by Shana Galen
Blue and she tumbled into the coach, and he pulled the door closed and rapped on the roof. The drawn curtains and flickering coach lamps made the interior seem warm and cozy, but it was still cold. She shivered and Blue pulled half a dozen blankets around her and settled her into the crook of his arm.
“Are there any blankets left at home?” she asked as the horses clopped away from Covent Garden.
“Perhaps one or two. Are you warm enough?”
She smiled. Ernest might play the part of the dandy, with care for nothing but fashion and gossip, but the man beneath the mask was warm and thoughtful and infinitely attentive. Considering his sense of fashion lacked...well, sense, his husbandly merits were welcome.
“Yes, I’m warm now.” She snuggled closer to him. “You look quite festive tonight. The violet waistcoat?” She raised a brow.
He puffed out his chest, which under the hideous waistcoat was quite impressive. “Everyone will be wearing green or red. God forbid I blend in with the masses.”
“Yes, God forbid,” she muttered. He would not blend in with that ghastly wardrobe combination.
He pulled at his lace sleeves, which she knew he adored although they had gone out of fashion with the revolution in France, and then patted his coat pocket. His gaze met hers, and he dropped his hand.
Interesting.
That was the second time tonight he’d touched that pocket with an uncomfortable look. Now what was he hiding?
“Your parents are aware I am accompanying you to this ball?”
“Of course. They did send the invitation.”
“An invitation addressed solely to you, Lord Ernest Bloomington. I was not included.”
The coach bounced over a rough patch in the street, and he held her tightly to steady her.
“You are my wife. You are implied.”
Helena bit back a retort and swallowed. “How utterly lowering,” she said with forced gaiety.
“Darling”—he nuzzled her neck, his breath warm on her chilled skin—“you must know you are much more than an implication to me.”
She did know. She knew he loved her madly.
He’d loved her enough to defy his parents’ wishes and marry her, a lowly opera singer. She hadn’t yet achieved any renown all those years ago. She’d been but a chorus singer with potential. Now that she’d earned distinction as not only a singer but an actress, the Duke and Duchess of Ely’s oversight stung.
She might have attended a half dozen other doings this Christmas Eve, affairs into which she would have been not only welcomed but received as an honored guest. Instead, she was en route to the one place no one—save Blue—wanted her.
And that was reason enough to go. Blue needed her at his side. She did not believe for a moment that the duke and duchess had changed their minds and accepted her. The salient point was Blue did believe it—or wanted to believe it. Helena wanted it to be true for him.
She shivered, though not with cold, as his lips continued their gentle attentions to the sensitive spot below her ear. Heat flowed through her, and the arousal he’d kindled in her dressing room simmered. His fingers found the ties of her cloak, yanking them free so he might slip it off her shoulders and kiss the bared flesh.
She’d never doubted Blue’s love for her. Even during the long years of their separation—when she had pursued recognition on the Continent and drowned her loneliness in too many glasses of champagne or gin or brandy—she had never doubted he loved her.
But he hadn’t loved her enough. Defying his parents was one thing, but giving up his work for the Barbican group quite another. He loved his work for the Crown more, and the Barbican was a greedy mistress. She’d thought she’d lost him to it forever.
Amazingly, he had come back, and had retired from the Barbican group to dedicate himself to their marriage. But she had been shocked that she’d felt more relieved than panicked when he’d come out of retirement for a few days several months ago. It was nice not to have him haunting the corridors of Covent Garden, looking lost and forlorn. He might be the son of a duke, but he needed a profession to occupy him. No, that wasn’t quite true. Not just any profession would do. He was happiest when engaged with the Barbican group. If only it did not consume him...
Even his temporary return to the Barbican had made her worried she would lose him once again to the lure of secret agents and coded missives and outlandish disguises.
His tongue flicked over her earlobe, and she couldn’t stifle a moan. He’d worked his way from her neck to her shoulders and back to her ear until her resolve faltered.
“Blue.” She pushed at him feebly, without any real intention. “I do not wish to arrive at the ball with a wrinkled gown and unkempt hair, looking like the opera singer I am.”
“Madam!” Blue straightened stiffly. “I would never wrinkle your gown or muss your hair.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “And I like opera singers, despite—dare I say because of?—their reputed loose morals.”
She laughed, unable to resist him. Grasping his cravat, she pulled his lips to hers. Heat smoldered between them, so palpable she could almost see it shimmer and spark. He deepened the kiss, pushing her back into the velvet squabs, and she ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He always carefully tousled it, and she took secret delight in ruining the artful carelessness of his look. If he wanted tousled hair, she would give it to him.
“How is it you taste so sweet?” he murmured against her lips.
“Honey in my tea after a performance,” she answered, allowing her hands to roam down the back of his tight-fitting tailcoat. How she wished she might remove it and touch the muscled skin beneath.
“Honey?” he said, his voice rising. “That gives me ideas. Zounds, how many layers are you wearing?”
She laughed and pushed aside the cape and blankets tucked around her. She did not need them with the heat the two of them generated. His hand slid up her thigh, and she wondered when he’d removed his gloves. His smooth fingers flicked over the flesh above her stockings, inching higher until her breath grew quick with anticipation.
He’s always had such sure, skilled fingers. Even when they’d first met, and he’d been a randy youth with more enthusiasm than skill, his touch had never been hesitant or tentative. He knew what he wanted. After all these years, he knew what she wanted too.
“Surely you do not mean to tumble me in a coach in the middle of London.” A thrill raced up her spine at the thought. They had coupled in more than one unlikely location but never in a carriage.
He sniffed with an imperious arch of his brow. “I would never be so uncouth. I merely plan to—” He whispered in her ear, his words making her face heat and her heart pound, thick and slow against her chest.
His hands ruched her dress higher, his fingers slow and teasing as they trailed a measured path up her thighs. She bit her lip and dug her fingers into the velvet beneath her. Suddenly, she seemed to be wearing too many clothes. Her breasts felt tender and chafed by the fine linen of her undergarments, her legs overly warmed by the petticoats.
He kissed the swells of her breasts with his lips, leaving her wanting, and then, with a wicked grin, he slid to the floor and knelt between her knees. She would not be wanting for long.
She hissed in a breath as his fingers skated up to part her thighs, and he grasped the hem of her gown in his teeth.
The coach jolted, making them both bounce hard enough to rattle their brains.
“Whoa there!” Gordon called to the horses.
She met Blue’s gaze—impossibly blue even in the dim light—and he frowned back at her. The coach door flung open, and just as suddenly Blue drew a pistol and shoved her behind him. He moved so quickly she saw but a blur before she’d been thrust into a corner, blankets and velvet swirling about her face.
And she had been worried about his lovemaking mussing her hair. Apparently, she should have concerned herself more with the damage bandits might wreak on her appearance—or her life.
�
�What the devil do you plan to do with that?” a cultured male voice inquired calmly.
“Do put it away, Blue.” That was a woman’s voice.
A woman bandit—and one who obviously knew her husband. Helena struggled to sit up and peer around Blue’s back.
Her husband had already lowered his weapon, and the movement of his arm gave her a glimpse of a dark-haired woman and a man in a greatcoat and beaver hat filling the door of the coach.
“Just because your aim is rubbish, Saaaa...Sophia”—Blue gave Helena a quick glance over his shoulder—“does not mean I do not know how to use this.”
Helena realized these were no bandits. They must be spies. She’d never met any of Blue’s fellow agents for the Crown. She’d never asked to meet any, as she agreed with Blue that the less she knew about that aspect of his life, the better.
But now that they were in front of her, she wanted a better look. The spies obliged by climbing into the coach. At the same time, Blue slid onto the seat beside her.
Helena’s gaze locked with the woman’s.
“This is a surprise,” the woman he’d called Sophia remarked. “I thought you...”
“You thought I preferred baritones?” Blue said, fluttering the lace at his sleeves and patting—there it was again—his coat pocket.
The woman laughed. “Actually, I would have guessed tenors, but this is clearly a...”
“Soprano,” Blue supplied.
Helena’s tongue seemed tied in knots. She tried to speak but no words formed on her lips. This Sophia did not look like Helena had imagined a spy might, had she ever even thought to envision female spies.
Sophia was short in stature, her chestnut hair pulled into a ribbon of glossy curls secured at her nape with a strip of lilac satin. Her brown eyes danced with barely disguised amusement as her gaze flicked from Blue to Helena, clearly understanding exactly what she’d just interrupted.
Her companion, on the other hand, was long and lean with short, dark blond hair and gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He had the chiseled features of a Grecian statue, and he assessed her as quickly as a general might a map of troop movements.
The woman’s lips curled. “Adrian, I do think we have interrupted our friend and his...lady at a most inconvenient time.” Her eyes twinkled with delight, belying the tinge of regret in her voice.
“So it appears,” the man she’d called Adrian said, settling across from Blue and Helena and rapping on the roof with his walking stick. Apparently, they had no intention of retreating until a more convenient time to meet. “Beg your pardon for interrupting. Are you en route to the Ely Ball?”
“You know we are,” Blue replied.
“Good. Thank you for offering us your coach.”
Blue brushed at his sleeve. “I did no such thing, and I give you no pardon. If you have something to say, perhaps we might arrange—”
Sophia interrupted. “I do think introductions are in order.”
“Isn’t that against the rules?” Blue said, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
“Rules! I’ve known you long enough to break the rules. Following them is Adrian’s job.” She pointed to Blue. “You go first, sir. Or is it lord?”
It occurred to Helena that though this couple might be well acquainted with Blue, the spy, they knew nothing of Ernest, the man.
Blue gave a last yank of his sleeve. “Helena, this is Lord and Lady Smythe. Viscount”—he nodded to Adrian—“this is Lady Ernest Bloomington.” He cleared his throat. “My wife.”
Sophia gasped and then covered her mouth to hide what sounded like delighted giggles. Adrian’s mouth twitched slightly, but he showed no other outward sign of having heard anything unusual.
He was definitely a spy.
“Lord Ernest,” Adrian said.
“He actually prefers to be called Blue,” Helena said, finally finding her words.
“Oh, that’s too bad now, isn’t it?” Sophia said between chuckles. “He will henceforth be known as Ernest. No! Ernie! We shall call him Ernie!”
Adrian pulled his lower lip in, obviously containing his amusement. Even Helena ran her tongue along her teeth to stifle a grin.
Blue crossed his arms and glared.
“Wait a moment!” Sophia ceased giggling and straightened suddenly. “Bloomington? Your parents are the duke and duchess?”
“Will that amuse you as well?” Blue asked.
She sobered. “No, not at all. That’s actually quite unfortunate. But I am being rude beyond belief.” She made a small bow to Helena. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Ernest. We are old, dear friends of Ernie. We met...ah, how did we meet again?” She looked at her husband and then Blue.
“Helena knows I used to work for the Barbican group,” Blue said, voice curt. “Since she is a civilian, I thought it best not to reveal your codenames.”
That must have been the reason he had stumbled upon first saying Sophia’s name. It had started with an S-A...
Sally? Sadie? Satyr?
Adrian and Sophia exchanged a look, and then she rose and insinuated herself between Helena and Blue.
“You do not mind if your lady wife and I chat for a moment, do you?” Sophia asked. “Female matters.” She waved a hand. “You go over there and converse with Adrian.”
With a heavy sigh, Blue rose and lurched to the other side of the carriage. He sat beside Adrian, crossing his arms over his chest once again in a blatant display of displeasure.
“What a lovely gown,” Sophia said. Her own was a deep purple in color. “Very festive. Are you looking forward to the ball?”
“Not particularly.” Helena tried to glance at the men. Blue had his head cocked toward Adrian, who spoke in low tones.
Sophia’s face popped into her line of vision. “Still, it is lovely to go to a ball, especially a Christmas ball. I have a young son, just a baby, and I must confess this is only the third time I have been away from him for more than a moment or two. Do you have children?”
Helena sat back, inching to see around Sophia’s other side. “No, we haven’t any children yet.”
“Oh, but that was a very indiscreet question on my part,” Sophia said, leaning to block Helena. “You must be very newly married.”
Helena huffed with frustration. “Actually, no. We have been married for quite some years. Why is it you do not want me to see or hear what the gentlemen are discussing?”
“Really? You have been married for some years? I find that fact quite astonishing. Where have you been hiding?”
“I was performing on the Continent. Are they discussing a mission?”
Sophia waved a hand. “Who knows what men talk about.”
Helena had a feeling that Sophia knew very well what not only men, but the two men seated opposite, liked to talk about.
“What sort of performer are you? Oh, but of course! You’re a soprano. That wasn’t a quip, was it?”
“No.” Before the woman could begin blathering again, Helena clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Lady Smythe, pardon me, but if you say another word, I will be forced to stuff this”—she lifted the first object she encountered on the seat beside her—“blanket down your throat.”
Helena removed her hand, and Sophia made a show of pressing her lips together.
“Now then, why are you here? My husband is retired from the Barbican group.”
“Precisely what I was just saying,” Blue added, his voice rising. “I’ve retired. Must I put it in writing?”
“Baron would only tear it up,” Adrian said. “You’re too valuable to retire.”
Helena drew in a fortifying breath. Would the Barbican ever release him from its hold?
“You retired,” Blue said, pointing an accusatory finger at the couple.
“Not true,” Sophia answered. “We consult from time to time.”
“And recruit,” Adrian added.
“Recruit elsewhere.” Blue rapped on the roof and the coach, once again, jounced to a standstill
. He pushed the door open and a gust of freezing air ruffled Helena’s gown.
“Good night, Lady Smythe, Lord Smythe,” Blue said.
“Consider what I said, Blue,” Lord Smythe murmured before stepping into the chilly darkness. He held out a hand for his wife.
“Good night, Ernie. Enjoy the ball.”
Blue slammed the door and rapped the roof again. He all but threw himself into the space beside Helena.
The coach lurched into motion. Inside silence reigned. Finally, Helena cleared her throat.
“Should we leave them out there? It’s bitterly cold.”
“Good,” Blue said with a scowl. “I hope it snows.”
But his gaze returned to the window and his hand went again to his pocket, smoothing over the material like a lover might a lock of his beloved’s hair.
Was it the Smythes or his wife he wished left out in the cold?
Three
The clock had just struck midnight when Blue led Helena into the Ely ballroom. The butler announced them, but the company currently danced a lively reel and no one took much notice.
The large rectangular room—in which as a child he’d often played hide-and-seek—was draped in evergreen garlands, sprigs of holly, and dozens of arrangements of Christmas roses. Throughout the room, kissing boughs of evergreens, mistletoe, and apples hung from red ribbons. Couples paused under the boughs to exchange chaste kisses before continuing their promenade around the ballroom.
Thoughts of kissing led him back to Helena. She stood beside him, peering about the room with avid interest.
“I don’t think you saw the ballroom when you were last here.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I saw the drawing room and your father’s wrath before we fled like the naughty children we were. I truly hope we have finally been forgiven.”