She gave him a tight smile, which clearly indicated she didn’t believe him, either. “You’re a general now?” she asked abruptly, clearly ready to change the subject.
“I am.” He moved to the window and looked out across the lavender fields, one arm held behind his ramrod-straight back as if he were surveying a battlefield. The stance was still comfortable for him even after all these years of working for the Home Office.
“I suppose congratulations are in order.” The tea arrived and Nicole poured a cup for herself and splashed in a liberal amount of cream. He remembered that about her. She took her tea with no sugar, just cream.
“No congratulations needed,” he intoned, taking another swig of brandy.
The silver spoon she used to stir her tea clinked against the delicate china teacup. “I must admit, I’ve often wondered when I’d get a missive that you’d been killed.”
His chuckle was humorless. He turned to face her. “Such little faith in me? Or wishful thinking?”
“Neither,” she replied, lifting the cup to her pink lips. “Just a profound knowledge of how reckless you are.”
He inclined his head. “Used to be.”
“Really?” She raised a brow. “Is that why you’ve come? To tell me you’ve changed?”
He chuckled. “I haven’t changed that much.”
“I’m not surprised.” She set down her teacup and crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me, Mark, why have you come?”
He saluted her with his glass, the amber-colored liquid shining in the afternoon sunlight. “You were right. I need a favor from you.”
She didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Of course you do. What’s the favor?” She picked up her cup once more and took a sip.
He downed the final splash of brandy and met her gaze. “I need you to return to England with me for a few months and pretend to be my loving wife.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Nicole nearly choked on her tea. The warm liquid slipped down her windpipe and she spent the next several moments battling a coughing fit. If Mark had just told her he wanted her to join him in a traveling sideshow she couldn’t have been more astonished.
Once the coughs subsided, she set aside her teacup and dabbed at her watery eyes with a handkerchief she’d produced from her pocket. Then she cupped a hand behind her ear. “You want me to what?”
Mark set his empty glass on the sideboard and strolled nonchalantly toward her. “I believe you heard me.” His tone had lost its typical condescending note. “I’m being considered for another promotion. Quite a large promotion. To Secretary of the Home Office.”
Nicole’s brows shot up. “Secretary of the Home Office?” She gave a long, drawn-out whistle. She’d known he was ambitious. Known he would go far. But that lofty position was something she’d never even guessed he’d be eligible for. It was essentially the head of all the spies in England. He’d have the ear of the King. Mark would wield more power than she’d ever imagined. She lowered her gaze to her cloudy tea and did her best to keep her face blank. “So your political ambitions are finally being realized, but what does that have to do with me?”
Mark tilted his head to the side and studied her face. “Unfortunately it has a great deal to do with you. They want a family man to be the secretary.”
She furrowed her brow. “Did you tell them about your family?”
“No.” His snapped rejoinder nearly cut her off. “My family has nothing to do with this. They merely want a man who’s settled instead of a bachelor.”
Of course. She should have known better than to mention his family. Clearly, he was still as prickly about the subject as ever. “Ah, so you hope trotting me out after all these years will secure you the position?”
He cocked his head to the side and nodded. “Something like that.”
She set her teacup on the silver salver that rested on the table at her knees and crossed her arms over her chest once more, regarding him down the length of her nose. He had a great deal of explaining to do. “Why don’t you just hire some biddable little thing to pretend to be your wife?”
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “There are people who know we’re married, Nicole. Not many, but a few. If I’m caught in a lie I might sacrifice the position.”
“So you did consider it?” She laughed and waved away his reply. “No need to answer. I’m certain you considered it.”
He cocked his head to the side again. “By the by, what does your family think of you living in France all these years?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Was he truly going to ask her about it so casually after all these years? Fine. Two could play at this game.
“I didn’t give them much choice in the matter.”
“You didn’t give anyone much choice.” Was it her imagination or was there an edge of anger in his voice?
She stood, pressing her hand to the strangely hollow place in her breast. “I write to Mother when I can. We keep in touch.”
“And all of this?” He waved a hand in the air. “How do you manage it?”
How dare he ask about her resources? He had no right to. She hadn’t taken so much as a tuppence from him in all these years. “You of all people should know that working for the War Office can be lucrative. I’ve also done some work for the authorities here in France.”
“Ah, yes, your career. Start a branch of the Bow Street Runners in Paris, did you?”
Purposely ignoring that remark, she made her way to the sideboard where she poured herself a finger of brandy. She could not allow him to bait her like this. Merde. Why couldn’t she bring herself to toss him out on his handsome head? “Care for some more?” she asked in her most gracious hostesslike voice. It was entirely fake.
“Yes,” he replied simply.
Forcing herself to rein in her escalating emotions, she poured two glasses of brandy, proud her hands didn’t shake despite her pounding heart. She crossed the thick carpet to hand him his glass.
Mark raised the brandy in the air in a silent salute. “I see you’re still unconventional.”
“I see you’re still preoccupied with your work.” She turned on her heel to take a seat on the settee across from him again.
He took a seat next to her on the settee, then leaned down and braced his forearms on both knees, holding the glass between his legs. “Will you do it?” He searched her eyes, the slightest hint of vulnerability in his. His voice didn’t contain a trace of wheedle, not a hint of coaxing. He didn’t need it. The man radiated charm from his smallest finger, and God help him, he knew it.
Nicole narrowed her eyes on him. The damnable man was more handsome today than he had been ten years ago. He was still fit, muscled, and tall. He was still broad-shouldered and his dark hair and eyes still smoldered with arrogance and intelligence. His nose looked slightly different, however. It had been perfectly straight. Now it was a bit crooked, as if it had been broken a time or two. Unfortunately, that small imperfection made him even more handsome. Not only that, but his blasted lips were still firmly molded. A thought she’d had about exactly no other man’s lips before or since. She shook her head, trying to clear it of thoughts of both his handsomeness and his lips.
Would she do it? Merde. He was an arrogant son of a bitch striding back into her life after all these years demanding that she play along for his sake. What in the hell did she owe him? Nothing. However, there was something she wanted in return. Something only he could give her. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to get it.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, undulating her fingers along the side of her glass, and arching one brow in his direction. “On one condition.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Damn her. Nicole had refused to tell him what her condition was before she’d dismissed him to go upstairs and prepare for her blasted dinner party. Mark was still sitting in her drawing room with his half-full glass of brandy, contemplating their exchange. She was obviously enjoying this, his being at her mercy. He couldn’t
blame her. He’d enjoy it too if he was in her shoes. Or boots, as the case may be. Another vision of her striding to the sideboard in those skintight breeches shot through his brain, making his own breeches uncomfortably tight. Bloody hell. He hadn’t come here to lust after the damnable woman. He’d come here to ask her for a favor. One he had every reason to believe she’d refuse.
She’d told him to come back tomorrow afternoon. She would tell him her condition then. She hadn’t offered to allow him to stay here tonight. He would have refused at any rate. He’d rented a room in town at the inn, not having any idea what sort of welcome (if any) he’d get. He’d half expected to be nursing his wounds from her sharp tongue right now and perhaps even be on his way back to England empty-handed. The fact that she hadn’t said no was already a small victory.
However, her one condition sounded ominous. He clenched his jaw. What could she possibly want from him? To stay away from her after he secured the position? He already had. She knew that wouldn’t be an issue. To increase her allowance? The woman was richer than most women in England and France. She hadn’t touched the money he’d provided for her. She was hardly hurting for income.
The only other thing he could think of was … divorce. It was something he’d never allowed himself to contemplate. Something that would bring shame and scandal upon both of them. Something he had assumed was unnecessary. They both went about their lives perfectly happily. A divorce seemed superfluous. Perhaps Nicole was in love. Perhaps she wanted to marry the comte. If that were the case, a divorce might well be what she was after. Mark’s stomach gave a sickened jolt at the image of Nicole lying in bed with the comte, her glorious red hair splayed across the pillows, her gorgeous face tensed with pleasure … That was a damned uncomfortable thought.
Mark tightened his fist. Yes, he could well punch the bloody comte in the face. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see if he could still lay a man flat with one punch like he had in his youth.
Mark took another fortifying swig of brandy and concentrated on the matter at hand. Nicole must realize that if he needed a wife in order to become the Secretary of the Home Office, a divorce would only bring censure. He couldn’t possibly hope to retain the position with that sort of scandal hanging over his head. Perhaps she meant to ask him for a divorce after he was established, and her condition would be his promise that he would grant it when the time came.
Mark scrubbed his free hand through his hair and groaned. It was no use guessing what she might want. Women rarely made sense to him and Nicole less so than all others. He would simply have to see what she said on the morrow.
But he wasn’t about to wait around the inn all evening alone and stew on it.
A footman walked past the open drawing room door, and Mark called to the lad. Mark pulled open his coat and plucked a large French bill from his inside pocket. He waved it over his head between two fingers. “Do you know where Madame is off to tonight?” he asked in flawless French.
The footman shook his head. “I don’t, Monsieur, but I can find out from Madame’s maid.”
Mark nodded. “Do that and be quick about it. There’s something for the maid, too, if she can provide the correct directions.”
The footman scurried off and Mark leaned back against his seat and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. He took another swig of brandy. It slid slowly down his throat, burning away his lingering concerns over a possible divorce.
He took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be difficult to gain entrée to a dinner party or soiree or wherever Nicole was off to tonight. Since the wars had ended, the French loved to invite colorful Englishmen to their parties. Mark would have the perfect opportunity to watch Nicole and her comte.
CHAPTER SIX
That arrogant bastard was here. At the Duc de Frontenac’s soiree. Nicole stood in a small, discreet circle of friends in a corner of the duc’s huge drawing room, while Mark boldly occupied the center of the room. He held court in a circle of French girls who were vying for his attention as if he were royalty. He wore dark black superfine and a white starched shirtfront and startlingly white cravat with a black coat and tight black breeches. He looked good too, blast him. Nicole had missed the simple elegance of the English attire. France was a lovely country and prided itself on its couture, but she’d begun to tire of the lacy sleeves and overly embroidered colorful coats the men here wore. Mark stood out like a black panther in a sea of peacocks. He always had.
* * *
She’d met him at her grandmother’s house. Grandmama was throwing a ball. She’d invited a group of soldiers who were just back from the war in Spain. Nicole had been twenty years old, beginning to wilt on the shelf, having been out for two Seasons. Mother and Grandmama were both set on her finding a husband that Season. So she was freshly coiffed and begowned, and set out in Society like a prize pig at a fair. But she was bored. Endlessly, hopelessly bored. Balls and parties were not her sort of thing. She preferred active pursuits like riding her horse and racing her male cousins through the fields. She’d always had far too much energy for the activities encouraged of proper young ladies. Embroidery and playing the pianoforte? Dreadfully dull. Those pursuits required one to sit in one spot for far too long. Not to mention that she questioned precisely why anyone would want to do so. What purpose did such activities serve?
Nicole had always longed to do something useful, and she finally had found just the thing. She had a secret. One Mama and Grandmama knew nothing about. In fact, if either of those ladies learned what she’d been up to of late, they’d no doubt have a pair of conniptions. Nicole had recently secured a new, if unofficial, position with the Bow Street Runners.
She’d been planning it for weeks after surreptitiously reading the runners’ advertisements in the paper. The elite group of lawmen operated out of a building connected to the magistrate’s office on Bow Street and they used the London papers to spread word about the criminals they were looking for. Knowing that, as a woman, she would not be taken seriously unless she proved herself, Nicole had gone on a private mission to help the runners.
Dressed in breeches and a boy’s shirt (purchased on the sly from one of the footmen), just last week she’d chased down two criminals known to rob ladies on Bond Street. If there was an area of town she was familiar with, it was Bond Street, the fashionable shopping district frequented by members of the ton. Honestly, the two thieves stuck out like sore thumbs in the crush on Bond Street. It hadn’t been difficult to find them. They’d knocked over Miss Winnie Simmons and stolen her reticule, then run down the street to the arcade. Nicole knew of a shortcut to the large, covered shopping area. She ran behind the stores and mews and cut off the two, halting them at the end of a pistol she’d borrowed from her father’s collection. She’d delivered the thieves and the stolen reticule to Bow Street with dirt on her breeches, a rip in her sleeve, and a huge smile on her face. She’d never been happier nor felt more useful.
That night at Grandmama’s ball, she’d been hiding behind a potted palm, hoping to avoid dancing with the Marquess of Tinsley, whom both her mother and her grandmama were eyeing as her most prized potential suitor. The boredom finally broke her and Nicole wandered over to the refreshment table to see if she might be able to surreptitiously pour a bit of wine in the punch bowl, like she had last time. Wine always made punch taste better and it certainly made such dull evenings easier to withstand.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted one of the extra servants Grandmama had hired for the evening reach over and pull a large serving spoon right off the end of the table. He dropped it directly into his pocket, neat as you please. Nicole blinked. The servant had some nerve. When he slipped out of the room soon after, her instincts took over. Meting out justice was ever so much more interesting than pretending to be enjoying a party, after all.
Being careful to stay back several paces so the thief wouldn’t be aware, she followed him out of the room and down the corridor to the stairway that led to the servants’ hall. At
the entrance to the stairs, he glanced over both shoulders. Nicole pressed her back against the wall, holding her breath. The culprit proceeded to rush down the stairs and Nicole counted to ten before following him. She hid in the shadows near the bottom of the staircase and watched him hastily gather his things from a cubbyhole in the empty servants’ dining room. Then he made his way to another short set of stairs that led up and out onto the back stoop next to the gardens.
She counted ten again and followed him. By the time she reached the darkened gardens, the man was halfway across the yard, heading toward the wooden door under an archway that led to the mews. He was about to get away.
“Stop! Thief!” she called without thinking. She’d been much more dramatic and much less subtle back then.
Instead of stopping, the man took off running. Again without thought, she lifted her skirts and chased after him, her delicate satin slippers ripping against the gravel. Pausing to open the gate slowed him down and Nicole was only steps behind him as he raced across the alley toward the mews.
She was about to demand that he stop again when a shadow emerged from the darkness and tripped the servant easily.
Nicole stopped short and watched in awe as the shadow materialized into a man. A tall, broad-shouldered man. She took a step back and sucked in her breath.
The servant jumped up as if to continue his flight, but the man laid him flat with one solid punch to the head. The servant flew backward and remained prostrate on the gravel, snoring.
Nicole’s heart hammered in her chest.
“What did he steal?” A deep voice accompanied the shadow’s broad shoulders.
“A … a spoon,” she replied, swallowing hard, finally realizing she should be concerned for her safety. The servant could have hurt her and now she was out in the dark alone with a complete stranger who obviously had no compunction in committing violence. She wished she had brought her father’s pistol, only there had been no time to fetch it.
A Duke Like No Other Page 2