by Baird Wells
It was just an assignment. He was playing his part, doing what had to be done. It was nothing strange, nothing they hadn't done before.
So why didn't it feel that way, this time?
Philipe bent an elbow. “Garden?”
“Yes, please.” She grasped his arm, glad for the distraction and afraid to let Ty and the baroness out of her sight.
* * *
For the first time in a long time, he was nervous. Perhaps for the first time since he'd met Olivia and realized how quickly she had proved herself an equal.
The same was true of Thalia, the Baroness d'Oettlinger, or whatever her name was. Since discovering her existence and anticipating her arrival in Paris, he had hoped she would prove to be just another runner. A mule for messages, harvesting gossip from the rich and elite for her handler. Those hopes had been dashed within moments of meeting her, and he wondered if Olivia too had underestimated their new rival. It was his first instinct to place Olivia and her skill above all others, but ten minutes of conversation had proved the women to be on equal if opposite footing. Now, like a good soldier, he would have to think strategy.
It wasn't hard to see where her success came from. Beauty could be easily dismissed; there were plenty of attractive women in Paris. Thalia, however, was on another level. She had a Botticelli face with a proud nose, cupid's bow lips, and wide blue eyes framed by fiery locks that blazed in the candle light. More than looks, confidence exuded from Thalia with a magnetism that was nearly impossible to resist. Over the course of three waltzes, he could discover no subject on which Thalia had not acquitted herself. When it came to literature, she knew Byron and Shelley. She defended the paintings of Lawrence even if she could not defend his reputation. Whist she played and well, judging by the casual way she discussed it. Opera, she sang it. Latin, she spoke it.
By the time he led her into the last turn and the violins faded away, Ty wondered if she were a woman at all. Perhaps Napoleon had invented a convincing automaton, accomplished in every fashion, to act as his chief agent.
Where Olivia chose her moments, striking from the shadows to accomplish her goals, Thalia glittered in the open, larger than life, hiding in plain sight. Even so, she had a weakness. Olivia’s friend had reckoned out what Thalia was, and that meant a misstep taken somewhere. He just had a feeling that weaknesses would be very, very hard to flush out.
It was easy to see how men more vain, more political, fell victim to the baroness. He was a spy, a professional who knew Thalia for what she was, and still he was captivated. Their arms were loosely twined, and her fingers barely brushed his wrist. The gesture was innocent enough, but she'd taken her glove off seemingly for the purpose of seduction. Her lack of acknowledgment could have been coy, except that she exuded raw sexuality. Her touching, it said, was merely an extension of her personality.
He felt relief as he caught sight of Olivia gliding in through the terrace doors, though it was short-lived. He noticed her, but she was most definitely not paying him a lick of attention.
Philipe was telling a story, his graceful artist's fingers using Olivia's arm to measure points for emphasis. Why was he forever touching her? Ty knew as a fact that Olivia didn't enjoy being pawed at. Was she going to say something?
The pair nearly plowed into him and the baroness before showing any awareness of their surroundings. Ty swallowed his frustration, hiding it behind a smile. He bowed slightly to Olivia and Phillipe, then turned to Thalia. “Baroness. Our host you know already. His lovely ornament this evening is Lady Elizabeth Hastings.”
Olivia arched a brow at his use of ‘ornament’ and opened her mouth against a scowl. Philipe cut in, perhaps anticipating the likelihood of an acid remark. “Lady Elizabeth, I am only too happy to present the Baroness d'Oettlinger.”
Thalia's reaction should not have surprised him. She was, after all, a consummate actress. Still, he'd half expected raised hackles and tight smiles. Instead, Thalia embraced Olivia, brushing fingers over her cheek. “Lady Elizabeth is unmistakable and hardly needs an introduction. La Porte has barely done her justice with his praise.”
What praise? What had La Porte been saying about Olivia? He glanced between the pair, looking for a hint of anything there.
For her part, Olivia colored prettily and ducked her face. Thalia might be worthy of the stage, but he wagered she'd met her match. “You are gracious to take such notice, baroness. I've badgered our host all night for an introduction, but he has been painfully tardy.”
“And your friend Lennox here, also.” Thalia stroked his arm. “Shame on them both.”
“A pity we didn't cross paths earlier.” Olivia said, stifling a yawn. “We can hardly stay longer.”
He understood. They needed to talk, compare notes. It had become clear that if they were to do battle with Fouche's lovely monster, they had best come prepared.
Thalia took one of his hands, and one of Olivia's. “Nonsense,” she purred. “Stay as late as you wish. We will glut ourselves on the pleasures of the night.”
Olivia pulled a sad face beside him. “Unfortunately, our lodgings are across town. And I do mean across. We've some distance to go, yet.”
Thalia released him and grasped both of Olivia's hands, stepping back and smiling sweetly at her. Then she spared a glance for him. “You must be my guests then, tomorrow night. I have let the manor at the foot of Boulevard des Capucines.”
Olivia gasped, drawing their admirer closer. “At the gardens?”
“Oui! We shall walk them upon waking.” Thalia leaned her head back, looking him over frankly. “Whenever that may be.”
He matched her with his own raking gaze, offering a hint of a smile. “That sounds like a challenge, madame.”
Turning, she led Olivia off toward the entrance, full red lips curving up in a smile. “That it is, monsieur.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chateau des Jardins, Paris - March 7th, 1815
Olivia couldn't deny that they'd passed a thrilling evening at the baroness's manor, even if it was possible she was trying to kill them – which it was, in a life of espionage. Not directly with knives or poison, at least not yet. For now, Thalia's offensive was purely intellectual and emotional. Olivia had no doubt that could change at the first moment she felt threatened or saw an opportunity.
Still, Madame d'Oettlinger's chocolate was the finest, her beef cooked to perfection, and Olivia was determined to enjoy it all for as long as their charade lasted.
That might not be long, judging by how far Thalia's backside was planted in Ty's lap. The baroness might pretend to be Olivia's newest confidante, but if anyone was getting information out of the woman, it was him.
Her obsession with Ty had become apparent by how closely Thalia had dogged him for the past two days. At the bookseller, coffee house, theater, or museum, Madame didn't bother pretending that the meetings were coincidental and showed no shame at pawing over Ty the moment she arrived.
Olivia wasn't certain if she should respect the honesty of Thalia's perseverance or fear the woman twice as much. In any case, she seemed perpetually three buttons shy of making love to Ty, and that meant his old mistress had to go.
She was headed for a row with Ty, and soon.
* * *
Turning the knob, Olivia stepped into complete darkness and shut the door behind her. As she waited on the threshold for her eyes to adjust, a hand snaked out, grabbing her wrist. A finger pressed to her mouth just as she was about to gasp.
“Come here,” whispered Ty. “Look at this.” He led her one halting step at a time through the chamber, stopping when her knees bumped something that must have been a bed frame. He leaned close, lips almost against her ear. “It's just as we thought.”
As her vision acclimated to the wan moonlight from a high window, she was able to make out his hand before her face, pointing at the wall directly across from the bed. He leaned forward and something metal scraped the wall, one of his lock picks, maybe. There was a faint creak, and
a shaft of light hardly bigger than a pinpoint, spilled in from the room next door.
A peephole.
Olivia grasped his sleeve. “Here is our opportunity,” she whispered. “The baroness is rather infatuated with you. Perhaps if you were jilted by your lover...” They had intended to wait, construct a more public row, but Thalia was all the audience they needed. Tonight, she would undoubtedly be watching, listening. If they meant to change their game, there was no time like the present.
She could practically hear Ty's smile in the dark. “She would then sweep in from the wings to console me. How thoughtful of her.”
Chuckling, she stepped away. “Hurry, light the lamp.”
While Ty fumbled the matches, striking one and blazing the room to life, she pried at her shoes, kicking them under a small cherry wood vanity beside the door. She glanced around, gathering now that the peephole was concealed by a painting, and wondered how many more secrets were hidden just out of sight.
Moving almost to the center of the room, in full view of the peephole, she stopped in front of Ty.
He looked her over. “Shall I yell or are you going to slap me first?” he whispered. He raised both hands to her. “I have no idea how to engineer this.”
She shook her head, fighting the urge to laugh. “I won't strike you because you haven't given me reason to. Have you never fought with a lover, or at least seen it done?”
“Of course. But everything explodes. Passion, spontaneity. I'm a poor actor,” he whispered, shrugging.
“I think you should give yourself a little credit. Seduce me first. Then we can claw each other's eyes out.” Reaching between them, she twined their fingers together, raising Ty's hand and resting it against her bodice. “You've been to the opera, major. There must be a crescendo before there’s a finale.”
A door shut out in the hall, a faint thump jarring the small cover behind the peephole. Now they had an audience.
Understanding dawned across Ty's face, but he didn't smile at the analogy. If she had to guess, he looked nervous. But he had played plenty of roles in his time, and he would get comfortable soon enough.
He swallowed hard, tentatively raising a hand to her breast.
They'd never get anywhere at this rate. Olivia laced her arms behind his neck and brought her lips to his throat. He flinched, but she pressed on. His cologne filled her nose, heady with a soapy finish. It brought back memories; Ty pressing her to the wall, his tongue against hers stilling a hand on her knife. She gave herself a mental shake, but it wasn't enough; she was lost to his touch.
His fingers twisted in her hair, and he pulled her head back, tracing her ear with his tongue. She had dipped her toe. Despite his initial hesitation, Ty was keeping pace admirably.
Her lips caught the sweat and salt below his jaw, and her breathing came faster. Burrowing hands inside his coat, cupping broad shoulders, she slid it off.
“Olivia...” Ty moaned, his voice strained.
His coat struck the wall beside them, sliding to the floor. She worked at the knot in his cravat, punctuating the effort with little kisses to his chin. “Just put your hands on me.” It didn't matter that someone was watching. She wanted his hands on her, wanted him to touch her. Everywhere.
Warning bells sounded somewhere in the back of her mind, screaming that she was going too far, endangering their work, that she had to gather herself.
She ignored them.
“Wait, Olivia...”
He frustrated her to no end sometimes. Enjoying herself, taking a bit of pleasure in her work while he fussed. What was the problem? “What!”
“How far?” he whispered against her shoulder, “When do I stop? I don't want to –”
Enough. She crushed his lips, catching the rest of his protest with her mouth. Whatever he had been asking, she must have answered it. Deft fingers at the small of her back worked each button of her dress open. He stepped into her, forcing her head back and filling the last breath of space between their bodies. The scales tipped and suddenly Ty had all the power. She gave herself over as the gown pooled around her feet.
He circled her wrists with long fingers, putting one arm and then the other behind her back. Pausing a moment to survey the result, Ty brought his hands up the insides of her arms to cup the outside of each breast through her chemise. His palms were broad and warm, kneading gently.
Her head fell back, and her entire world was his touch.
Had this been the plan all along? The fact that they were supposed to be putting on a show had seemed to fade into the distance as his lips brushed her throat and the line of her stays.
Ty's arm hooked behind her knees, and then he was carrying her to the bed. The way he dropped her was anything but gentle, the force of the mattress pressing out some of her breath, but she didn't mind. Planting a knee between hers, Ty stretched out over her, crushing her into the quilt. It felt good, she admitted. Right, somehow.
She wanted this. Wanted Ty. Her partner. This couldn't happen. Not like this, not here.
Not at all. The warning was faint and insubstantial.
His tongue worked between the cleft of her breasts, then trailed to her shoulder where he nipped gently.
She gasped, pressing up into him. “Fiddle with your buttons,” she whispered during a breath of clarity.
His hand jabbed between them. “I can't reach.”
“You don't have to. Just pretend.”
“Oh, right. Christ Olivia, you don't make it easy for a man to think...” He tugged his waistband one last time.
“Now my skirts.”
Ty grabbed a fistful of her petticoats, hauling them to her knees. At last he had caught on. One more tug and he thrust against her.
It wasn't difficult to feign a loud moan, and Olivia closed her eyes, head falling back. “Again,” she bit out softly. “Call me Thalia,” she said, hating the taste of the words as they passed her lips.
His hips jerked again, and Ty groaned. “Oh, Thalia...”
The slap landed on his cheek with a satisfying crack. Somehow, he had not anticipated the next step. She felt genuine guilt at his wide-eyed expression, but still drove fists into his shoulders, pretending to be pinned. “Get off me, you rutting goat.” To her surprise, he really was holding her down.
“Elizabeth, wait!”
“Let me up or I’ll scream the house down.”
Now, he relented, sitting up beside her and raking fingers through his hair. “It’s the bottle talking, not me.”
“Your body says otherwise,” she spit, wriggling from the mattress and grabbing her dress.
“And what of it,” he bellowed loudly enough to be heard by their observer, “that I find her appealing? She is an attractive woman. You could admit that, were you not so bloody jealous.”
Olivia stuffed herself back into her gown. “Jealous? As though my feelings are irrational! And yet I hear her virtues praised a hundred times a day.” She smacked at her skirts, thankful that their argument had put a stop to her earlier unchecked madness. “You may return to the house in the morning and move out your things.”
Ty crossed his arms. “We will discuss this first.”
“No we will not. I am not going back to the house.”
He sat up, looking genuinely on edge. “Where will you go, then?”
“I find the La Porte estate clears my head.”
“The hell you will!”
“I am not your property!” she shouted back, choking down laughter.
From there they played their assigned parts. He apologized profusely, she ignored him. He ranted at her, she ignored him. He blamed the alcohol again, she ignored him. Finally, he lay on the couch across the room and was quiet, and they smiled but avoided each other's eyes. Inside, her heart was a racehorse at full gallop, shaking the effects of Ty's touch and she wondered how things would proceed now that they'd played their hand.
* * *
He was awake now, stabbing at her in the dim morning light with narrowed eyes.
“You did not tell me that your plan included my sleeping on a dollhouse sofa half the night.”
Olivia threw her arms wide. “What was I supposed to do?” she whispered back. “People do not have a row and then tuck in together.”
Groaning, he unfolded slowly, brushing fruitlessly at wrinkles in his clothes. “I would. No man or woman should suffer such cruelty,” he muttered, kicking the sofa for emphasis. “Anyway, the sun is barely up. Do we just hunker in silence for the next few hours?”
Listening, Olivia caught a thump from the next room, a drawer or cabinet shutting. The spider was waiting, web already spread to snare her prey.
“If you leave the room now,” she breathed, practically mouthing the words, “she will catch you before you reach the staircase.”
Ty's eyes widened. “Think so?” He ran a hand from crown to ankles in an effort to set himself to rights. With a small salute, he opened their door and slipped out into the hall.
Olivia held her breath, counted to four.
Monsieur Lennox, up so early?
She mouthed Thalia's words, coming to her as only a murmur through the wall. She was speaking at a volume which insured Olivia could hear her. Bitch. The baroness was claiming Ty, and letting her know it. A breath later Thalia's door shut again, and Olivia could hear their voices echoing off of the plaster. How predictable.
She fell back against the quilt, the smile on her face at war with the trepidation in her heart.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ty settled deeper into his chair's blue velvet cushion, resting against its plush back and experiencing a moment of bitterness that his opera box was more luxurious on assignment than it ever was at home.
Thalia, perched beside him, twined an arm with his and leaned closer. He responded with a press of his elbow, otherwise studiously ignoring her. She was used to being admired, the center of attention. He had discovered very quickly that nothing unbalanced her more than being relegated to the background. Each time he presented her the cold shoulder, she chased harder.