by Emma Wildes
“And you are infinitely noticeable, Madame. Unfortunately, rumors of smuggling might bring revenue men sniffing around, but I have reason to suspect that the French also know not only of you, but who you are and what you have been doing for us, which is much more serious. We had some operatives captured not long ago, and though their loyalty is not in question, their tolerance for pain surely is, for any man can be broken eventually.”
She blanched, the chill breeze flapping the edge of her cloak and bringing the bitter scent of dying vegetation. “They were tortured?”
“I have little doubt, though, of course, I am sure the enemy would deny it.”
To his surprise, despite her obvious horror over that hint of the barbaric practices of two countries at war, she straightened her shoulders. “If they already know who I am and what I’ve been doing, I don’t have much to lose now, do I, sir?”
Your husband’s trust, Gage thought cynically, for he knew Trent well. “We’ll keep an eye on the townhouse, just in case. Here in London, you are less vulnerable. We can get things to you faster, so perhaps you should postpone any visits back home for a while. I have no idea if French counterintelligence will even consider you a true threat, but the truth is, in their shoes, I would.” That statement was brutally honest, but he felt the need to be. He added on a suffocated breath, “Maybe Bonaparte himself knows your name.”
“I see.” Her voice was small and her smile forced. “How flattering.”
“There are two messages in the pocket of your cloak. One is old—the one Trenton took from you—and it probably has lost its significance, but decipher it just the same if you can. One was just brought to us in great haste today, and the more quickly it is returned to me, the better.”
Predictably, she felt in the pocket of her cloak. “This seems so unreal, that you would turn out to be Oxbow.”
Gage laughed, feeling a twinge of chagrined amusement. “I am not the romantic figure you pictured, I take it. The spectacles and balding head don’t lend to that dashing air of a master spy. Now, if Trenton were my devious namesake, you would believe it at once. He has the appropriate dark, dangerously handsome look.”
She had the grace and naiveté to look slightly embarrassed, but she shook her head. “No, I meant that these circumstances are so…intricately interwoven. Trenton and I would not be married except for my brother’s letter to you—and you, his other very good friend, were the catalyst, though you tell me he doesn’t know that. It seems almost bizarre circumstance. It is a little odd, to find one’s future so based on chance.”
It was almost startling to see the poignant vulnerability in her dark eyes and the slight tremble of her mouth. Of course, he realized with discomfort, her husband’s reputation was probably not a secret to her, either. After all, Trent’s estate in Kent was close by her home. That was how he and Stephen formed such a close friendship, and gossip in the countryside was often worse than in a city like London. Gage said quietly, “Circumstance or fate, marriage seems to agree with Trenton. I’m pleased, for I would see him happy at last.”
His friend’s beautiful wife lifted one arched brow in a disbelieving gesture. “Actually, my impression is that he was extremely contented with his bachelor life. If he hadn’t felt duty-bound to save me from suspicion for Stephen’s sake, he would never have glanced my way.”
Gage took her arm and urged her toward where his spaniel had hidden her new brood. “There I believe you are wrong, my dear. Trent never fails to notice beautiful women, especially when they are right under his nose. But even if you are right, he is certainly noticing you now. He is unfashionably attentive. It amuses me to see it. What society will say about it isn’t a guess. You will be the toast of the ton for capturing and captivating its most celebrated, cynical, unattached male.”
Under her breath, his friend’s wife murmured almost inaudibly, “If I can only keep him.”
Chapter 9
Gaston froze, one hand extended to grasp the knob, sending a small prayer upward for the deep shadows thrown by the cloudy, moonless night. It was very late, or very early depending on how one viewed it, and he certainly had not expected anyone to be awake.
A low laugh drifted out through the partially open French doors that led to the small balcony where he stood. The evening was cool, so he had assumed someone had simply forgotten to close it. Unsure of exactly which room belonged to his quarry, he’d been pleased at such an easy method of entry into the elegant townhouse.
It seemed this particular room was occupied.
Angling his body, Gaston decided to risk a peek, inching his head forward until he had a clear view of the room. His gaze quickly assessed the briskly burning fire—explaining undoubtedly why the window being ajar did not bother the inhabitants—a massive carved armoire of some dark gleaming wood, thick carpeting, and a huge bed. It dominated the space, with tall posters and dark hangings, and the bed linens were tumbled in wild disarray for an obvious reason.
Well, he reflected with cool amusement as he edged into a better viewing advantage, he’d found Lady Declan, though he would guess from the sparse but elegant furnishings and plain colors that this was her husband’s bedroom. At least he certainly assumed so, since the activity they were engaged in was supposed to be reserved for couples who were joined in the eyes of God.
“Trenton,” the breathless whisper came clearly. “Oh…yes.”
The woman was on her back, her voluptuous gleaming body nude, her long hair in riotous waves of shimmering softness around her shoulders. Full ivory breasts quivered as she arched upwards in small, restless movements. Her knees were bent and spread wide open, her dainty feet resting on the mattress. Eyes closed, she gasped and mumbled something, her slender fingers threading through the dark hair of the man lying between her legs, his mouth hungrily eating at the apex between her thighs. The soft wet sounds of his oral ministrations were punctuated by the woman’s rising moans, and when she began to tremble violently, the man grasped her slim hips and cradled her in his large hands, prolonging her orgasm with his mouth on her sex until she went limp and breathlessly begged for him to stop.
In the firelight, his grin gleamed wickedly as he shifted, sliding upward in one smooth movement of his muscular body. Covering the body of the blonde woman, he kissed her with an almost leisurely evident enjoyment at odds with the fully aroused state of his body, his erection dark against the woman’s pale skin.
Watching from the shadows, no longer particularly afraid they would see him, at least if he stayed still and made no noise, Gaston noted the impressive width of the earl’s shoulders, and the toned state of his body. From what information he could gather, by all accounts, the earl might be a force to reckon with, deadly with a pistol, athletic and intelligent. He didn’t seem like a man who would allow harm to come to his very lovely wife.
Especially when he seemed to so fully enjoy her charms.
“Can you feel me, Jess?” Gaston could hear him ask in a low growl. “I’m so damned hard I can feel my heart beating in my cock. I need to be inside you.”
His wife’s response seemed to be a choked sigh, her slim arms twining around his neck, her body overtly accepting as the Earl of Declan positioned himself between her thighs and began to penetrate, his hard buttocks flexing as he pushed deep into her body and started to move in the carnal rhythm of sexual intercourse.
For him, Gaston always viewed sex as a necessary part of life, something to be done to relieve the need—like eating or sleeping. He used prostitutes more often as not, as they were simple, the deal a straightforward exchange without emotion. The concept of love and marriage was abstract to him, like understanding the objection of the rest of Europe to his emperor’s ambition.
However, this might be a problem, he mused as he continued to watch them couple, finally hearing the countess expire in a small blissful scream, her husband making a low sound of satisfaction as he went rigid against her open legs, his head tilted back and his eyes tightly shut as he cli
maxed. If he was going to complete his task, Gaston mused, edging back a little, he would need to be able to get the girl alone. Considering he was so noticeable as a Frenchman in a time when England’s tensions with his country ran high, he was going to have to plan carefully.
And, he conceded, abandon the idea of catching Jessica Wyatt peacefully asleep in bed, for he somehow doubted after tonight’s passionate performance she ever slept alone.
It was an obstacle, he told himself with practicality as he stealthily tread across the balcony and easily swung a leg over the railing. An obstacle he could overcome.
She would die at his hands, but not until he had some answers.
Lowering himself with one smooth swing and jumping, Gaston did not realize his coat had caught—on what he wasn’t sure—until his downward progress toward the gardens was checked abruptly. With a low, inward but vehement curse, he clutched at the balcony, dangling mid-air by one hand, his feet desperately seeking purchase against the stone wall next to him.
His coat, thick and designed to ward off the autumn chill, did not give. Trying to lever himself upward again, he pulled, his arms aching a little from his earlier climb. He was a spy, not an acrobat, and his muscles shook as he struggled to dislodge the captured bit of material.
“Who’s out there?”
The sound of the curt question, edged with both suspicion and menace, made Gaston’s grasp slip, the sound of tearing material punctuated by his unexpected descent to the ground. He landed hard on his back, and one glimpse of a very tall, very nude, and very suspicious-looking Trenton Wyatt on the balcony didn’t help him regain his breath, but it did spur him to scramble to his feet and run down the path.
The earl would pay for his undignified exit, he promised himself furiously as he slid between two bristling bushes and found the garden wall, vaulting to the top and slithering over to land on the other side.
Gaston Romney did not easily play the fool.
* * * *
“Someone was watching us?”
Trenton gave his lovely wife a small, grim smile, her horrified expression almost—but not—quite shaking him out his anger. “There was someone on the balcony, Jess. What do you think they were doing? Bloody hell, the damned doors were partially open, even if he was a common burglar, he would have to have heard us.”
Making a small, strangled sound, she tugged the coverlet higher, her dark eyes wide and her cheeks visibly pink. “Oh, God.”
“Yes, well, I doubt he had anything to do with it.” Shoving his hand roughly through his hair, Trenton laughed shortly. “I am sure we put on a nice performance, but I am skeptical that’s why our visitor was out there. It’s the dead of night. We happened to be awake and engaging in sexual congress, but he could hardly count on it.”
“This is a big city.” Jessica’s voice shook audibly, and she was almost frighteningly pale besides the stains of embarrassment on her elegant cheekbones. “There is plenty of crime, even in affluent portions of London like this, Trenton. I’m sure it was a common thief who saw the open doors and decided it would be easy to get into the house.”
“That would be my guess as well,” he said slowly, assessing how violently her hand trembled when she lifted it to brush back a loose strand of hair from her cheek. He felt a twinge of unease that he didn’t like one bit, thinking her reaction was a little extreme. “After all, what other explanation could there be?”
“None,” she said too quickly and shivered.
“Are you cold, Jess?”
Her eyes were dark and huge. “A little. Perhaps you should close and lock the door, my lord, and come back to bed.”
It was an appealing suggestion, especially when his beautiful wife was so gloriously nude and requesting he join her. Trenton latched the French doors onto the balcony and prudently pulled the drapes shut, something he rarely did since he was an early riser, and no one had a view into the room. Then he crossed back to the bed and slid in, taking Jessica’s slender body into his arms.
She was cold, he discovered, almost icily so. When she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and buried her face against his chest, he felt another unwanted tremor of suspicious alarm. Stroking her silky hair, he murmured, “It was a footpad, Jess. You said so yourself. Why are you so frightened?”
“He probably saw us…doing what we just did. That’s disgusting.”
“Making love is nothing to be ashamed of. Though I admit I’d like to wring his neck for startling me out of my wits, no real harm is done, Jess. Just relax and forget it. You’re shaking, sweetheart. There is simply no need to be so upset.”
“What if we had been in my room? Sometimes we sleep in there, Trenton. He would have gotten into the house.”
“And maybe made off with a trinket or two and some coins, that’s all. I keep any significant amounts of coin in a strong box in a locked drawer in my desk, and anything else can be replaced.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She sounded unconvinced. The grip of her arms was tenacious.
Feeling the fragile weight of her against him, the smooth soft vulnerability of skin and muscle, her frame so light and slender, Trenton felt a protective surge that was something completely new and startling. He kissed her temple and told her gently, “I would never let anything happen to you, Jess.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you either,” she mumbled against his skin.
“Would it make you feel better if I told Winters that he is to have one of the footmen check all the windows and doors each night and make sure they are all securely locked? Not just the downstairs, which I believe they do already, but also the upstairs bedrooms?”
“Yes.” She relaxed a fraction.
“Done. Now, since we are both so wide awake, I’ll wager I can make you forget anything ever disturbed us.” He cupped her chin, lifting her face so he could kiss her, his mouth soft against her cool lips, his tongue invading with gentle and leisurely exploration. After a moment, she responded, going pliant and willing against him, and one of her hands slipped down, skimming over his hip to between his legs. Jessica cupped his testicles and squeezed lightly, making his burgeoning erection stiffen farther, hot desire spiking through every nerve ending and centering in his groin.
“You get hard so fast,” she said breathlessly when he rolled her onto her back. “All those years of practice, no doubt.”
Trenton laughed and nipped at her neck, inhaling her delicate fragrance as his hand stroked her bare hip. “You are your normal self again, I see, chastising me for my supposed sins. I certainly practice with you, my lovely wife. I can’t deny that.” With a teasing grin, he looked into her eyes and arched one brow. “Now, if you will obligingly spread your legs, perhaps I can give you something you enjoy. Ah, yes, just like that. Perfect.”
He sank deep, feeling Jessica’s response in the perfect arch of her back as she opened wide to accept every hard inch, her head thrown back in obvious pleasure. He would marvel more at how easily and flawlessly they came together, man and woman dancing to the oldest tune in the world, except carnal sensation obliterated all rational thought. He prolonged the anticipation for them both by slowing the pace each time when he felt her orgasm rising, controlling his own need for release. When Jessica clung to him, and the frantic grip of her hands begged for that exquisite relief, he finally obliged, his climax matching hers, the erotic contractions around his flexing cock making his ejaculation a tumultuous explosion of joyous pleasure.
As he hoped, she fell asleep easily and sweetly just moments later, all thoughts of peeping intruders apparently banished by sexual exhaustion.
Trenton, however, was not so lucky. He watched her thoughtfully as she slumbered, her blonde beauty giving her an almost angelic look; from the pale gold of her hair, the ivory of her flawless skin, even to the perfect delicate rose of her nipples.
But Jessica, he reminded himself wryly, was no angel. What’s more, after several weeks in London, she had very surprisingly declined an offer to
return to Kent now that his most immediate business was finished, and twice he’d found the door between their rooms unexpectedly locked. He hadn’t commented, since everyone was entitled to some privacy, and they were undoubtedly still adjusting to living together.
Propped on one elbow, he reached over and lifted one long, shimmering strand of her hair, toying with it, his brows drawn together. There was simply no reason on earth for him to be suspicious that something was going on, other than this odd feeling he had. Not only were there no smugglers to hold clandestine meetings with in London, but Jessica had virtually no acquaintances in town. She no longer needed the money anyway, for he had certainly given her a generous allowance and provided for her in every other way as well. Other than tea with the Reicherts and luncheon with his mother, he’d kept her selfishly to himself for the entire time they had been married, though word was out and the invitations were piling up on his secretary’s desk, fashionable society suddenly and openly curious about the new Countess of Declan.
Smoothing the lock of hair across her bare shoulder, Trenton shook off his doubts. Perhaps all married men worried in a similar way about their wives, especially if they were spirited and beautiful.
He was very new at this, he had to acknowledge. His feelings for Jessica were not exactly what he expected, and though it was an unwilling realization because it made him feel vulnerable, physical passion with her was different. The scores of ladies he bedded in his dissolute past were a testament to this conclusion. When he held his wife in his arms and they made love, he felt a depth of desire and tenderness he hadn’t known existed.
Bloody hell, could he be falling in love?
“Shit,” he muttered in the darkness.
* * * *
Adjusting the lace at the cuff of her jacket, Jessica hurried down the hallway and stopped at her husband’s study door. Rapping lightly, she heard him bid her to enter in an abstracted voice. He was occupied, she discovered when she went inside, seated behind his desk frowning over a ledger. She said in dismay, “I see you are still working. Did you forget the time?”