While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (25 page)

She was still pressed between his body and the makeshift desk. He released the light hold on the hand he held to his heart and traced a path from her shoulders to her waist. She leaned into him, shivering when his fingers dipped lower, caressing the swell of her hips.

She deepened the kiss, moving restlessly against him, no longer timid and afraid. He realized that if he could show her true pleasure, true ecstasy, he might be able to erase or undo the fear she’d shown in the hospital.

He inched his hands lower, filling his palms with the curve of her bottom, making her gasp and quiver in his arms. He took advantage of the momentary parting of their lips and moved his mouth to her neck, placing small kisses where her pulse beat a rapid rhythm.

“Let me show you pleasure,
cara
,” he murmured against her skin. As always, it smelled of chocolate and cinnamon. His fingers grasped the fabric of her serviceable gray-green gown and slid it higher.

She shook her head feebly. “No.”

He knew she felt the cool tack room air on her ankles and calves.

“I...shouldn’t.”

“Stop me at any point you choose.” The heat of her hand was warm and soft against the nape of his neck. “Tug on my hair with your fingers, and I give you my word I’ll stop.”

He inched her skirts higher, to her knees. She tensed her body in response. “Test me,” he whispered against her cheek. He raised the hem higher, imagining it skimming the backs of her knees, then he felt the small tug on his hair.

He froze, inched away, and, watching her, waited. Uncertainty and desire warred in her face. He moved one finger from her skirts and pressed it lightly against the back of her thigh. She shuddered.

“Do you want me to stop?” His finger sketched a lazy circle as he imagined how her skin would feel bared to his touch. “Let me show you.”

She hesitated, and Ethan ceased the motion of his finger. He didn’t want to influence her, persuade her. He wanted her to crave him as much as he craved her.

And he did crave her. Craved her so much he ached when he looked at her. He was mesmerized by her expression, a provocative mixture of the seductive and the innocent—her eyes too pure for him to question her inexperience, yet too darkly beautiful for him to resist their beguiling promises.

He waited, body taut as a piano wire, until, with aching sweetness, she once again touched her lips to his. At their joining, a tremor reverberated through him.

He lifted her skirts higher, now trailing his fingers in the wake of the fabric. She leaned into him, her lush body molding itself against his. Slowly, he slipped his legs between hers, hands coming to rest on the bare skin of her upper thighs as he eased her onto the wooden plank of the makeshift desk. She gave him a startled look, and he felt her hand, still resting on his neck, shift uncertainly. Then he ran his palms along the front of her thighs, down to her knees, and she arched, thrusting her neck into the crook of his shoulder with a soft moan.

He paused, welcoming her reaction and the feel of her silky skin under his fingers. He could imagine what she felt at that moment: the hard, smooth wood against the bare skin of her bottom, the cool air rushing along her bare legs where he’d lifted her skirts, and the touch of his fingers as he slid them from her knees along her sensitive inner thighs.

When he reached the juncture of those thighs, he pushed gently, coaxing her to open for him. At his slight insistence, she seemed to come to her senses.

“No. You shouldn’t.” Her voice was thick and low.

His fingers dipped, tangling in the soft hair under her skirts. “You know how to stop me,” he murmured, lowering his head so that his cheek rested against hers. He put his lips to her ear and felt the thick chocolate curls that had come loose from her upsweep brush silky against his chin. “Open for me,
cara
.”

Her head lolled back, and though she didn’t move her legs, he felt the muscles relax. He kissed her just under the line of her jaw, lips playing against the responsive skin as he eased the fingers of one hand between her legs, parting her with the other. He felt a jolt course through her when his finger touched her and then a small tremor.

She was moist, ready for him. With a slow, deliberate stroke, he caressed her, attuned to her every reaction—the quickening pace of her breathing, the trembling of her body, the small gasps as she clutched him, now with both hands.

“What’s happening?” Her words were punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.

“I’m touching you,
cara
.”

The fingers that had rested on his neck dug into the muscles of his shoulders, and he knew she would not stop him now. Knew she felt too much pleasure to go back.

“You like this,” he murmured against the velvet of her neck. She writhed against him in response. “This is pleasure,” he whispered. “I would fill you with pleasure. Fill you with me.”

With a swift stroke, his finger entered her, and her slick folds tightened around him. She moaned as he moved his thumb to the place where he knew she throbbed.

“I...I can’t think,” she gasped.

“Don’t think,” he directed, breathless himself. “Just feel.”

Shifting restlessly, she clutched him tighter, crying out, then plunging herself against him. “Oh, Ethan,” she cried as he stroked her. “Oh—” Her eyes met his, dark with stirrings of desire. “I knew you were bad,” she sighed, pushing against him.

“You have no idea.”

He moved his fingers deftly against her, taking her higher, measuring her reaction to gauge her pleasure. He could feel how close she was to climaxing again, and lowering his mouth to hers, reclaimed her lips in a penetrating kiss. She responded immediately, pulling him closer. And once again he was enveloped by her—rich and sweet and making him hunger for more. Through the haze of desire, he heard her knocking on something. For a moment he thought she had kicked one of the barrels supporting the wooden plank where she sat. But the sound continued.

Insistent.

He tore his mouth from hers. Devil take him if the knocking wasn’t coming from outside.

“Damn!”

Someone was tapping on the tack house door.

“My lord?” He heard an all-too-familiar male voice.

“A moment,” he answered. In one swift motion, he stepped away from Francesca, threw her skirts down, and, lifting her, set her down on the floor to the side of the makeshift table.

He flung himself into the rickety chair, ignored its loud squeal of disapproval. “Enter.”

The door creaked open, and Pocket peered through the shadows, white handkerchief in hand so his fingers did not touch the door handle. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you, my lord.” The valet stepped gingerly into the tack room. “But there is a matter we must discuss. I am afraid it cannot wait and requires your full attention.”

“What the hell is it?” Ethan scowled and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A quick glance at Francesca showed him her cheeks were flushed, her hair disheveled, and her dress wrinkled. She looked as though she’d just awakened from an erotic dream, pupils wide, gaze misty. She’d been attempting to straighten her gown but clasped her hands behind her back as soon as Pocket entered.

Ethan watched her pretend to study the stitching on the lady’s saddle hanging beside her. She looked completely absorbed and completely guilty. She’d never be any good at deception, he thought, and was unexpectedly pleased by the idea. Not so pleasing an idea was that at the moment her innate honesty worked against them. Anyone who gave her a passing glance would know she had been up to something she shouldn’t. And with the state of their attire, it would not be difficult to guess what.

“It’s that clutch-fisted Mrs. Priggers, my lord.” Pocket tiptoed forward, gripping his handkerchief between two fingers. “The woman refuses to provide me with additional drying oil, and, what with the state of your boots, I do not see how I shall ever render them waterproof if”—he stopped and teetered—“Oh, dear! I beg your pardon, miss!”

He’d finally noticed Francesca, who had turned away from the saddle and was straightening her skirts again. Ethan hadn’t bother with his shirt or cravat. “Miss Dashing, you know Mr. Pocklington, my valet.”

She gave Pocket a nervous smile. “Good day, sir.”

“Miss Dashing.” Pocket bowed nimbly. His sharp stare met Ethan’s and there was a distinct look of censure in his shrewd, iron-gray eyes. Ethan knew Pocket didn’t approve of his dalliances with women, though the loyal servant had never actually voiced an opinion. But from the deepening of the creases around the valet’s mouth, Ethan wondered if a lecture might not be in his future. Apparently, trollops in London were one thing, daughters of viscounts quite another.

There was one way guaranteed to distract the valet, though.

“You were saying something about drying oil, Pocket?”

The valet’s frown was replaced by pursed lips of indignation. “Yes, my lord. I am sorry to speak ill of your housekeeper.” He gave Francesca a cursory nod. “But, as I said, she refused—” His eyes widened. “Aagh!” Pocket shrieked.

Ethan jumped. “What is it?”

Pocket rushed forward, and Ethan leapt from his chair, spinning in a wild half circle. Where was his pistol? “What do you see, man?”

Without waiting for an answer, Ethan reached for Francesca, pushing her safely behind him as Pocket rushed by, bent down, and scooped his master’s tailcoat from the floor.

“Look at this!” Pocket’s voice rose to a near screech. He was holding the tailcoat aloft and shaking it vigorously. “Even my exceptionally thick-bristled brush will not clean
this
properly.”

Ethan scowled. He’d backed Francesca, wide-eyed and rigid, into a corner against the wall. Now he stood, arms outstretched and legs braced apart in front of her. It took a moment for his mind to grasp the fact that there was no real threat—besides the daggers shooting from Pocket’s eyes.

“Devil take it, Pocket!” Ethan lowered the arms shielding Francesca. “I thought it was something serious.”

He heard Francesca chuckle and realized how foolish he looked.

“This
is
serious, my lord,” Pocket huffed, shaking the tailcoat at him in accusation. “Need I remind you that your wardrobe is extremely limited at the moment? What, with the majority of your clothes at Winterbourne Hall and the rest at Grayson Park, I do not know how I shall ever keep you properly outfitted.”

Ethan could feel Francesca inching from behind him, hear her quiet giggles. He wanted to reach back and imprison her once again, recreate the sense of intimacy they’d shared a few moments before. But Pocket had hit his stride now. There was nothing to do but placate the man.

“I’ll send for the rest of my things from Grayson Park,” Ethan offered, feeling magnanimous and hoping Pocket would be mollified enough to leave the tack room. Instead, it was Francesca who scooted away from him—once again out of reach.

Pocket gave his lord a long-suffering look. “Pardon me, your lordship, but what good is fetching your garments from Grayson Park when you insist on soiling them?”

Ethan saw Francesca press her lips together, suppressing another fit of laughter. She was enjoying this—seeing his valet reprimand him—far too much. She was also edging closer to the door.

“And now I understand there is to be a betrothal ball,” Pocket continued. “And you have absolutely nothing to wear and—”

“Francesca,” Ethan interrupted as she reached for the doorknob.

She turned back to him and raised an amused eyebrow. He could see she was completely aware that, with his valet in the room, there was little he could do to forestall her.

“Yes, my lord?” Her voice was sugary sweet.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I would check on Nat. And perhaps you would like a few moments’ privacy to tend to your domestic affairs?”

Pocket was nodding his head in approval, and Ethan glowered at him. “That’s not necessary.”

She held up a hand. “Oh, no, I insist. Apparently, I have a ball to prepare for.” It didn’t surprise him that she’d given in. With her parents behind him, she must have known he would win. What troubled him was the way her eyes gleamed. It was as though she’d just realized how much exasperation a betrothal ball would cost him and was relishing the thought.

She turned to Pocket, standing beside her with his handkerchief in one hand and Ethan’s tailcoat in the other. “Mr. Pocklington, I would be happy to speak with Mrs. Priggers about the drying oil you need. Is there anything else you require?”

“Thank you, Miss Dashing.” Pocket inclined his head, gracious as ever. “And, as a matter of fact, I could use a few ounces of yellow wax.”

Francesca nodded.

“And turpentine,” Pocket added.

“Very good.” Francesca turned to the door again.

“Oh, and Burgundy pitch, if she has it, and some lye—”

“
Pocket
,” Ethan growled.

Pocket spread his hands. “If it is no trouble, miss.”

Francesca smiled. “It’s no trouble, but perhaps you should write me a list?”

“With all due haste, Miss Dashing.”

Francesca pulled the door open, her gray dress and tousled hair swirling around her as a chill November draft blew in. “No hurry, Mr. Pocklington,” she said above the wind’s sighing.

She gave Ethan a parting glance, not sympathetic in the least, and stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.

“Charming girl,” Pocket said in the room’s sudden silence.

“Charming? She’s a witch.” Ethan glanced out the window and spotted his sibyl heading toward the stables, where Nat was resting. The loyal Peter trailed behind her.

“A witch? Oh, dear me, no,” Pocket countered. “A sweet girl, if I ever saw one. And far too good for the likes of you,” he muttered the last and shook the tailcoat in tacit reproach.

Ethan watched Francesca greet Shepherd. The head coachman exited the stables, leading Thunder. Francesca approached the colt carefully, patting the horse’s nose then nuzzling her face into his neck when he didn’t quite shy away from her. How had she won the horse over so quickly? he wondered. Was it some kind of magic? It wouldn’t surprise him if tomorrow he learned wood sprites and elves from the hills and vales had taught her the art of enchantment.