Love and Let Spy

by Shana Galen

  He closed his eyes. He was on dangerous ground with her. She was the sort of woman who might make him forget all his rules. He could not allow that. Not with her or anyone. She was right to fight a union with him. He could offer her nothing a true husband should.

  But he and his betrothed were the only ones not rejoicing. The marquess had been ecstatic at the news of the engagement, as had his mother. They had agreed to keep it secret for the time being—Dominic was not certain what excuse Melbourne had given for that—but he really couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them so happy. His mother, in particular. She’d actually started to cry.

  Bonde had better hurry and figure out some sort of escape plan, if she really did not intend to go through with it. He looked at her across the coach. His betrothed. His betrothed. It didn’t seem possible. No woman like the beauty that sat across from him would consent to marry him, and if she did, she would certainly scorn him until the end of her days.

  But Jane Bonde had consented, albeit reluctantly, but not because she objected to him. He’d seen the shock in her face when he’d accused her of not wanting a bastard as a husband. That was not why she did not want him. No. She objected to being taken away from her precious case—her mission. She objected to marriage and the freedoms it would curtail. Perhaps he had objections as well. For one, he didn’t want the intimacy of marriage. There were some men—and perhaps women as well—who should never marry. They had secrets or pasts too vile, too shocking, too revolting. Such a one did not deserve a wife or children.

  But this was not the sort of thing one mentioned to one’s betrothed—even if she was only biding her time as his betrothed. This was not the sort of secret one mentioned to anyone. It was the sort one tucked away in the dark, forgotten folds of the cloak of one’s mind and hoped it stayed hidden. It was the sort of secret that invariably reared its monstrous head after a long day, waking him with sweat pouring over his body and a scream on his lips.

  How would he explain waking up screaming to his wife?

  Not that a scream would scare Jane Bonde. She would probably roll over and go back to sleep. Little as he liked to admit it, that was actually a point in her favor. If he had to marry, better to marry a strong woman. A woman who would not flinch at what he was and what he’d done.

  But she had points against her as well. Jane Bonde, spy—or whatever she wanted to call herself—for the Barbican group, was unconventional. His mother had been unconventional, and God help them all if the family added another like her. He closed his eyes, weary at the very idea. Memories and images assaulted him, and he opened his eyes to shut them away again. He could not abide the dreams today. He hadn’t quite convinced himself that the night of his betrothal wasn’t a bad dream. Had she really fired a pistol? Had she actually suffered stitches with barely a cry of pain, not to mention nothing to dull that pain?

  And had he really kissed her while the doctor sewed her up? He didn’t know why he’d agreed to that idea. And he couldn’t have said why he’d kissed her the other times he’d done so. It seemed difficult not to kiss her. And when he kissed her, it was even more difficult to cease.

  The only way to keep from kissing her, it seemed, was to avoid her, which would be difficult when they were living under the same roof at Kenham Hall. The only solution was for him to return to London. He always had a room there. It would mean neglecting his horses, but the animals had grooms to see to them. They didn’t need him.

  If only he could say the same. Already he was tense and edgy from having been away too long. The darkness lurked just on the edge of his vision. The hem of that cloak billowed in the breeze, and he needed to find a way to calm the breeze, restore the peace. His horses had always done that for him. Now, his only sanctuary had been ripped away from him, in addition to everything else he’d lost.

  “I believe that is Kenham Hall,” Lady Melbourne said, breaking the silence and gesturing to the view of the house from the rise they had just topped. It was an impressive view. The architect of the great country house had combined the best of the Palladian and neoclassical styles to create a pleasant red-brick edifice with white-stone dressings. The stable had been built with that same red brick and was just visible in the distance. Dominic looked from the vista to the lady and started, surprised to find her not looking at the view, but at him. “Lost in your thoughts, Mr. Griffyn?”

  He glanced at Jane, who was studying him curiously too, and then back at Lady Melbourne. “I was, my lady. I should have pointed the house out for you. But then, no one has ever accused me of doing as I should.”

  She raised a brow. “You proposed to my niece. Should you have done that?”

  “My lady,” Jane interrupted. “Do you see the lake there? I imagine it is a lovely prospect in the morning. Perhaps we might walk there after we break our fast tomorrow.”

  “Splendid idea, Jane, but tomorrow is too soon, in your condition. A few days yet.”

  Lady Melbourne continued in that vein until they reached the drive. She was actually quite good at chatting about trivialities. He always struggled with inconsequential topics. She seemed able to go on at length about anything and everything. Finally, the carriage stopped, and the footman opened the door. Dominic stepped down first, followed by the ladies holding their skirts with one hand. Dominic handed each lady down then nodded to the housekeeper and butler, who’d assembled to greet the new guests. Strangely enough, Old Connor stood before the house as well, wringing his hat.

  Dominic didn’t think; he simply acted. He bypassed the other servants and went straight to Old Connor. “What is it?”

  “It’s Nessa,” Old Connor said. “She has the colic.”

  “No.”

  Nessa was one of his favorites. At sixteen hands and with a bright bay color and perfectly black points, she was one of the most graceful and certainly the grandest mare the marquess owned. If there was royalty among horses, she was it. She had birthed many equally regal foals, and she was older and perhaps more fragile than the other horses to suffer thus far. “Let’s go.” Dominic started walking, everything but Nessa forgotten.

  Old Connor jogged beside him. “But, sir, your guests!”

  Dominic glanced over his shoulder without slowing. “Millstone,” he said to the butler, “see to the guests.” And he continued walking. Lady Melbourne might stare at him in shock, and Jane Bonde might regard him with that puzzled look, but he did not have time for pleasantries and social dictates at the moment. He would save Nessa.

  In the end, he could not save her. The grooms and Dominic worked all night, side by side, to no avail. The first morning light broke, and the beautiful mare lay still. Dominic dismissed the grooms, ostensibly sending the men to their beds, but in truth, he wanted to be alone with her. In the quiet dawn, he sat, hand on her neck, and grieved. He would not cry. He’d shed enough tears as a boy to know they served no purpose. But he mourned her nonetheless. It was the least he could do.

  Finally, he rose and pulled the blanket over her. He stepped into the aisle and closed her stall door with a finality that tugged at something in his chest. He detected a movement and glanced down the aisle, then blinked.

  “Am I disturbing you?” she asked.

  He was relieved she’d spoken. He’d been afraid the lack of sleep had muddled his brain and he was imagining her. “You should be back at the house in bed.” Not only was she injured, it was too early to be out for a morning walk. His voice came out raw and tattered, and he thought he must look like he sounded. Dominic was rather surprised his appearance hadn’t scared her away.

  But this was Jane Bonde. She feared little except failing at one of her precious missions.

  She waved her hand, dismissing the notion that she should be in bed after suffering a knife wound. “I could not sleep and wanted fresh air.”

  He supposed he should make some response to that, but damned if he knew what it was. He was
too tired to think of niceties. He closed his eyes, feeling them burn with dryness and fatigue, and ran a hand though his hair. It felt wild and unkempt, and he could feel the itch of the shadow of his beard, demanding he shave. He wore shirtsleeves and trousers, having long ago discarded his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. His shirt was open at the throat, and he supposed he was dressed inappropriately for a visit by a lady, especially one wearing not only gloves but a bonnet. She carried a parasol as well—as though the weak morning light would be any threat to her pale complexion.

  He opened his eyes, and she’d come closer. Too close. He could detect the scent of her perfume. He moved away, grabbing one of the shovels set nearby. “You should return to the house. I have work to do.” That much was true. He had horses to feed, stables to muck out, a new foal to evaluate, mail to address. The days he’d spent in London meant he was woefully behind.

  He’d dismissed her, or so he thought, and he walked to the end of the aisle and opened Lily’s Turn’s stall. She was looking well. He would never have known she’d so recently been ill. He laid a hand on her nose, and she nudged it expectantly. He smiled. “No apples with me this morning.”

  “Where are your grooms?”

  Dominic turned, feeling suddenly exposed, as though interrupted in a private moment. “I thought you had returned to the house.”

  She raised her brows. “I am not that easy to be rid of. You cannot really think to muck out stables.”

  Dominic put the shovel he held to use. “As you see.”

  “I do.” She watched him, her eyes dark. He wondered what she saw, or thought she saw. “What should I do to help?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Go back to the house.”

  But she was already peeling off her gloves. “Do not be ridiculous. You look exhausted, and you are doing the work of two men on your own and, from all appearances, without the benefit of any sleep.”

  “If my appearance offends you—”

  “I have seen far worse than a man with stubble on his chin and shadows under his eyes.” She removed her bonnet and set it, with her gloves inside, on a stool. She leaned her frilly white parasol beside it. Her dress was white as well, he noted. Not ideal for working in a dirty stable. He glanced down at her feet, pleased with himself for not lingering too long on the swell of her hip. At least she wore walking boots and not slippers.

  “This is not the sort of work a lady does.”

  “It’s not the sort of work a gentleman occupies himself with either,” she countered. “But here you are.”

  “I am no gentleman, and I do this every day.”

  “And today you need assistance.” She looked behind her. “Is there another shovel? Or perhaps I should climb into the hayloft and pitch hay for you?”

  Lily’s Turn moved forward now, and when Jane glanced back, the horse nuzzled her. Jane laughed, and Dominic had a moment of jealousy, though for the attention the horse gave to Bonde or the attention Bonde gave to the animal, he couldn’t have said. He was better off not thinking too deeply about it.

  “Do you want a treat?”

  Lily’s Turn’s ears perked up.

  “Of course you do. I have nothing with me this morning, but I promise to bring you something later.”

  “The horses are on a strict diet,” Dominic said. “They eat at prescribed times, and only the best feed.”

  Jane raised a brow. “And yet this animal expects some sort of treat. How can that be?”

  Dominic lifted the shovel again and went to work. She was too observant by far. Lily’s Turn had been spoiled on occasion with apples and carrots, but since the colic…he did not want to call it an epidemic, as it was not contagious…instances might be a better term. Since the frequent colic instances, he had outlawed any treats to the horses.

  “Perhaps I could assist by feeding the animals. If I come after you, you could ensure I give each horse the proper amount in the correct proportions.”

  “Jane, this is not necessary. Go back to the house.”

  She did not move. “You realize I still have not given you leave to use my Christian name.”

  “We are betrothed. I believe the permission is implied in the contract I signed.”

  “Then shall I call you Dominic?”

  “Call me whatever the hell you want, but leave me alone.” Every woman of his acquaintance, and most men, would have run away at the tone in his voice. Jane did not even blink.

  “In your time of need? I think not.” She stepped out of the stall, and when she didn’t immediately return, he was forced to follow her. “Is that the feed room there?” She gestured to the end of the aisle. There was a small room where he kept feed. She’d spotted it right away, most likely because of the various buckets stacked outside.

  “Yes.”

  “And how much does…what is her name?” She gestured to the horse.

  “Lily’s Turn.”

  “How much does Lily’s Turn receive?”

  He told her, as much because he was tired of arguing as because he wanted her and that tantalizing scent of violets away from him for a few moments. Perhaps then he could think how to rid himself of her for the rest of the morning, if not the entire day.

  He watched her go to the feed room then stepped back into the stall to continue the mucking it out. A moment later, she called, “Which grain should I use?”

  He frowned. All of the horses grazed on the grass in the pasture and received the same hay in the stables. Each also received a measure of grain—the amount depending on the horse’s age, health, and lactation status—at set times throughout the day. The grain was of the highest quality, and he always ordered it from one supplier.

  “They are all the same,” he called.

  Silence. “No, they are not.”

  A shiver of dread made him drop the shovel and race to meet her.

  Ten

  Jane heard the shovel clang and peered out of the small room, only to jump back when she saw Griffyn racing toward her. Her stitches gave a small twinge of pain, and she remembered she was not supposed to make sudden movements. Obviously, she’d caused some sort of trouble. She did not mean to cause trouble, but she’d been doing it since she was a young child. Her aunt said she was too inquisitive by far. She saw things she was not supposed to.

  Her uncle, of course, said this made her the perfect spy. But right now she had wanted only to be useful, and she could see that, instead, she had made Griffyn worry about something else. That had not been her intention. Surely, she had simply made a mistake, and he would explain her misstep to her.

  Except, of course, she rarely made mistakes. Something here was not right.

  She flattened herself against the wall of the tiny room as Griffyn’s large frame filled it. He smelled of horses and hay and leather—all scents familiar to her. She had seen how exhausted he was before, but now that he was so close to her and the light of the lantern on the peg in the room shone on him, she realized the man was fortunate to still be standing. She had thought him a strong man, as well as an exceptionally handsome one, and she had not misjudged. And this morning, with the dark stubble bruising his jaw and the purple smudges under his already coal-black eyes, he looked not only exotic but almost feral.

  A shiver of heat swirled through her, landing in her lower belly. Her gaze fell to his hands, large and strong and covered with dirt. She wondered what those dark hands would look like on her pale skin, on the pink of her aureole as he cupped her breast.

  She took a sharp breath, and he gave her a curious look. But then he was all seriousness. “What did you do?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.” But she could see he wanted a full account. “I walked back here, took a pail, then set it down and lit the lantern. I saw the two sacks of feed and asked which I should use.”

  “You did nothing else?”

  “No.” She narrowed
her eyes at him, watched as he lifted the grain to inspect the contents of first one sack then the other. “There should not be two types of feed,” she surmised.

  “No.” His answer was short and to the point.

  “One appears unadulterated,” she said, pointing to the fuller bag, the new bag. “The other has been mixed with something else.”

  “And that’s what I’ve been feeding my horses. This inferior grade.” He pointed to the bag with the mixed grain. “I pay for the best, and unwittingly I kill my horses with this…this…” Words seemed to fail him, and a vein throbbed in his forehead.

  “I suppose your supplier could be cheating you.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “But you don’t think so.”

  She gestured to the new bag. “This is perfectly acceptable. I assume.” She shrugged. “I know nothing of horse feed.” She looked at the other bag, which was almost empty. “This is a mixture of that and something else. If I had to guess, I would say someone mixed the premium feed with something less desirable.”

  “That is my deduction as well.”

  “Are the stables in financial crisis?” she asked, then recollected herself. She was not on a mission and could not interrogate the Marchioness of Edgeberry’s son about the marquessate’s financial situation. “Of course, that is none of my concern. I withdraw the question.”

  “The stables are in excellent financial condition,” Griffyn said, and she could see from the subtle way his chest swelled when he said it that situation was entirely due to his efforts. But if that was the case, why would they mix inferior grain with the superior?

  “Oh.” She gave him a cautious look. Perhaps she should not reveal any more. She had caused enough trouble.

  “Out with it,” he said, grasping her arm before she could back away, make her excuses, and return to the house. She should have listened to him the first time he ordered her to return. But she had never been very good at following orders.

  “I do believe my aunt may worry if I am not at breakfast soon.”