UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL (2 page)

Lucille chuckled. “I am truly bad,
n’est-ce pas
? But I am no danger to these young things from whom he will choose. I don’t wish to marry again, merely to amuse myself. Will there be many handsome men, do you think?”

“Unfortunately not,” Theodora said. “I am acquainted with everyone on the guest list. Lady Westerly—” that was his lordship’s aunt “—has made a point of ensuring that all the male guests are either married, inept or dead bores.”

This wasn’t the best of news, but if Lucille flirted with the other men, as well, her concentration on Lord Westerly would not be obvious. If she sent him sensual dreams, too, it might suffice. There would be good food and drink, and festivities to keep her mind off things she preferred not to think about. And best of all, nothing to remind her of the game.

* * *

It was only a mile or so, but by the time Lord Valiant reached Westerly House, he didn’t have to feign feeling a trifle under the weather. Strange how the lack of any real danger robbed one of the usual grim control.

He urged his horse up the drive to where a gentleman and two ladies hovered outside a coach while footmen unloaded trunks and bandboxes. It seemed an ideal moment for a dramatic arrival until he glimpsed a familiar pair of wide violet eyes. He blinked, so astonished and overwhelmed by memory that he swayed in the saddle.

He stared. It was truly Lucie. Damn and blast the master. What was she doing here? A surge of rage sent him into wartime mode. This wasn’t what it seemed.

Back into the game.

As he slid off the horse, people hurried around the coach. “Highwaymen,” he croaked, grasping his injured arm and stumbling to one knee, sensing without seeing the contempt in Lucie’s gaze. “Winged me.”

“Heavens, how dreadful!” The other lady rushed forward—an ordinary-looking Englishwoman, not a conniving succubus. “Lord Westerly, send a man for the doctor,” she ordered. “James, Charles, help this poor man into the house.”

“Lord Valiant Oakenhurst?” said Lord Westerly as two footmen set down the trunk they carried and hurried around to help. “What the deuce are you doing in Hampshire?”

“Getting shot,” Valiant mumbled. “It’s only a scratch.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if in agonizing pain—actually, the throbbing in his arm was nothing compared to seeing Lucie again—and reopened them. “I could ask the same of you.”

“I live here,” Lord Westerly said.

“The devil you say.” Val infused surprise tinged with distaste into his voice, slung his good arm across the shoulders of one of the footmen, and made the most of staggering into the house.

* * *

What in the name of God and all the saints was Val doing here?

Lucille watched aghast as one footman helped her former lover into the house, while the other ran to the stables to send a groom for the doctor. She’d always wondered about his background, which could have been anything judging by the many roles he had played. Now she knew, and a cold trickle of fear invaded her gut. Oakenhurst was the family name of the Marquis of Staves. Val was not only a spy and assassin, but a man of power and influence in England.

Whereas she was a traitor to both France, the country of her birth, and England, which had given her sanctuary, and Valiant Oakenhurst was the only one who knew. What an unusual name Valiant was, but appropriate. She’d known him by several names, but during their intimacy he’d been simply Val.

But why would a man of high birth use a desperate ploy to gain entrance to Westerly House? The last time he’d shot himself in the arm, he had nearly bled to death. Lucille knew because she had been the one to save his life.

She’d caught that flicker of rage in his eyes. He still hated her, even though the war was over and France had gone down to bitter defeat. He had followed her for months after the betrayal and had had her watched during Napoleon’s first exile. She had lived in daily expectation of violent death. After Waterloo, she’d hoped it was all over. Lately, she had almost begun to believe she was safe.

Evidently not. None of it should matter anymore, but he would never understand, brutal, uncomplicated Englishman that he was. He had surely come here because of her, but how had he known she would be here? And what did he intend to do?

A ghastly question yawned chasm-like before her. Was she prepared to take his life to save her own?

* * *

Valiant hadn’t killed anyone for several months. With the war over and done he shouldn’t have to, but he knew a brief, furious urge to return to London and murder the master. He didn’t want to deal with Lucie.

Except to bed her. He didn’t think he would ever stop wanting that. An incubus should have a certain amount of natural resistance, but when it came to Lucie he was as susceptible as any other man. More so, because he’d fallen hopelessly, idiotically, in love with her, and then been devastated when she’d ruined his mission by warning a French spy, thus aiding the man’s escape.

Compared to that pain, the hole in Val’s arm was a mere twinge, and yet he had protected Lucie from the death she’d deserved at the risk of his own life. Did the master know about any of this? Had Val been sent here as some kind of test?

He lay back on the pillows, fuming. He didn’t give a damn about the master’s reasons. His life was his own now, but if he’d known Lucie would be here, he would have sought a less hazardous method of getting into the house party. He had already refused to let the doctor bleed him. His gunshot wound was a mere scratch—he’d done the job much better this time—but he couldn’t afford to handicap himself further. The mission had suddenly begun to matter.

By a stroke of good luck, Miss Southern, the capable lady who had ordered even Lord Westerly about, had designated herself mistress of the sickroom. This surprised him; he’d expected a manservant at best or a slattern at worst, since everyone knew about his reputation with women. He lay back on the pillows, hoping he looked harmless, and tried to mask the throbbing in his arm with erotic thoughts.

Theodora Southern wasn’t the sort of woman who appealed to him. She was pretty enough, but matter-of-fact and entirely without guile. Maybe she didn’t find men sexually attractive. He could probably change that temporarily, but it seemed as pointless now as it had in the office of the Master of the British Incubi. Rebellion simmered within him. He’d had enough of being manipulated...but for the moment, until he knew what was going on, he might as well do as he’d been told.

“You’re a stubborn man, Lord Valiant,” said Miss Southern after bidding the doctor farewell. “You’ll get a good sleep and feel much better in the morning, if only you will take this draught the doctor left for you.”

He gazed at her from under his lashes, smouldering as best he could. “I’m sure you’re right, Miss Southern,” he drawled, “but I prefer to remain in possession of...all...my powers.”

Had he made her blush? He couldn’t tell in the candlelight.

“As you wish.” She set the glass on the table by the bed. “I shall leave it here for you with some small beer to wash it down with if it tastes vile, as I’m sure it will. I must go to dinner now, but a servant will be here soon with some gruel. Unless you mean to refuse that, as well?”

He grinned at her, the same grin that had slain many hearts. “No, I prefer to remain at least partly in the good graces of my nurse.”

“It has nothing to do with my good graces,” she said crisply, “but rather your well-being.”

“How gratifying,” he purred, “to know you have my well-being at heart.”

“Of course,” she said, and would have left in a hurry, but he put up a hand.

“Tell me,” he said. “I know Lord Westerly from our Eton days, and I recognized Lady Westerly, his aunt, but who is the other lady who was outdoors when I arrived?”

“Madame Beaulieu is a friend of mine from London. Her carriage broke down near my parents’ house, so rather than stay with them she opted to come here with me.”

So that was how Lucie had managed it—a standard ploy, but she must have known he would find out and recognize it as such.

He let Miss Southern escape. He’d certainly had
some
effect on her. Once her firm footsteps died away, he got out of bed and crossed to his valise. He put his spare pistol under the covers and a knife beneath his pillow, although he doubted he could bring himself to use them. He climbed back into bed to wait.

He dozed until a servant girl arrived with the gruel. “Is everyone else at dinner?” he asked. “No other invalids but me?”

“Yes, my lord. No, my lord,” the girl said, blushing as she curtsied and left. He drank the gruel and allowed himself to sleep, reasonably sure Lucie would stay out of the way for at least a few hours.

She didn’t come to him in the flesh, but she invaded his dreams.

* * *

Lucille tried to concentrate on arousing Lord Westerly’s interest, but her tentative efforts at flirtation met with indifference. She didn’t know what to make of him. He was barely polite and more withdrawn than anyone she had ever known. She should persist—she had always persisted until her missions succeeded—but she couldn’t stop thinking about Val. “How is your patient?” she asked when Theodora hurried into the drawing room just before dinner, looking as if she had dressed all by guess.

“Reasonably well, but stubbornly refusing to taking a sleeping draught,” Theodora said. “Lord Westerly, he says you were friends at school.”

His lordship’s nostrils twitched. “We knew one another at Eton.”

Ah, so they hadn’t been friends—had perhaps disliked one another. That might explain Val’s desperate measures, although if he wanted to kill Lucille, he could have done it easily in London or in France or Spain during the war. Why here, and why now?

Lucille seethed with impatience all through dinner, followed by tea and whist. She found out the location of Lord Valiant’s bedchamber by asking Theodora if she meant to check on him before retiring.

“I suppose I must,” Theodora said. “I wish I needn’t.”

“But why?” Lucille said. “He is a good-looking man,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes, but...he makes me uncomfortable. He has a rakish air about him. Not that I haven’t encountered plenty of rakes—one can’t avoid them in London—but Lord Valiant is different. I am thankful there is no mistletoe in the house, for he is precisely the sort of man who would try to trap one under it.”

“No mistletoe? I hadn’t noticed. Is there none hereabouts, or does Lord Westerly disapprove of Christmas kisses?”

Theodora reddened. If it hadn’t already been obvious that she had a
tendre
for the man, it was now. “No, there is plenty of mistletoe, but Lord Westerly ordered it taken down. His aunt is upset, because she wanted him to have the opportunity to kiss all the young women she has invited without compromising any of them. Perhaps she will be relieved at his decision now that Lord Valiant is here. I don’t think Lord Westerly likes him.”

His lordship came up behind them. “No, I don’t,” he said, curt and tight as ever. “He is completely amoral where women are concerned. I’ll come with you.”

He is not truly amoral
, Lucille thought, wishing she could defend Val aloud. She shouldn’t want to defend a man who probably intended to kill her, but she had always been a fool where Val was concerned. Amorality was common amongst incubi—another of the reasons they were sometimes seen as demons and made excellent spies—but Val had his own code of honour, even if it was not quite the same as other men’s. Succubi made good spies, too, but that was an empty way of life, far worse for a woman than for a man. Lucille couldn’t bear it anymore.

She bade Theodora and Lord Westerly good-night and watched from her bedchamber doorway as they entered a room far down the corridor. Soon they emerged and retired to their respective chambers.

Lucille loaded one of her pistols, secreted a knife in her shawl, and set off down the corridor. When she reached Val’s door, she hesitated, tempted to storm right in. She didn’t suppose he waited gun in hand, ready to shoot her, but one never knew.

Besides, she was a civilized woman now, and it was more polite to knock.

* * *

“
Entrez
,” Valiant said, tossing a coin once more. So far, his throws had come up even—heads for Westerly to return alone, tails for Lucie. They both wanted to be rid of him.

This time it came up tails, and Lucie marched in, pointing a gun at him. “I would like to shoot you,” she said in French.

Valiant spread his good arm, hand wide open. The other arm, swathed in bandages, lay in full view. The shape of the gun showed clearly under the sheet but far from his hand. “Behold me entirely at your mercy.”

“Reminding me of the last time you said that will get you nowhere,” she said.

Then why had he dreamed of her over and over in the past several hours? She was an expert at sending powerful erotic dreams—as good or better than he was—and if she’d intended to distract him, she’d succeeded. His cock was as helpless as the rest of him when it came to Lucie. He’d wakened hot and aroused, and throwing off all covers but the sheet hadn’t cooled him down.

“It would if I weren’t a little under the weather,” he said. “I wouldn’t let the leech cup me, though, so I should be myself again by tomorrow.” God help him, he was ready for her right now. A vision of her climbing atop him made him shiver with lust. He buried that thought and waved a weary hand. “Once I am well again, you will be unable to resist.”

Her bosom swelled. “I’m not so eager for death that I would put myself in your power.”

He let himself enjoy the sight of her, remembered that chestnut hair spread upon the pillow, imagined cupping those lush breasts again and gripping that perfect behind... Plaintively he asked, “Not even the ‘little death’?”

She didn’t smile. “Why are you here?”

“That depends on why you’re here.”

She cocked the gun. Hell and damnation, she really meant it. Hard to believe that once upon a time she had said she loved him. “I certainly didn’t come to visit Lord Westerly,” he said. “We can’t stand the sight of one another.”

“Then why?” she snarled. “The war is over. You have had plenty of opportunities to punish me. Now it is time to leave me alone.”