Sapphires Are an Earl's Best Friend (20 page)

She stared at him, her jaw dropping open. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. I
see
you, Lily. I see all of you—the good and the bad—and I love you. Exactly as you are. I love
you
—Lily Dawson. Only you.”

A tear escaped one eye and made its way down her cheek, where Andrew reached out and caught it. His hand lingered on her cheek, caressing it, and then he leaned close and kissed first one eye and then the other. He pulled back, his gaze locked with hers. “What must I do? Stand on my head again? Say the word, Lily. I will do anything for you.” He released her suddenly and bent.

“What are you doing?”

“A handstand.”

She laughed and tugged at his waist. “No! Not again. It was awful enough the first time.”

He straightened. “Then tell me.”

“Yes.”

His brow furrowed. He looked so young and confused and utterly adorable.

“I said, yes. I will do you the
honor
of becoming your wife.”

He blinked, and then he let out a loud holler of joy and swept her off her feet and into his arms. She laughed and kicked her feet, but he spun her in a circle then dropped her on the bed. She laughed harder.

“You are not hoaxing me, are you? You mean it?”

“I mean it, though I think you should change your mind.”

“Never.” He fell on his knees beside the bed. “I do not want to be here without you, Lily. I want you as my duchess.”

“Is that the reason? I thought you wanted to tumble me again.”

He grinned. “Well, there’s that too.” And then he was beside her, his body warm against hers, his hands in her hair, freeing it of the pins she’d stuck here and there at some point to keep it out of her face. It felt so good to let it fall down onto the pillows, to let him work his hands through it, to look into his eyes and to see passion and admiration and, yes, love in them.

“I cannot believe this is happening to me,” she whispered.

He brushed his lips against hers. “Give me a few moments, love.”

She laughed again. He was always making her laugh. “I meant I cannot believe I am going to marry you. I cannot believe you love me. Do you know how long I have dreamed of this?”

“Years and years, I imagine.”

She swatted his shoulder. “You are horribly arrogant.”

“No. I am horribly obtuse. How is it I did not fall in love with you the first moment I saw you?” He would have gone on, but she put her finger over his lips.

“Stop talking, or I shall begin to weep again.”

“God forbid. No more weeping.”

“Then kiss me.” She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. “And do not ever stop.”

***

He had no intention of stopping, not now that she had agreed to be his. The past day had been the worst of his life. The only reason he made it through the ordeal was that Lily stood beside him. Every time he thought he could not go on, every time he thought he was at his limit of endurance or grief or anger or frustration, every time he began to seriously consider spending the rest of his life wallowing in abject humiliation rather than face the truth of who his father and mother were and what they had done, Andrew would raise his eyes and see Lily.

There was no pity for him in her eyes. There was no condemnation. He saw only love and admiration. He’d known she loved him before she ever said the words. He could look into her eyes and see that she thought he was the most wonderful creature to ever walk the earth. Had she always looked at him thus? If so, no wonder he avoided her. He knew his faults better than anyone. How could anyone truly love him if they knew all of his faults? Better that he disguise himself with false smiles and exaggerated wit. The entirety of Society adored the Darling of the
Ton
. But the Earl of Darlington—a man who did not always feel jovial, who made bad decisions, who at times felt at a loss as to how to manage his estates. That man was ever so tedious.

But Lily had not found him so, even though she’d known him as the Darling of the
Ton
. And there was more. He knew her faults too, and he thought he probably loved her more for them.

He linked his fingers with hers, twining their hands as he twined his body with hers. This was why he needed her. When he touched her, he felt he was sinking into another world—a world where farmer tenants, a leaky roof, and a father accused of treason faded away for a brief respite. He sank into the scent of her, the feel of her silky skin, the sound of her breathing. Her breathing matched his, and both of them were all but panting as clothes fell away and hands and mouths began to explore in earnest.

He would never tire of this. Never tire of the pleasure of her curves or the soft sounds she made when he stroked the dent of her waist or the swell of her breast. He was not a man who felt he could never be happy with one woman. He had always known when he married, he would be faithful. But he had never found the woman who could inspire such lofty thoughts of fidelity.

Until now.

Lily was all he needed. All he wanted.

He slid down her body, tasting and touching, listening to her gasps of breath and her sweet moans of urging. He kissed the back of her knee and the inside of her thigh, his kisses trailing upward until she was writhing and bucking against him. When she shattered, he wanted nothing more than to be inside her, to bury himself deep, but she looked up at him and said, “Your turn.”

Andrew’s eyes widened. “Lily, as much as I appreciate your eagerness to… ah… play the blanket flute, there are a few things you might improve in that endeavor.”

He expected indignity, but she merely cocked a brow. “Do go on. I feel as though my education as a courtesan is finally to commence.”

“This may not be the time.” He eased her back down. “I will prepare a tutorial later…” Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, her body so warm and inviting. He really could not wait much longer.

But she pushed him back and sat. “I’m ready now. If I’m going to become your wife, I should learn how to please you.”

“You
do
please me,” he protested, knowing it was all in vain.

“I swear to reward you by acting the attentive pupil.” She pushed him down. “I promise you, Your Grace, I am a quick learner.”

And hours later, as they both dozed off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, Andrew mused that she was indeed an admirable pupil. Either that or he was a particularly gifted instructor.

Her elbow landed in his midsection, and he coughed. “What was that for?”

“Practice,” she said with a yawn. “I imagine it will take a great deal of effort to keep you in line.”

That had been his thought regarding her exactly. And for it, he was rewarded with another elbow to the gut.

Available August 2014

from Sourcebooks Casablanca

Somewhere in Europe, 1816

She crept down the corridor, back to the wall, straining to place the voices of the men. Somewhere a woman was crying, a dog barked, and a horse-drawn cart rattled by. The stench of urine and blood burned her nostrils, but she moved forward.

Two men. Speaking French, though only one was a native speaker. The other, the accent sounded… Turkish? She turned her head from side to side to locate the voices.

Closed door.

Room at the end of the hall.

Three steps. Two. One.

She paused outside, drawing her knife. She didn’t want to risk her pistol misfiring and left it tucked inside her coat, along with a stash of balls and powder. She was dressed as a man because the clothing was more practical and attracted less attention, although she wouldn’t fool anyone who looked closely. And she didn’t care.

A man inside the room—the Frenchman—spoke again, and her hand stilled on the door’s latch.

“Reaper is dead,” she translated silently. “He took his life in prison.”

News traveled quickly, though not accurately. The report she’d seen claimed Foncé had gained access to Reaper and slit his throat. The leader of the Maîtriser group didn’t tolerate failure. When Foncé realized she, an agent of his hated Barbican group, had tracked two of his men to this ramshackle safe house, their lives would be forfeit as well. Perhaps that cold fact would be incentive for them to assist her in locating their leader.

Or perhaps it would only make them more eager to kill her.

Either way, the games were about to begin.

She pulled her hand away from the door, stepped back, raised a booted foot, and kicked. The thin wooden door splintered and shot open with a loud
crack
. The men jumped up, but they didn’t move quickly enough. Her knife flew from her fingers, catching one man in the shoulder and pinning him to the wall behind him. He screamed while the other man fumbled for his pistol. She obligingly reached for hers. “I’ll kill you before you even pack your powder,” she said in French. “Do us both a favor and lower your pistol before I’m forced to shoot you.”

“I don’t owe you any favors, Bonde,” the man holding the pistol sneered. He was called Tueur, and he was an assassin—one of Foncé’s best now that Reaper was dead. She wished she’d thrown the knife at him. They’d met before and, since he had been trying to kill her at the time, had not parted amicably.

But she could let bygones… and all of that rubbish. “That’s
Miss
Bonde to you. Shall we have a little chat?”

“No time today,” he said and threw the pistol. She ducked, and the weapon clattered to the floor behind her. She reached for it, tucked it in her waistband, then whirled back around. Tueur had wasted no time. He waved as he raced across the room and climbed out the window.

Bonde uttered a most unladylike expletive, her body pulled between Tueur and the Turk. She couldn’t split in half—that was the disadvantage of working alone. Working with another agent—that was the disadvantage of a partner.

She headed for the window, glancing at the Turk over her shoulder. A knife protruded from his neck. Tueur had made certain the other man wouldn’t talk. He’d also made her decision easy. She leaned out the window and spotted Tueur hanging from the faded awning of the shop below. He dropped to the ground and made a rude gesture.

Bygones were, apparently, not bygones in Tueur’s opinion.

She did a quick calculation, then dove out the window, pulling her knees in so when she landed on the awning she would roll easily to the edge. She held her breath for the free fall and felt the air whoosh out of her when she hit the fabric.

But she didn’t roll.

She heard an awful ripping sound and reached out just in time to catch the edge of the awning before she fell through. Her feet dangled above the hard cobblestones as the material slipped through her fingers. With a sigh, she let go, dropped and tumbled. The ground was hard, bruising her hip and shoulder. She hobbled to her feet and wiped her bloody hands on her trousers. Where was the dashed man? She glared left and then right.

Unfortunately, he’d seen her and took off at a fast clip.

She went after him, her hip protesting the movement. Red clouded her vision, and she realized her forehead was bleeding. She swiped the blood away and rounded a corner, emerging onto a busy avenue lined with carts and vendors. Men and women walked leisurely along the avenue, shopping on the lovely spring day. Bollocks! Again she’d lost him. And on a crowded street, no less.

Bonde noted a statue and raised fountain standing in a nearby esplanade and dodged horses and carriages to reach the monument. She climbed up, hanging on by one arm, and peered down the busy street. He was gone… no… wait.

There! He’d climbed into a Bath chair, which two men were hastily pulling away. She jumped down, searching for another chair for hire and realized Tueur had taken the last. She glanced about, her attention landing on a sporty gig. A footman waited beside the horse, presumably while the vehicle’s owner shopped for produce. Bonde ran for it, hopping up before the footman could protest. He stared at her dumbly for a moment, but when she snapped the reins, he grabbed for the horse’s bridle.

“Sorry!” she said, straining to control the skittish animal. The horse tried to rear and then shot off. Fortunately the beast chose the direction she wanted. Unfortunately, he was going much too fast for the crowded avenue. Men and women jumped out of the way as she struggled to gain the upper hand. The Bath chair was just ahead, but the horse bolted to the side before she could jerk him back. The gig’s wheel caught on the edge of a fruit stand, sending the vendor’s cart toppling over. Oranges and lemons tumbled into the street, and apples bounced in every direction. One bounced into the conveyance, and she caught it with one hand, took a bite, and snapped the reins.

She was grinning. She had Tueur now. He yelled furiously for the men pulling his chair to go faster, but they couldn’t compete in a race with a horse. She gained ground until she finally pulled alongside the chair. “Ready for our chat now?” she yelled.

“Go to the devil, Bonde!”

“You first,” she muttered, steering the horse closer to the chair so the men pulling it were forced to move aside. Tueur didn’t wait for the inevitable. He rose and jumped from the chair, smashing onto the ground. She reined in the horse and jumped nimbly down, landing on her feet and running to grab Tueur before he could rise. She collided with a woman carrying an armful of flowers, and the woman tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Bonde spit a daffodil from her mouth and kept running. But the delay cost her. Tueur was up again and moving quickly toward a busy alleyway, where artists sold jewelry, paintings, and mementos. She pictured the city map in her mind. At the end of the alley was a canal. If Tueur reached the canal, he could jump on a vessel and she’d never catch him.

She pushed two men out of the way and raced forward. Tueur saw her coming and began to jog. Some of the crowd saw them coming and parted, but others had to be thrust out of the way. Bonde jumped lithely over a stack of crates, wobbled, and regained her balance.

Tueur was definitely headed for the canal. If she lost him, M would have her head. She sped up just as a young mother holding a little girl’s hand stepped out from behind a stall. With a yell, Bonde narrowly avoided them and crashed into a flower cart. Everything went dark and floral for a moment, and when she surfaced, this time spitting tulip petals from her mouth, the flower girl screamed obscenities. At least Bonde
thought
they were obscenities. Amidst the haze of petals and stems, she could hardly remember in which country she’d landed and the native language spoken. She pulled a rose from her hair, handed it to the woman and arrowed for the canal.

Tueur was already there, and she saw his dilemma immediately. No vessels. Bonde reached for her pistol. She had him.

He saw her coming, then looked back at the water. Then back at her. He took a step forward.

“No!”

But it was already too late. He took two more steps back and fell. When she reached the edge of the canal the water was splashing back down, mud from below churning up and darkening the already filthy waterway.

“Come up. Swim, damn you,” she muttered. The ripples grew larger and the water stilled. She stared at the place he’d gone under for a long moment, her gaze scanning the rest of the canal.

Nothing moved.

“Bollocks,” she said.

“Hey!”

Bonde turned to see a crowd of angry merchants and shoppers approaching. Some waved damaged goods, some waved fists, some didn’t have the courtesy to wave.

“Bollocks,” she said again. There was nothing for it. She pulled off her cap, allowing her golden hair to spill down her back, and smiled prettily.