought out the worst in her. Every person had some devil inside them, be it drink or rich foods or the compulsion to collect great numbers of small yapping dogs. Her devil was apparently Marcus Blythe-Goodman.

The only cure for such an affliction was complete abstinence. She was going to have to avoid him most diligently in the future.

Except for luncheon, of course. But after that, she would be on a strict diet of Elliot and Elliot alone. Blast it.