While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0)

by Shana Galen

  “Because it’s the only way to keep you safe. I want you with me in Yorkshire, at Winterbourne Hall, where nothing and no one can reach you.”

  She pressed her lips together and looked down at the floor. “Of course.”

  No, he didn’t need to tell her the truth. But he would anyway. He went to her, placed one finger under her chin, and nudged her face up to his.

  “And because I need you. I was thinking of Victoria this morning, not only because I regretted the way I’d behaved, the way I lost control, but also because I regret what I allowed her to take from me—my ability to trust people, to believe in anyone. But I want to believe in you, cara. I want to trust you.”

  His fingers spread out along her cheek, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes. “I will marry you tomorrow, not because I feel obligated, but because I want to be with you.” His heart thudded in his chest at the words, the most difficult of any he’d ever uttered.

  She opened her eyes, and he forced himself to go on.

  “Marry me, cara.”

  She paused for the briefest of moments. In that split second, the flash of fear and vulnerability that rose in him was so powerful it took all he had not to rescind the offer, to walk away, turn his back on her.

  “I will,” he heard her whisper.

  He’d never imagined two words could give him so much happiness. Or so much dread.

  Twenty-nine

  Francesca watched Ethan climb the luxurious coach and four and settle on the plush green-and-gold squabs across from her and Lino. He frowned at the dog. Lino gave a yip, and Francesca laughed.

  “He’s ready.” Ethan nodded to Lino then looked at her. “Are you?”

  She held her breath as his warm amber gaze flowed over her. This was it. The beginning of her new life. She took a deep breath before nodding. Eyes never leaving her face, Ethan rapped twice on the roof of the coach, and the vehicle lurched into motion.

  Ethan. Her husband. Though she still wore her wedding attire, she could hardly believe she was a marchioness now. She glanced down at her pale flowing gown with its wide pink ribbon sashed just above her waist. The bouquet of pink and white roses she clutched matched the wreath in her hair. She was a bride.

  Ethan’s wife.

  His wife! Her heart swelled with happiness she feared she could not contain. She wanted to laugh, run, jump, scream. She was married to Ethan Caxton. It was a dream come true.

  Halfway down the drive, Francesca tore her attention from her new husband and stuck her head out the window to wave to her family. They had gathered together in a tight cluster, the servants lined up according to rank behind her parents. Her father stood with a supportive arm around her mother’s waist. She liked the image. It was just as she wanted to remember them.

  Francesca clutched her hands together to staunch a flood of tears. She would miss everyone so much, but she couldn’t deny that she was ecstatic at the prospect of her new life in Yorkshire. From all accounts, the Yorkshire countryside was wild and beautiful, and Winterbourne Hall was supposed to be very grand.

  And she would be its mistress. She shook her head in disbelief.

  She gave one last wave, and her brother, John, who’d just arrived the night before from Eton, returned it. Lucia was beside John, but her sister’s eyes were not on the carriage. Rather she was watching Selbourne; he’d already turned away and strode down the path to the stables.

  “Oh, Lord,” Francesca murmured. Lucia had been at Selbourne’s side since setting eyes on him this morning—an instant infatuation. A harmless one as well, Francesca had decided, since she knew enough of Ethan and his brother to trust that Alex would never take advantage of a mere girl.

  Still Francesca had warned her sister not to set her sights on Lord Selbourne. His reputation was appalling—worse than Ethan’s.

  But Lucia hadn’t seemed to register the advice. As soon as Francesca had said his name, Lucia had gazed wistfully at Selbourne. “Isn’t he just the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?”

  Francesca waved until she couldn’t see her family anymore, and then she stared out the window, trying to commit everything to memory—the little thatched cottages, the rise and fall of the road, the brooks and streams and quaint bridges. She looked long and hard until she no longer recognized the landscape and then she sat back in her seat and looked at Ethan.

  Her husband.

  His brows rose in question when she looked away from the window. “See anything new?”

  “No. I don’t want to forget any of it.”

  “I know.”

  And she believed he did. He’d always seemed to understand her love of Tanglewilde and the Hampshire countryside. She would miss it so much.

  Her wistful feelings must have shown on her face.

  “We’ll come back to visit, and you’ll like Yorkshire.” His voice was confident, reassuring. “The landscape is much wilder than what you’re used to, far less tame.” He grinned. “It will definitely suit you.”

  Yorkshire—her new home with her new husband. Though she would miss Hampshire, she would have gone to the ends of the world with Ethan.

  She squared her shoulders. “I’m not wild or untamed. I think you’ll find soon enough how terribly ordinary I am.”

  Her voice was light as she spoke, but deep down the prospect did worry her. How could she—plain, unsophisticated Francesca Dashing—ever hope to keep the interest of a man like the Marquess of Winterbourne, even if he was her husband? As much as she wanted it to be, their marriage wasn’t a true marriage. Not yet. It would only be a true marriage when Ethan trusted her and opened his heart to her. She had to make him fall in love with her...somehow.

  Ethan leaned forward and took her hands. “You’re anything but ordinary, cara. You surprise me every day.”

  Astonished, she sputtered, “I do?”

  “Part of the reason I wanted to marry you.” He winked. “Keep my life interesting.” He pulled her forward until she was on the edge of her seat, and then he cupped her face and kissed her. The kiss deepened, and she felt his arms come around her, urging her into his lap. She reached for him and heard a sharp yip. When she didn’t respond, Lino yapped again and jumped on her legs. A moment later, he stuck his wet nose between them and began licking their chins.

  Ethan swore, breaking the kiss, but Francesca laughed and gave Lino an affectionate pat on the head. “Poor baby. I think he wants some attention.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ethan mumbled, sitting back once more.

  Francesca scratched Lino behind the ears, under the chin, and rubbed his tummy until the puppy was content and sleeping on the cushion beside her. Then she glanced back at Ethan. He brooded, sitting far back in his seat, arms crossed, and a frown on his face. She still found him irresistibly handsome.

  “We’re actually married,” she said, ignoring his bad mood because, since she’d gotten her way and convinced him to allow her to bring Lino and most of her other babies with them, she could afford to be magnanimous.

  “I believe that was the purpose of the ceremony this morning,” he grumbled.

  Francesca thought back to the simple wedding. She had never been so happy. She felt safe and warm with Ethan beside her, his steady voice confident as he’d said his vows. He’d pledged to keep and protect her, love and cherish her until death. She wondered if he took his vows as seriously as she took hers.

  Since their conversation in the library the morning before, she felt closer to him. He’d finally told her the truth about Victoria and the terrible tragedy that had befallen his sister—even hinting about his involvement with the Foreign Office, though not elaborating, of course. She understood his wariness and distrust better now. It was obvious Ethan didn’t trust people because he was afraid of being hurt again.

  Not that he would ever admit to being afraid, but in her mind that was the crux of the matter. Fear and a sense of self-protection. And those were two emotions she could understand very well. Hadn’t they played a part in her
own reluctance to reveal her abuse at Roxbury’s hands?

  He needed her as much as she needed him, and he had said he wanted to trust her. If only he would allow her into his heart. If only he could love her...

  She sighed and closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the grueling past few days pressing down on her. She couldn’t make him love her or trust her. But she would try.

  The next morning Francesca had a vague recollection of Ethan carrying her, her cheek pressed against his chest, and his scent of leather and sandalwood. When she’d peered through heavy lids to ask where they were, he’d murmured, “Sleep, cara.”

  Now she looked through the coach curtains at the inn yard and wondered how she could have slept so soundly. She didn’t even know if Ethan had slept in the same bed as she.

  A moment later, he climbed into the coach and a footman shut the door.

  “Where’s Lino?” she asked.

  He grinned, eyes dark with promise. Francesca’s breath hitched.

  “In the coach with your maid and Pocket.”

  “Oh, but Mr. Pocklington won’t like that,” she said, rising. “He detests dog hair, and—”

  “Francesca.” Ethan’s hand on hers stopped her. “Pocket will be fine.” His fingers brushed against the inside of her wrist, and she abruptly sat back down.

  “Did you sleep well?” Something about the velvet tone of his voice caused her to snap her eyes to his. His gaze roved over her, and she felt the warmth of his perusal cut the November chill. “You were exhausted. Didn’t even wake when I carried you up the stairs.”

  “I woke for a moment.”

  “Mmm.” He kissed her knuckles, making her she realize that in her haste this morning she’d forgotten her gloves.

  “Then you slept well?” he asked again, running his lips over her fingers.

  She stared at his mouth, transfixed by the sensuous curve of his lips. Lips she was beginning to know so well, lips that had touched her so intimately, lips that were touching her again now.

  “Francesca?” he murmured.

  “Yes?” she whispered. Then, “Oh, I slept like the dead.”

  “Mmm.” He moved his thumb to trace a lazy circle on her palm. She took a shuddering breath.

  “I noticed. You barely fluttered an eyelash when I undressed you.”

  His finger brushed against the inside of her wrist, and she gasped.

  “Y-you undressed me?” she managed, hoping her face didn’t look too much like a tomato. She knew she shouldn’t be so embarrassed. She was his wife, after all, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her unclothed. But when his gaze swept down her body and back up again, she heated in every pore where his stare lingered, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d inspected her so thoroughly the night before.

  “Where did you sleep?” She averted her eyes, looking quickly at her simple traveling gown. He didn’t answer right away, and when she looked away from the russet material and into his eyes, she saw they were lit with mischief.

  “With you.” He crossed to her, and she leaned back, pressing herself against the soft squabs of the carriage. Now that she was sufficiently captured, he lowered his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. His breath tickled her ear as he whispered.

  “Drove me mad. Your body, warm and silky, curled up next to mine.”

  Her body was swimming with desire. Her cheeks alone were so hot that she feared they’d burst into flame. And that wasn’t the only part of her suffering from excess warmth at the moment.

  “God, I wanted you.” He ran his tongue lightly over her earlobe.

  She let out a stifled cry.

  “But you slept the night away. Peaceful. Serene. While I was in Hell.”

  “I never knew you were so much the gentleman.” His desire for her made her bold, playful. The blatant longing she’d seen in his eyes stunned her. She would have never believed a man would look at her as he did, especially not a man like Ethan. She could feel his need pulsing in him, and the knowledge that he wanted her was empowering.

  “I’m not a gentleman,” he said. He made it sound like a promise. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll prove it to you.”

  He reached up, knocked on the ceiling to indicate they were ready to depart, then pulled the carriage curtains closed. Before Francesca even knew what had happened, he was balancing her on his lap and undressing her.

  Francesca gasped. “What are you doing?” She batted his hands away.

  “What I dreamed about doing all last night.” He ignored her efforts at resistance and, removing her spencer, tossed it aside. Then he began on the tapes securing her gown.

  “Ethan, this is highly improper.”

  He raised one wicked eyebrow. “I know.” Loosening her dress, he pulled it down over her shoulders and kissed the bared skin of her collarbone.

  “Ethan!” She’d meant to chastise him further, but her voice came out strangled as his warm lips grazed the swell of her breast. “What if someone realizes what we’re doing?”

  “We’re married. We can do whatever we want,” he mumbled. Pushing her gown lower, his tongue traced the valley between her breasts.

  She clenched her fingers on the material of the cushion behind him and tried not to groan. “But what if the coachman hears us?”

  “We’ll have to be quiet, won’t we?”

  She didn’t like the look in his eyes when he said it. The fiendish glint she saw in them warned her that she was the one who would have to worry about volume.

  His hands cupped her breasts, and she groaned as his palms brushed over her hard, sensitive nipples. His fingers plucked at them through the material of the dress before he tugged down the fabric of both dress and chemise. She was completely exposed to him.

  “Ethan.” It came out as a moan.

  He shifted beneath her, and she felt his hardness between her legs. His mouth found her breast, while one hand continued to fondle the other. She leaned back, savoring the exquisite pleasure.

  He was very bad. She was bad, half-naked in a coach traveling through the English countryside, a man kissing her bare breast while his other hand—oh my, his other hand—inched up her skirts. This was definitely not behavior appropriate for a proper young lady.

  Ethan’s mouth, slick and hot, slid to her other breast as his hand closed on her thigh. Francesca let out a shuddering breath and all thoughts of propriety and good behavior with it.

  Almost of their own accord, her hands began to loosen his clothing. She pulled anxiously at his cravat and tugged at the buttons of his collar. She wanted to run her fingers over his chest. Press her bare skin to his.

  Both of his hands were beneath her skirts now, caressing her inner thighs. His fingers made small circles that promised to increase in diameter until they intersected at the juncture of her thighs. Not pausing in his ministrations, he leaned back to allow her to undress him. She struggled with a particularly recalcitrant knot in his cravat.

  “Take down your hair.”

  She yanked the knot again. “Hmmm?” Her fingers felt the neckcloth loosen.

  “Take your hair down for me,” he repeated. The gold flecks in his eyes burned as he said it.

  Seeing the heat in his eyes, she paused in her efforts and lifted her hands to loose the pins binding her simple coiffure.

  “Slowly,” he ordered.

  She shivered at the sensual sound of his voice. How could she have ever thought he didn’t want her?

  She did as he’d instructed, feeling slightly embarrassed at her role as vixen, until she looked into his eyes again. Then she was trapped in the sticky sap of their amber depths. One after another, she drew out her pins, feeling the tickle of each curl as it brushed the exposed skin of her back. As she worked, his hands skated higher on her legs, so that by the time she pulled the last pin, she was panting as his fingers thrust inside her moist depths.

  She cried out, heedless of who might hear her now, and then one of his hands was wrapped in her hair, pulling her mouth to his
as his other hand worked its magic.

  He kissed her long and hard, and she could not seem to get enough of his mouth on hers. His tongue thrust inside her, and she felt his hand release her hair to move between them. Then he was inside her, hard and full. Both of his hands wrapped around her waist and he guided her movements, showing her how to use her body and the motion of the coach to give them both the most pleasure.

  When she found fulfillment, a scant moment before he did, she slumped against him, amazed she’d once again survived the storm of their lovemaking and equally amazed he’d shown her yet another way he could pleasure her.

  She lay her head against his shoulder, inhaling the sandalwood scent caught in his coat. She never had managed to undress him. He looked down at her, and she smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very quiet.”

  “No,” he agreed. “You weren’t.”

  She stiffened and began straightening her dress. “Do you think the coachman heard?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Possibly.” He seemed in no hurry to right his own clothing.

  “Oh Lord! What will he think?”

  Ethan arched a brow. “That you enjoyed yourself?”

  She punched him lightly, now twisting her hair into a coil at the nape of her neck. “Be serious! I shudder to think of the impression I’m making on your staff.”

  “I don’t know about them,” he said, pulling her back against his chest and ruining the order she’d just restored to her hair. “But you’re making an excellent impression on me.”

  She smiled, unable to imagine herself any happier than at that moment—safe in his arms, the center of his attention. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, but when she opened them a few minutes’ later, her thoughts had turned to Winterbourne Hall and her new role as chatelaine. Her mother had lectured on her duties as mistress of such a grand estate interminably as they’d packed and prepared for her wedding. Now Francesca felt a pinch of chagrin that she hadn’t yet begun to formulate her strategy for dealing with Winterbourne Hall’s staff or to probe Ethan for a history of the house as her mother had advised. Good Lord, she’d wasted practically a whole day!