Whatever had changed his Bridget, Charles was astounded by what she had become.
And startlingly aroused.
His body was evidently eager to continue their amorous activities, regardless of how little time had passed since his last release, for his replete member began to swell once more.
“I am not certain I understand your meaning,” he ground out. “Would you care to elaborate?”
Her gaze dipped to his stiffening member and a half smile played over her lips. “I believe you do. You watched me in my intimate moments, Charles, now I intend to witness you in yours.”
A slight frown of confusion touched his brow. “I beg your pardon?”
She stood gracefully and lowered herself onto the settee, a fetching blush on her cheeks. “I want to see you wash yourself.” Her smile turned into a playful coquettish grin. “Now. Remove your clothes.”
Chapter 29
Charles ordinarily found the rumble of a coach soothing, but this morning he found that with every mile that passed, trepidation gradually replaced his calm.
The thought that one of his men had been turned still sent a wave of nausea through him. Had they been working for the French since their recruitment? Or had they been offered some sort of reward for turning traitor? Charles had let those men into his home and entrusted them with his life and the lives of his and Bridget’s family.
“Are you certain that you do not think that Lane would be a valuable asset to this scheme?” Bridget asked, bracing herself as the carriage turned a corner. “I assure you he would be discreet. He is brawny, wise, and helpful—”
“No.” Charles cut his hand through the air. "No one else is to be involved. It is enough that I have brought you into my dealings; I will not have additional persons at risk of being injured. You have proven yourself capable with a sword, but even so, throughout our plan you will play a helpful but detached role. I will not stand for any threat toward you, Bridget. You are to remain out of sight until I have the culprit apprehended.”
“I know the plan, Charles.”
Charles was certain he could trust that Bridget would not attempt to begin a fight with the enemy. She may be impulsive, but she was not reckless.
They had spent hours rehearsing hand signals and small gestures, then studying their meanings. Charles had listed potential failings to their plan and discussed what to do should something go awry. Each possible outcome had been reviewed and repeated. Their plan had multiple facets: capture and interrogate The Boss, discover the identity of the traitors in the Home Office and among his men, bring them all to justice.
Charles wished that he had more information to base his plans on. Did The Boss work for the traitor in the Home Office? Perhaps the traitor was merely an informant being paid by The Boss. Was The Boss a minion of a greater, stronger villain, or did his name ring true?
The hack jostled in a turn, pushing Charles deeper into the squabs. Planning and rehearsing was not the only thing that consumed their days in the cabin, however. Much of their time was spent in the bedchamber.
He wished he could spend every day in bed with her…wished he could marry her. While she was clearly skilled with a sword, however, having a blade would do no good against a villain with a firearm. This plot was the exception. He would be the one putting himself in harm’s way, taking the brunt of any violence. She would be far safer hidden from his enemies, which forced him to put any fantasy of romance and wedded bliss aside.
He shook himself internally, abruptly aware that Bridget watched him expectantly from her seat across from him. “We will do well, Bridget. Our plot is sound. There is no cause for concern.”
A slight frown touched her brow. “I am not concerned, Charles. Are you concerned?”
Charles extended his hand across the carriage to clasp her hand in his.
“Come,” he urged, tugging gently.
She crossed the carriage to settle herself over Charles’ thighs.
He was touched by the compassion he saw in her beautiful green eyes. He cupped her jaw as he took in her loveliness. In the past weeks the dye had completely faded from Bridget’s hair. The loose-flowing dark hair had indeed been handsome, but her naturally white-blonde hair was infinitely more attractive on her.
He rubbed his thumb over her smooth, flawless jaw. “I am concerned,” he admitted. “When it comes to your safety, sweetheart, I fear that my trepidation will never be assuaged.”
An unreadable expression crossed Bridget’s features before she closed the small distance between them and pressed her lips to his. A shudder of pure pleasure overtook him as she rose above him to straddle his lap.
“Yes, Bridget.” He groaned as she nibbled his ear and rubbed her pelvis against the hard ridge of his manhood. “I had the very same thought.”
Suddenly she pulled away to gaze thoughtfully at him.
“Please, love,” he breathed, “don’t stop.” He lifted his hips up to meet hers and hissed a breath at the sweet friction.
When Bridget did not respond in kind he paused to look at her where she sat thoughtfully astride his lap. “What is the matter, querida?”
“What will happen to us upon our arrival in London?”
He furrowed his brow, his hands still fisted in the material of her frock. “I will arrange for a meeting with Gilley to discuss—”
She gave a quick shake of her head. “That is not what I meant. What I meant was…what will happen to us?” She gestured to the both of them and waited for his response.
Charles did not know what to say. Bridget had agreed to become his mistress, and he was satisfied with their agreement for the moment. He had the suspicion that Bridget expected a declaration of love or a proposal of marriage, but Charles’ future was still uncertain, and regardless of how deep his feelings for her ran, he had no intention of spouting paltry assurances. Again. He was not that man any longer.
It would be wonderful if he could proclaim his love for her, but until The Boss’ neck stretched from a noose, and Charles resigned his position with the Home Office, or—God willing—he was promoted to a less dangerous position, he was not free to promise himself to anyone.
His expression likely displayed his thoughts, as Bridget huffed a breath in exasperation. “I do not expect a proposal, you silly man. You have drastically misunderstood my query. I wish to know whether or not you intend to keep me as your mistress while we are in town. Our plan states that I will remain under your roof, but what will be our excuse for my being there, should someone inquire? I do not have a chaperone. Where will I sleep? Will you have your servants prepare a room or will I sleep with you?”
Oh hell. Charles had not thought of perpetrating a scheme to protect Bridget’s reputation. He was a cad.
“My apologies, Bridget, for not discussing this with you sooner.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, then returned it to her hip. “I believe that our wisest course of action would be to claim that you are visiting with me in order to do some shopping while I meet with my steward. I will arrange for you to have your own bedchamber and a chaperone—in appearance only—to vouch for your virtue.” He stroked his hands up and down her waist. “In actuality, I would very much enjoy your company in my own bedchamber, should you be so inclined to join me.” His voice deepened as he spoke.
A purring hum came from deep in her throat and Charles pulled her tighter against him. “Do you have any further questions, my dear? For if that is all, I should like to continue where we had left off.”
“Oh, yes.” She pressed her hips against his once more. “I would very much enjoy that.”
Charles framed her face with both of his hands and pulled her down to meet his passionate kiss. His fingers tangled in her braided hair as their tongues danced in a sensual duel.
Bridget reached between them to pull at the buttons on his trousers, when the hack slowly rolled to a stop.
“Damnation!” Charles growled, breaking their kiss.
Bridget let out a gleeful g
iggle as she clambered back to her seat across from him.
The door to the hack swiftly opened, bringing with it a waft of icy late November air. A young footman in the Bradley household’s livery stood with spine erect and gaze averted.
Across from him, Bridget retrieved her Spanish shawl and draped it over her thinly clad shoulders.
Charles was grateful for the brief respite, for it afforded him a moment to garner control over his body before he stepped down from the carriage.
“Welcome home, sir.” The footman sketched a bow.
“Thank you, Williams. I trust you have all been well?”
“Quite so, sir.”
With a nod, Charles turned and held out his hand to assist Bridget.
* * *
Bridget’s stomach twisted in knots as she grasped Charles’ hand and alighted from the ill-sprung hack.
Since she accepted the position as a governess at the beginning of October, Bridget had been on an exhilarating adventure. Now, as she linked her arm through Charles’ and walked up the steps of his town house, she was committing to see an assignment through to its conclusion.
Good heavens! I am a spy!
She absently handed her shawl to the footman upon entering the Bradley family town house, her mind reeling. Somewhere in the back far corner of her consciousness she registered Charles’s voice as he requested that his chambers and an additional guest bedchamber be prepared. But her mind remained engrossed in her discovery.
“Bridget?” Charles’ visage appeared before her eyes, pulling her from her reverie.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Graham asked if you would like some tea and a bath sent up to your bedchamber.”
She turned to smile at the butler. “Oh, yes, please. That would be delightful, Graham.”
“Very good, my Lady.” He bowed and left the entrance hall.
“Shall I show you to your room, Bridget?” Charles held his arm out to her with a wicked grin on his lips.
She was familiar with that expression. Over the past four weeks she had grown accustomed to Charles’ cravings, just as he had learned hers.
Her decision to fully embrace her role as Charles’ mistress had been an excellent one. Should word reach the ton of her recent activities she would be a pariah. Being with Charles, however, was worth that risk. She had suffered for years without him by her side, and now that she understood the reason behind his poor behaviour since his return from war, she was inclined to forgive him.
Bridget had promised herself that she would never again open her heart up to Charles. While she feared that he had begun to sneak through the cracks in the proverbial wall around her heart, she was still unsure what name to give her emotions. For now, she must content herself with their current arrangement and focus more fully on the tasks ahead.
With a smile, she placed her hand atop his sleeve and allowed him to lead her up the large staircase.
Chapter 30
Charles pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off the headache that threatened.
“I assure you, sir, my source is entirely credible. The man approached me himself.”
Gilley’s eyes bulged with abrupt anger and his jowls jiggled as he sputtered. “This man divulged this allegedly pertinent information to you?”
“Good God, no. He merely stated that it was a matter of security, for our crown and country, that he rendezvous with an agent in a secure location. In exchange for his silence and loyalty, he requests an assurance of our appreciation and protection.”
His superior eyed him with a dangerous squint. “What is this man’s name?”
“He did not give me his name.”
Gilley rose and maneuvered his rotund figure toward his side table covered with decanters of liquor. He poured himself three fingers of whisky and quaffed it as a child would gulp punch.
He used the back of his massive hand to wipe at the dribble sliding down his many chins. “Very well. Tell this man that I will send Agent Whitby to the Northern end of Holland Park at half of eight this evening. The code word will be ‘orange.’”
* * *
Bridget’s worried pacing had begun to make her dizzy. She halted in the centre of the drawing room and lowered herself to the soft padding of the récamier. The moment her bottom touched the cushion, however, she stood once more, wringing her hands, entirely unable to sit still for a single moment.
Charles had been gone above three hours at least. What if something had happened? What if the French spy within the Home Office had intercepted him?
She resumed her pacing, her periwinkle skirts swirling around her ankles as she turned. Even the brightness of the cream, gilt, and mahogany drawing room could not lighten her dreary mood.
When Charles had left this morning he had assured her of his safety, but Bridget fretted nonetheless. Their breakfast, despite its deliciousness, felt as though it was waging war in her stomach. With every moment that passed, her anxiety intensified.
Last evening had been the same. Though her—their—bath had been blissful, both she and Charles had lain awake, replete in the aftermath of their lovemaking, sadly unable to sleep. Neither of them spoke, content in their silence, her thoughts focused on the task Charles was to undertake come the morn.
Bridget traced her fingers along the gifted Spanish necklace at her collar. She’d worn it nearly every day since she’d received it.
The clip-clop of horse’s hooves coming up the side of the town house caught her attention and she hurried to the window to see Charles leap from his mount, hand the reins to the groom, and begin walking toward the front door. Relief rushed through her at the sight.
She quitted the drawing room and raced down the hall, entering the foyer just as Charles strode through the door.
“Charles!” She rushed to his side and reached her arms up high with the intention of throwing her arms around his neck.
At the last moment she stopped, realizing that several servants looked on, and that she and Charles were still visible from those out of doors. Poised with her hands raised in the air, Bridget turned her gesture into an awkward shoulder pat.
“You were gone so long I had worried that something had gone wrong. Is everything as you expected?”
With a quick knowing glimmer to his eyes, Charles removed his greatcoat and held it out to Williams, then began removing his gloves. Bridget’s gaze was drawn to the movement. His long, masculine fingers were wildly attractive, particularly when one considered the magic they performed on her body.
Her stomach fluttered. Curse her inappropriate thoughts at such a time!
“Why do we not speak in the drawing room?” He gave his gloves and hat to Williams, as the man was closing the door. “Please have tea brought in to the drawing room, Williams.”
“Right away, sir.” Williams sketched a bow as Charles led Bridget back down the hall.
Charles’ unwillingness to discuss matters in front of his household staff was reasonable, though Bridget felt the nervousness weighing heavily on her abdomen as she waited for Charles to close the door.
As the click of the handle sounded and Charles turned to face her, Bridget threw her arms around Charles’ shoulders and rested her forehead against his neck. He put his arms around her waist, returning her embrace. They held each other tightly for several long moments.
Bridget breathed in his scent. Charles.
“I was concerned.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt collar.
Charles freed himself from her grip and held her at arm’s length. “Are you positive you wish to proceed with our plan, sweetheart? If my meeting with Gilley has created such anxiety, how will you fare during our rendezvous this eve?”
“You were successful in arranging the meeting?” She clasped her hands together and held them before her chest. “That is splendid! And with regards to continuing in our scheme, this eve I will have you within my sight and will be able to come to your defence should you require it. I wil
l not be pacing this room, alone with my fears and vivid imagination.”
He inclined his head. “I concede the point.” He released her shoulders, walked to the récamier, and settled himself on the cushion.
Bridget followed, crossing the room to sit in the armchair at Charles’ right. Her blue skirts billowed around her as she lowered herself to the stiff seat. “Tell me,” she urged.
Charles shook his head in thought. “Gilley is a distinctly odd man.”
Just at that moment, a light knock sounded at the door.
“Come.” Charles called.
A downstairs maid entered with the tea service, placing it on the table in front of them.
“Thank you, Mary, that will be all.” At Charles’ nod, Mary curtsied and quietly exited the room, closing the door behind her.
Despite her anxiousness to learn more, Bridget bent toward the tea service on the table before her and poured two cups of the steaming brew. “Tell me about your meeting with Gilley. Why do you say he is an odd man?”
She prepared their tea, then handed one cup to Charles. He nodded his thanks and took a sip before responding.
“Gilley behaved rather more distracted than is his norm. I repeated myself several times before he truly comprehended what it was I was saying to him. It took some discussion, but eventually he agreed to the appointment.” Charles leaned forward to place his cup on the table, then lifted a plate and began to select items from among the teacakes and small sandwiches.
“For you.” He extended his arm and handed the plate to Bridget. “Your favourites, I believe”
She was warmed that he would remember her preferences. “Thank you. I am much obliged.”
Charles added an assortment of pastries on his own plate and reclined sideways on the récamier. “Gilley informed me that he would entrust Whitby with the assignment. Why he chose Whitby I shall never know. The man claimed to retire from field work in February when his eldest son’s life was taken on the field of honour.”
The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Page 23