Unmasking the Spy

by Janet Kent

  His skin felt hot and a little scratchy, as if he hadn’t shaved since morning. He turned his face until his mouth rested against the back of her hand. He pressed a trail of little kisses down the back of her head to her neck. His breath was hot, moist, ragged. Alicia gave a little shudder. Her whole body felt tense and sensitive and strange, as if she could feel his kisses on every inch of her skin.

  Rogue nudged his head against the inner crook of her arm and she let her hair fall, allowing her arms to drift back to her sides.

  He continued to pepper her neck with kisses, and slid his hands from her shoulders to her sides. With a light, gentle grip, he turned her in a slow circle. The trail of soft kisses traveled from the back of her neck to the front of her throat, up to her ear and along the line of her jaw.

  Alicia couldn’t stand it anymore. When his mouth pressed against her chin, she angled her head, forcing his lips to meet hers. She splayed her fingers across his chest and the grip on her waist tightened. She stood kissing him just as she imagined herself doing in her dream, but here he was. Real. With her. She pulled her head back to look at him in wonder.

  “What is it?” he asked in a husky whisper.

  She shook her head, unable to articulate her thoughts.

  He frowned for a brief moment. “Is there someone else?”

  “No,” she answered. “Well, not exactly.”

  Rogue tilted his head and looked at her.

  Alicia bit her lip. “There’s really not. But I know a man who would be very angry if he heard me say that.”

  “Your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Fiancé?”

  “No. I don’t really have an ‘understanding’ with him.”

  “Then understand this,” Rogue answered, bringing his face closed to hers so that his breath heated her cheek. “Right now, what I want… is you.”

  His lips brushed against hers gently at first, then rubbed with increasing pressure. He nipped against her lower lip with his teeth. Alicia gasped and his tongue swept inside her mouth. Her fingers found themselves gripping his shoulders, as if afraid he might let go. Alicia slid her tongue between her teeth in a tentative imitation of Rogue’s kiss, and shivered when the tips of their tongues licked against each other.

  The strong hands on her waist slid to her back, drawing her closer. His entire body felt hot and hard and rigid. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her hips were flush to his thighs. She trembled. He broke the kiss and rested his lips against her forehead. His arms wrapped her in a tight hug.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “I wanted you to kiss me.”

  “Oh, God,” he groaned, as if in pain. He lifted her face to his. “You can’t tell me things like that, or I’ll do it again. I’m just a man.”

  Alicia felt a tremor of female power. She slid her palms from his neck down the front of his shirt. He let her go and trapped her hands against his chest. She stilled.

  “Do you want me to come see you another time?” he asked, as if afraid she might say no.

  “Please,” she whispered. Planning to meet him was no doubt an unwise idea, but he was her fairybook hero. She couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him again.

  He lifted her face with a knuckle and rubbed his nose against the tip of hers. “Two days? Five o’clock?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. She opened her mouth to say more, but he silenced her with a slow, tender kiss.

  He dragged his lips to her ear to whisper “until next time” and was gone.

  ###

  The next afternoon, Alicia dropped her sewing into her lap. She leaned her head against the side of the chair and let the fading afternoon sun warm her face. She’d hoped to experience real kisses, had she? Alicia smiled to herself. She’d gotten her wish in spades.

  The moment he’d touched her, her body had reacted. She loved the feel of his mouth on her neck, his arms gripping her waist, her body flush with his. Alicia squirmed in her chair. She had been missing out on more than kisses. She hadn’t understood the potency of passion. Rogue was a delicious secret.

  Why couldn’t Papa want to make her marry someone like Rogue? Someone passionate, someone personable… unlike Louis. Louis never thought of her when she was not around. For all she knew, he didn’t think of her much even when she was standing right next to him. Louis certainly didn’t bother with bringing gifts.

  Alicia touched her neck, feeling the slender chain there. She ought to put it in her room before going out tonight with Louis. Rogue might be an impossible love, but Louis was just plain impossible.

  Not for the first time, she wished she were an independent woman, capable of making the decision whether to marry or not. She would live alone with Great-aunt Beatrix, without any men about to criticize or control them. They could do as they liked. Alicia grinned. Who knows what adventures they might get up to with time and money on their hands. Louis already thought Beatrix dotty – what might he think then? Alicia leaned back in her chair. She should tell him she wanted to indulge her aunt’s every whim when she married. She could make up crazy schemes of her own.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready, daughter? Louis will be here in a couple hours.”

  Alicia lifted her head to see her father pausing in the hallway. “Marvelous,” she muttered, and rose to her feet.

  Papa tapped his fingertips together and contemplated her. “Your first week is gone, daughter. I assume you’ve been busy trying to fall in love with Louis, if such a thing still matters to you.”

  He thought she might have “gotten over” her hope for love in eight days time?

  Before Alicia could respond, he’d already turned and continued down the hall. She dropped her sewing into the basket by the chair and headed for her room.

  ###

  Mr. Morrissey was here tonight. Alicia sensed his presence before she'd circled the ballroom for the first time. She considered apologizing for the cut she gave him last they'd met, then changed her mind. No need to encourage a rake like him, even if he had meant to do nothing more than draw Louis from her.

  Well, well, think of the devil.

  Here came Louis now, prancing through the crowd like a horse gone skittish. Alicia murmured to her group of friends before moving away a few paces. No sense inflicting Louis on all of them.

  She inclined her head as Louis reached her side.

  “Just once,” he whined, “I should like to meet someone handy with his fives.”

  “I would like to meet a maharajah,” Alicia replied in a commiserative tone. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “A maha- what has that to do with cards?” Louis fingered his cravat and looked around the room. “If I weren’t stuck here with you, I could be at a real gaming table.”

  Alicia smiled over his shoulder into the distance. “And I could be touring the world. I imagine India to have amazing vistas. The culture is so exotic.”

  “Oh, you could not. Proper women don’t go gallivanting cross-country by themselves. Besides, India doesn’t sound like any fun. They don’t even speak English.”

  “I wouldn’t be on my own. I’d take Aunt Beatrix as chaperone,” Alicia said in a decisive tone. “And if India doesn’t work out, we can always start with France. Nothing wrong with that, n’est-ce pas?”

  Louis sniffed. “Don’t think for a second that I’d give you any money to spend on Paris shopping.”

  “No, no,” Alicia replied with a wave of her hand. “One can do plenty of shopping here. I didn’t mean Paris at all. I plan to visit the Pyrenees, or perhaps the Alps. How thrilling it will be to climb mountains!”

  “Beatrix can barely climb the stairs, cousin,” Louis said and smirked. “And I wouldn’t set foot on a mountain.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Alicia gave a sharp nod. “I should have to join an expedition.”

  Louis goggled at her. “What you’ll do is sit at home. I needn’t even allow you to visit Bond Street.”

/>   “I suppose I should send for a modiste if I were housebound. One must stay fashionable, of course.” Alicia fixed Louis with a sardonic look.

  He puffed up his chest and ran his hands down the shirt stretched over his belly. “I,” he said, “am always in fashion.”

  “When not traveling, then, I should endeavor to be just as modish as you, cousin. Being in the first stare of fashion may come terribly dear, but such things are worth every cent.”

  Louis put his hands on his hips. “There will be no traveling, and I will decide which purchases are fashion necessities. I don’t know where you get your ideas, but I forbid you from having any more.”

  He was outlawing ideas? What an imbecile. From the corner of her eye, Alicia saw Mr. Morrissey approaching. She hoped Louis would move on before Mr. Morrissey came close enough to overhear his prattle.

  “I would not allow you to spend a single penny unchecked, cousin. Monetary concepts are too much for you to grasp, since you are a woman and therefore have lesser intelligence than men such as I. You must wear what I give you and do as you’re told.”

  Alicia sucked on the insides of her cheeks to keep from responding. Mr. Morrissey strode forward and she didn’t want to add more flames to the Chadwick rumors. She narrowed her eyes and willed Louis to go away.

  Mr. Morrissey inclined his head at Louis before turning to Alicia. “Miss Kinsey. I believe a quadrille is beginning. If you do not already have a partner, would you consider me?”

  “I’d love to,” Alicia said, her voice sounding overloud to her own ears. Anything was better than Louis. She laid her hand on the inside of Mr. Morrissey’s elbow and turned her back to her cousin.

  ###

  Ian gave Larouche a stiff nod and led Miss Kinsey to the dance floor. After the chilly reception he’d received last time, he hadn’t intended to interrupt them again. But, he swore he could feel the tension radiating from Miss Kinsey from ten paces away. She’d seemed to be having a decent time this evening until her cousin had barreled over. She hadn’t danced much, but he’d watched her flit from one group of friends to another, smiling and laughing. Larouche was a wet rag.

  As they moved into the first steps, her frustration shouted from the tenseness of her taut muscles as she danced. Small wonder. If he’d told his sisters they were less intelligent to he due to the virtue of their sex, they’d have considered throwing something at him. If he’d said, “Wear what I give you and do as you’re told,” he’d have had to duck for cover. Some women were brainless, to be sure. But not all. And Larouche didn’t seem to have much between the ears himself.

  Miss Kinsey was quiet throughout the dance, and Ian didn’t press her to talk. By the time the music ended, she had relaxed enough that he ventured to speak his mind.

  “Pardon my rudeness in saying so, Miss Kinsey, but I overheard a bit of your cousin’s comment,” he told her in a gentle voice.

  Her head snapped up and her eyes widened.

  “Please don’t fear all gentlemen think as he does,” Ian said with feeling. “Some of us appreciate women with minds of their own.”

  Her head jerked in an uncertain nod. “Thank you,” she mumbled with a weak smile. “Excuse me.” She slipped her hand from the crook of his elbow and melted into the crowd.

  Ian hoped he’d done the right thing by trying to make her feel better. Each of his sisters reacted differently to kind words when they were unhappy. One never knew with women. Fascinating, fickle, incomprehensible creatures.

  Larouche, on the other hand, was easy to read. Only one thing seemed to be on his mind. Himself.

  Ian quit the ballroom and entered the card room. Larouche had trapped some poor soul in the corner. As he got closer, Ian overheard snippets of their conversation and stopped in his tracks. It was the same man Larouche had been prattling to about his boots and Miss Kinsey earlier in the week. What was his name? Something Porter. Perhaps these two were friends.

  “I heard you visited a particular neighborhood,” came Porter’s hushed voice.

  “I can’t stay away from those squirrels,” Larouche replied in a rushed whisper. “I don’t mind paying for what they do. Last night–”

  “Not the bits of muslin. The game.”

  “Oh, that. I nearly won. Next time I’ll show them. You’ll see.”

  “All I want to see is you back on top, Larouche.”

  “I will be soon,” Larouche promised. “My cousin–”

  “The little blonde thing? She doesn’t seem to be working any magic. Things don’t seem any different for you.”

  “When she’s my property, you’ll know it. Right now she’s just a bit uppity. Too opinionated for her own good. I have to teach her who’s in charge, but she’ll learn. She thinks she knows more about fashion than me. Can you imagine?”

  Ian imagined his cravat knew more about fashion. Before Larouche’s idiocy had a chance to escalate, Ian shook his head and left the card room. He’d spent enough time at this party. Time to move on and find more names for his list.

  ###

  The next day, Ian forced himself to sit at his desk and pen a response to his sisters’ letter. He’d hoped he would be back to Heatherley by now and able to speak with them in person. Of course, in person he wouldn’t be lucky enough to receive a simple “P.S. Bring home a bride.” Ian let out a rueful chuckle. He had a feeling his sisters would not leave him be until he found a woman to bear the title Mrs. Morrissey.

  After signing his name, Ian considered ignoring his sister’s marriage comment altogether. No, better not. The next letter would contain nothing else. Ian freshened the ink on his pen and scrawled across the bottom of the page, “P.S. Sorry, no wife.” Lest they think he dismissed their advice out of hand, he added the word “Yet” and gave a sharp nod.

  That ought to hold them for now.

  Besides, what was the hurry? He was almost thirty, true, and he did want a wife someday, but there was no reason to pick one up today, this week. He hoped for a wholesome girl. Someone sweet. Monogamous. He definitely had no interest in attaching himself to some jaded society princess with haughty airs, impatient to procure herself a string of “discreet” London lovers.

  Not that beau monde women were the only ones who acted in such a manner. Look at Larouche. Ian’s shoulders shook in a mock shudder. He’d rather not look at him. Just listening to him was bad enough. Pretensions of being the next Brummel aside, Larouche’s repugnant attitude toward marriage was by no means unique. He spent his nights whoring and rarely graced his fiancée’s side at society soirees. By his own admission, Larouche already considered Miss Kinsey to be his property.

  Despite popular opinion, Ian considered the “wife as property” mantra a technicality, and for the most part hogwash. His mother was a walking angel and his sisters were strong women. He hated to think of them becoming anyone’s mere property, and hoped they wedded into as loving a marriage as their parents had shared. Larouche didn’t know the meaning of the word “love.”

  Miss Kinsey, poor girl, didn’t stand a chance.

  Ian straightened the stack of writing paper on his desk and lined his inkbottles in a row. He wished there were some way he could protect innocent girls from men like Larouche. Although Miss Kinsey was perhaps a little silly, she did not deserve the utter disregard of her fiancé. No woman did.

  And he could now admit that Miss Kinsey wasn’t the narcissistic husband-hunter he’d thought her to be. Her occasional silliness and surprising wit were a little endearing but she was still too temperamental for his taste.

  Nonetheless, if he’d been in the country, he might have defended her to Larouche. Rude as it may be to step into a conversation where one was not invited, Ian felt it equally rude to not treat a lady like a lady.

  However, he was not in the country. He was in London. And he could hardly get involved in any more of Miss Kinsey’s affairs. Not just because he needed to keep a low profile in general, but hell. He was already deceiving her by investigating her father, pre
senting himself as a rakish dandy, and falling half in love with her ethereal relative.

  Ian shook his head. No. No, he wasn’t. He mustn’t let himself get carried away. He simply felt a little uncomfortable about the unmitigated success of the locket he’d given her, and a bit embarrassed about the way he’d forgotten himself and been flattered by Elizabeth’s transparent delight.

  The romancing was progressing far too well. He was even romancing himself. He’d have to tone down his gift giving and his own reactions to her charm, or he’d start imagining himself falling for her.

  No more lover-like purchases, then. Besides, he didn’t want Elizabeth to be hurt when he disappeared back to Heatherley. Of course, she might go back to wherever she came from at any time, too. For all he knew, this was her first trip to London. Not that she was exploring the city at all. He doubted she ventured from Chadwick House.

  If he had a wife as obviously passionate as Elizabeth, he’d entertain her in such a way that she’d never want to leave the bedroom, much less the house. Ian closed his eyes and a slow smile spread across his face as he remembered the feel of her skin against his mouth, his lips brushing the hollow of her neck, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt, the sweet strokes of her tongue against his, and… Zeus. Against his better judgment, he hoped to see her again tonight.

  She was beautiful. Innocent. Seductive. If he were a poet, he’d no doubt compose a line or two for her. Ian opened his eyes and his writing implements snapped into focus. For the love of God.

  “Might as well give it a go,” he said aloud with a self-deprecating shrug.

  He arranged a clean sheet of paper on his desk, dipped his pen in the ink, and stared at the blank sheet. He sat there for so long the ink dried on the pen and he had to refresh the tip again.

  “Elizabeth,” he wrote. “You are like…”

  Ian sat back and considered, his pen poised on the paper. A flower? No. Too trite. A lady? Of course she was a lady. The moon? No. What the hell did that mean, anyway? That she was white? Round? Floating in the sky? Don’t be stupid. Maybe a rose? No, a rose is a flower. Damn.