While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (14 page)

Ethan stared at the trees, their branches swaying in the morning breeze. “I know.”

“Already their reputations may be subject to scrutiny. Your arrival here last night did not go unnoticed.”

“I know.” His eyes never left the trees.

“Then you must also know I cannot allow you to stay another night, even another day, under my roof.”

“No, you couldn’t.” Ethan glanced down at the brown-and-green Turkish rug. “Unless—” Clenching his fists, he took a steady breath, then another.

There was no way around it. He’d known Brigham would object to his presence at Tanglewilde, would have objected himself if it was his daughter. God knew he’d tried to think of an alternative, something to appease Brigham and himself. He’d lain awake for hours turning the matter over in his mind, examining it from every conceivable angle. There was only one solution.

“Unless you tell everyone we’re”—Ethan’s throat seized, and he had to clear it—“betrothed.” The word sounded alien, one of the guttural foreign languages he could neither speak nor understand.

“Betrothed!” Brigham scoffed from behind him. “
You
? And
Francesca
? No one will believe it!”

Ethan turned to face him. “They’ll believe it when the news spreads I’m staying at Tanglewilde. Your wife should have no difficulty with that task.”

Brigham inserted a finger between his red neck and the cravat. “My wife is a bad liar.”

“Then let her believe it’s the truth. Let
everyone
believe it’s the truth.”

Brigham banged his hand on the desk and shot up. “By God, this goes too far!”

“Why?” Ethan demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t you want to do everything possible to protect your daughter? Plus the
ton
loves a romance. We’ll tell them your daughter and I fell in love after I rescued her from attack.”

“
You
rescued?” Brigham groped for the decanter of brandy behind him. Ethan didn’t think the man was even aware that he did so.

“It makes the story more believable.”

The viscount splashed a healthy dose of the brandy into a glass and drank. “For Francesca’s sake,” he said, lowering the glass. “I’d intended to keep the whole incident quiet.”

“You can’t. The news has already spread. How do you think I heard of it?”

Brigham’s eyes widened. The viscount apparently hadn’t considered that.

Ethan saw his opportunity. “You have two choices. Take control of the situation, and make it what you will. Or, allow the
ton
to twist it into something of their own creation.”

He could almost read Brigham’s thoughts as the viscount considered. After the news of the attack spread, the gossipmongers would have Francesca defiled and pregnant within the week. But news of a betrothal to the Marquess of Winterbourne would turn the talk down another path. Possibly protect her reputation.

Brigham sank down and dropped his head in his hands. “And what happens when this is all over?” he asked, voice muffled. “You can’t really mean to marry my daughter, and there are already rumors concerning her falling out with Roxbury.” He looked up. “Tongues will wag if another of her suitors jumps ship, so to speak.”

Roxbury and Francesca. For some inexplicable reason the thought of the two of them set Ethan on edge. He was even more edgy when he realized he had no concrete plan in mind for ending the mock-engagement. An amateur’s mistake. Everyone knew the first rule of espionage was to know one’s escape options.

She’d confessed she loved him last night. If she believed she was in love with him that would complicate his escape. Of course, it was probably only her fatigue and the medicine talking. She didn’t want to marry him any more than he wanted to wed her.

“When this is over, I’ll make sure no one faults your daughter,” he said ambiguously. “I assure you, she’ll emerge with her reputation unscathed.”

Brigham’s eyes narrowed. “And your own reputation?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

Brigham leaned back and took a sip of his brandy. “You know, Winterbourne, I believe you don’t.”

“I have a lot of work to do, so if we’re in agreement—”

“There is one last matter.”

Ethan knew there would be. It had been too easy.

“Give me your word, as a”—he faltered, unsure—“a
gentleman
, that you won’t touch my daughter. She’s not one of your London ladybirds.”

Ethan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He supposed he should have expected the slight. He’d done more than enough to deserve it over the years. And then there were the inevitable comparisons to his stepfather. He watched Brigham size him up, weighing his daughter’s virtue against her safety.

“You have my word, as a
gentleman
, that I will treat your daughter with the highest regard.”

His gaze met Brigham’s. They both knew he hadn’t promised what Brigham had requested.

“I’ll hold you to that,” the viscount told him.

“I’d expect nothing less.” Ethan strode out the door.

“I
don’t
know
who my attacker is. I didn’t see his face!” Francesca burst out, pulling the covers up to her chin. Thirty minutes before, she’d been safe and warm in the lush darkness of sleep. Now she was being interrogated by—she glared at Winterbourne—a
lunatic
. She didn’t know what else to call a man who ignored all rules of propriety, walked unescorted into her bedchamber—her
bedchamber
—woke her from a sound sleep, and proceeded to question her.

And all before she’d even cleaned her teeth!

“Tell me everything you remember, Miss Dashing,” Winterbourne said. Then, to her horror, he settled comfortably into the chair beside her bed. “Again, please.”

Again? Francesca stared at him. “Does my mother know you are here? My father?”

“Answer the question.”

Her head pounded and the scratches on her face hurt. She hadn’t asked for the looking glass, but she’d seen the way Winterbourne’s gaze lingered on her face and knew she had bruises.

“I already told you everything.” She notched the sheets a fraction higher over her chin.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking very comfortable and also much like a veritable giant in the delicate pink-and-white striped silk chair beside her bed. “Once more.”

She heaved an annoyed sigh. “I was walking back to the house from my hospital.” Her breathing shallowed once again as the trembling returned to her legs. The hysterical sobs she’d held back last night welled up in her throat once more. And this time she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop them. Wasn’t so certain that once she began screaming, she’d ever be able to stop. She had to make Winterbourne leave. Stall his questions until she was more composed, more herself.

Carefully prying her fingers from her forearms, where her nails left blood-red half-moons, she pressed them delicately against her stinging eyes. “I’m really not feeling very well at the moment, my lord. If you come back this afternoon, I’m confident I will feel more up to speaking about...it.”

“Just a few more minutes,” he said. She heard him lean forward.

Fighting to keep her quivers from spreading, she lowered her fingers from her eyes, set them deliberately on the bedclothes, and forced them to remain steady.

“I-I’m just so tired.” Her voice shook, and she tightened her fingers on the sheets.

She jumped when he reached out and unexpectedly took her hand in his. “Francesca, you’re safe now.”

She knew that. And, yet, she didn’t know. Didn’t know if she’d ever feel safe again. She looked into his amber eyes, so full of strength and confidence. His hand felt warm and steady around her cool shaky one. Already she felt the tremors in her body subsiding, not just suppressed by her force of will but also calmed by the steady reliability of Winterbourne’s strength.

“Let me help you,” he murmured. He was so close to her, and his voice was soft, persuasive—a prayer. His fingers moved against her palm, feather-light, tracing lazy circles over her tingling skin.

“I—” She stopped, not certain what she’d been about to say. His touch made her dizzy, lightheaded.

She looked down again to steel herself against the languid, sensual assault of his honeyed eyes. He wanted her to trust him, and when she looked into his eyes, she
wanted
to trust him. But it wasn’t that easy.

The attack was her fault, the result of her stupidity. He should be chastising her, berating her, not holding her hand.

“It’s not your fault, Francesca.”

She jerked in surprise. He’d practically read her mind.

“But it is.” She pulled her hand out of his and held it between them when he began to protest. “I stayed in the hospital too long. It was dark when I started back.” Her voice began to tremble, and she fought to keep it steady. “I was alone. I gave him the perfect opportunity.”

“Francesca—” His tone was soothing, but she wouldn’t allow him to comfort her.

“If I had just paid attention to the time. If I hadn’t stayed in the hospital so late.”

He shook his head as firmly as she nodded hers. She stretched both hands in front of her to ward off his objections. “I was so stupid! If I had asked one of the grooms—”

He grasped her wrists in his and pulled her off the mountain of pillows swallowing her. “Then he would have waited for another time, another opportunity.” He held her close, mere inches between them, and she could feel his heat, his warmth.

She shook her head again, trying to pull back, but he wouldn’t allow it.

“Or it would have been someone else—one of the maids. We don’t know that the attacker targeted you. There was nothing—”

“No!” She squeezed his hands, forcing him to listen. “He wanted
me
.”

“How do you know?” His fingers gripped hers, hard.

“Because—” Her voice faltered. He was staring at her intently, his entire body tense, attention riveted to her. “Because...”

She freed her hands and pressed her face into them, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping the curls that fell forward hid her shame. She couldn’t find the words to explain, not words that would make sense at any rate. She just
knew
. Somehow she knew the attack had been personal.

“What is it, Francesca?” Winterbourne’s voice was demanding. It jabbed at the pain in her head. When had he started calling her by her given name? “You can tell me.”

He sat back in the chair, and she should be grateful he’d given her a moment’s reprieve. Instead, the sudden loss of closeness, the comfort he offered, felt like another blow from the axe.

“Breathe.” Winterbourne’s voice was calm, soothing. “Take a deep breath. You’ll remember.”

She didn’t want to remember the feel of the man prying her knees apart, his gloves, slick and smooth on the skin of her thighs—

A stab of terror ripped through her, and she took hold of it and pushed it down. She glared at him, scooted away, pushing pillows in front of her as a barrier. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He held his hands up, palms out—a gesture begging for restraint. “I know it’s difficult, but I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.”

“I don’t want your help.” She pushed another pillow in front of her. “I want you to leave. I want to be alone now.”

He gazed at her, unperturbed. The dim light of the room played on his face, shadowing the harsh planes, making him seem more unyielding than usual.

Finally, he stood. “I’ll go now, but you won’t be rid of me. I’ll be just down the corridor.” Something about the tone in his voice sent a little tingle of awareness through her. Winterbourne’s bedchamber, mere footsteps away.

She glanced down at the white wool nightshift she wore. The high neck and thick material felt like flimsy protection against him when she felt so exposed and vulnerable. Why didn’t he leave her alone? She didn’t want to need him. Didn’t want to rely on the comfort he offered. She wanted to sink into sleep. To forget.

He was already striding for the door, pausing when he opened it, and turning back to her. “If you remember something or if you need me—”

“I won’t.”

“Send for me. I won’t be far,” he promised before shutting the door.

T
wo hours later, Francesca jumped when the door to the parlor opened, jolting her head against the damask couch she occupied. It throbbed in protest, but she schooled her features to hide the stab of pain. Her nerves were still on edge, and she couldn’t seem to make herself believe she was safe now.

She took a deep breath, trying to slow her rapid heartbeat, then gasped and felt her pulse gallop again when Winterbourne strode through the door. His eyes, honey-colored in the afternoon glow of sunlight streaming through the windows, warmed her immediately.

“Miss Dashing.” He shut the door behind him and stood sentry before it. They were alone together—again—and the sound of her rapid heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears.

“Lord Winterbourne.” Her breathy tone failed to emulate his imperiousness as she’d intended. “What are you doing here?”

“If you’d rather, we could talk in your bedchamber.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.