by Andrea Kane
“Soon, chéri.” She stroked his lips with her fingertips. “But first, tell me what prompted this unexpected visit.” Despite her smile, there was no mistaking the reprimand in her tone. “It would ruin all that we’ve worked for if the wrong people were to see us together.”
“I have a feeling that the ‘wrong people’ are searching in the “wrong places,’ ” Thomas returned cheerfully, unperturbed by her admonishment.
“What have you learned?”
Thomas grinned. “Far more and with far greater ease than I ever expected and, ironically, not from my meeting with Secretary Hamilton … but from Dane.”
“Dane? Dane Westbrooke?” Monique pursed her lips in annoyance. “I thought you were attempting to discover Hamilton’s reaction to Jay’s lack of success with Grenville.”
“I was. I did.”
“And? Hamilton knew the American conditions intimately, Thomas; he drew them up himself.” Monique dug her fingers into his forearms, exasperation lining her lovely face. “He is aware that the English smoothly countered every point. Certainly he must suspect something!”
“He does. And I have a strong inclination as to who he suspects.”
“Who?”
“Jacqueline Holt.”
Monique’s face drained of color. “Jacqueline Holt? You think Hamilton and Dane Westbrooke suspect Jacqueline Holt of supplying the British with their information? But she’s just a young girl. …”
Thomas shrugged. “I doubt they believe she’s doing this unaided. Who knows? Maybe they think her father is involved as well.”
“Dieu …” Monique thought she might faint. Desperately, she tried to hide the intensity of her reaction, clutching the folds of her dressing gown in order to still the trembling of her hands. “Are you certain of this, Thomas?”
“I’m not certain of anything these days, Monique.” He sighed, feeling relieved, yet so weary. “But my instincts tell me I’m right.” He looked at her oddly, wondering why she was not pleased that guilt had been cast elsewhere rather than concerned with insignificant details. “Dane is obviously convinced that Jacqueline is somehow involved, convinced enough to marry her in order to gain the information he needs.” He frowned at Monique’s inadvertent gasp. “Why does this upset you so?”
“Marry her!” Monique heard nothing past those words. Her eyes widened in fear. “Did you say that Dane Westbrooke is marrying Jacqueline Holt?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.” Now Thomas was becoming impatient. “What difference could that possibly make to you? You don’t even know Jacqueline Holt!”
Monique turned away from him, burying her face in her hands. Her carefully constructed web of deceit was collapsing all around her, threatening to destroy all she sought to accomplish. Thus far she’d managed to keep Thomas believing that their sole purpose was to steal secrets for England in exchange for money. He knew nothing of her communications with France, nor of the way she achieved them … enamoring George Holt, stringing him along for his shipping contacts with her country.
Until today, Thomas and George had been kept deliberately apart. But now the impending marriage of Dane Westbrooke and Jacqueline Holt would force those concentric rings to cross, with potentially disastrous results.
Monique’s mind raced ahead, trying to find a solution.
“Monique?” Thomas came up behind her, wrapping his arms about her waist. “What is it?”
“I do know Jacqueline Holt … and her father … very well.” Monique turned in Thomas’s arms, her fine-boned features once again composed, serene. Ignoring his surprised expression, she supplied a calculated skeleton of the truth. “The Holts and I are old friends. I was introduced to George at a ball several years ago, and Jacqueline shortly thereafter. George and I travel in much the same social circles, which is no surprise given the fact that we share a common view of the importance of an American alliance with France.”
Thomas ingested her admission carefully. “You never mentioned knowing the Holts prior to this.”
“There was no reason to. Now there is. If Jacqueline Holt is getting married, I will be expected to attend. Therefore you must not.”
Thomas gave her an incredulous look. “Monique, Dane is my closest friend. Despite what I’ve done to him,” he added bitterly, guilt twisting his gut once again. “I’ve agreed to act as his groomsman. Of course I must attend. … I have no choice.”
Blue fire raged in Monique’s eyes. “We cannot be seen together.”
“Why the hell not?” Thomas exploded, seizing her shoulders. “We’ve kept our personal relationship a secret for months now … and I’m tiring of it. Why can’t anyone know about us?”
“Listen to me, Thomas, and listen well!” Monique pressed her fists against his chest. “We cannot take the risk of anyone thinking of us as a twosome … in any capacity. We are too close to achieving our goal. Nothing can stop us, do you understand!” She was shaking.
“Oh, I understand,” he shot back, loathing himself for his weakness. “My money and your cause … what could be more important than those?” He tangled his hands in her hair. “Tell me, Monique, where do we fit into all this? What will become of us after we’ve accomplished our task?”
Forcibly, Monique calmed her raw emotions. She relaxed her hands and slid them up Thomas’s chest and around his neck. “Ah, Thomas”—she stepped closer—“once we have completed our work, the world will be ours. We can leave America and start our life together.” She pressed her lips to his neck, smiling at the involuntary shudder that ran through him. “No more talk,” she murmured against his skin. “We must take advantage of this unexpected time together, oui?”
Thomas’s arms tightened and he dragged her to him, closing his eyes, helpless to prevent the need that swamped him, body and soul. Giving himself over to it, he smothered his misgivings and his guilt, lifted her into his arms, and carried her up to bed.
“Greta, please tell Jacqueline I’m here to see her.”
Dane loomed in the open doorway, his jaw set in grim determination.
Greta nodded complacently, smoothing her newly styled hair, and gave Dane what he would have instantly recognized as a smile had he not been so preoccupied. “Certainly, Herr Westbrooke. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Dane almost knocked her over as he took the hallway in four determined strides, pausing before the open sitting room. “I’ll wait in here.”
“Of course.” Greta headed toward the stairs. “I saved some fresh strawberry tarts for you. I’ll bring them to the sitting room after I inform Fräulein Holt that you have arrived.”
Dane nodded, barely hearing her words. He paced the length of the sitting room several times before halting beside the settee where he’d first held Jacqueline in his arms. His fists clenched at his sides, fury and possessiveness accompanying memory. He forced the anger away, refusing to allow himself to feel anything that might complicate this moment. All the repercussions of the next months would have to wait. For now, all his energies would be channeled into one unshakable resolution.
He was going to make Jacqueline Holt his wife.
“Good morning, Dane. You’ve arrived early.”
Dane turned abruptly, taking in the woman he both loved and distrusted, arming himself for battle.
“I saw no point in waiting, Jacqueline. Another hour would have changed nothing.”
“True,” Jacqui conceded, glancing up as Greta sailed into the room, carrying a tray laden with strawberry tarts and an enormous pot of coffee. Placing it on the table, she hovered beside it, reluctant to leave.
“That will be all, Greta,” Jacqui instructed firmly. “Mr. Westbrooke and I would like to talk … alone.”
Greta’s lips thinned. “Very well, Fräulein.” She gave Dane a sidelong glance. “If you need anything further, let me know.”
“Goodbye, Greta.” Jacqui gestured toward the door.
Stiffly, the housekeeper marched out.
“Would you like some co
ffee?” Jacqui inquired pleasantly, seating herself in the large armchair beside the, settee.
“No.” Dane took her elbows and dragged her from the chair. “Nor do I want to play games. What I want is an answer to my question.”
Jacqui gave him a beatific smile. “Which question was that?”
“Damn it, Jacqueline …”
“Is that any way to speak to your betrothed?” she queried sweetly.
Dane tensed. “What?”
“You did ask me to marry you, did you not?” Jacqui inclined her head.
“Several times. Are you consenting?”
“You issue quite a challenge, Mr. Westbrooke. But you already know that, do you not?”
Despite his black humor, Dane felt his lips curve. “I do.”
“And I have never been one to refuse a challenge … but you know that as well, correct?”
“Absolutely.”
Jacqui placed her hand on the fine linen of his shirtfront, acutely aware of his power, his dizzying presence. “And there’s no denying what happens when we’re together, is there?” she asked, wonder in her voice.
“No, there isn’t.” He was smiling now, the smell of victory tantalizing his senses.
Jacqui gazed up at him. “If we wed, will there be many nights like last night?” Her eyes were alight with mischief, her cheeks flushed.
“Ah, Miss Holt,” he drawled back, gliding his fingers through the silken strands of her hair, “when we wed, I can promise you endless nights that blaze so hot, they will melt last night’s passion beneath their embers.” He brushed his lips against hers, teasing her mouth with his tongue. “I’ll make love to you in ways you’ve never even dreamed, of,” he promised softly, arousing her … and himself … with his words, the images they conveyed. “I’ll take you again and again … until you can’t breathe, can’t move, until you plead with me to stop.” He murmured the last into her parted lips.
“And if I never do that?” she whispered back, her heart skipping a beat.
“Then we’ll love until we die.” He took her mouth in a scalding kiss, enveloping her in a bottomless emotion that defied all the ugliness hovering between them. “Say yes, Jacqueline,” he urged, his plea caressing her fevered skin. “Say that you’ll marry me.”
Unblinking, Jacqui stared into Dane’s glowing silver eyes, feeling reckless but certain, accepting his proposal, his possession, and his challenge with all the spirit and fire they demanded.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER
12
THERE IS NO REASON to be nervous, chaton. I have not the slightest doubt that my mother will love you.” Dane leaned back and stretched his arms nonchalantly across the back of the elegant coach seat, regarding Jacqui with tender amusement.
From the opposite seat, Jacqui settled herself into a position of exaggerated ease. “I am not nervous,” she countered, smoothing her skirts for the sixth time.
“I’m glad to hear that, love.” Dane swung over and slid alongside her, tugging her tense body against him. “Because I don’t want to waste this rare hour alone together on nonsense.” He nuzzled her hair. “I have a far more delightful diversion in mind.”
“Have you gone utterly mad?” Jacqui jerked away as if his touch burned. “We’re on our way to see your mother, for heaven’s sake!”
“True. However, the trip to Greenhills will take the better part of an hour, at best. So,” and he moved closer again, drawing her to him and kissing the side of her neck, “I plan to take full advantage of these wonderful moments we have to ourselves.” He leaned past Jacqui to draw the curtains of the carriage. “We’ve hardly seen each other, much less been alone together, in nearly a fortnight … since we announced our betrothal.” He kissed the curve of her shoulder. “I ache for you, chaton.” Before Jacqui could speak, he’d covered her mouth with his.
“Dane … we can’t.” Jacqui pressed the heels of her hands against Dane’s chest in a firm show of protest. She’d missed him too … dreadfully. But she needed a clear mind for the evening ahead, and she knew only too well where their kisses would lead.
Dane gave her a look of tender understanding. “We won’t.” He caressed her cheek with his knuckles while he slipped his other hand into his coat pocket. “I only want to hold you. And to give you this.” He took out a small box and snapped it open.
Cushioned on its velvet bed was an enormous glittering emerald, its shimmering fire intensified by the halo of tiny diamonds encircling it in a shower of twinkling stars.
Dane took the ring from its nest and slid it onto Jacqui’s finger. “A fiery jewel for my fiery kitten,” he murmured, lifting her fingers to his lips.
“Dane … it’s lovely.” The surge of emotion that assailed Jacqui, though still unwelcome, was becoming a more frequent and persistent visitor. She stared at the ring in silence, watching Dane’s lips caress her hand. “It’s far too extravagant.”
Dane smiled. “No common betrothal ring would do for you, my unconventional love. This one suits you perfectly. It has your flame, your spirit.” He kissed her palm. “I was beginning to think I would never have you to myself long enough so that I might give it to you.”
“I’m sorry, Dane.” Jacqui sighed, “I know I’ve been constantly surrounded by seamstresses and well-meaning shopkeepers. Not to mention Greta, who is always barking out advice, and my father, who is too nervous and overwrought to offer me much assistance. Truthfully, I never realized how much preparation went into a wedding.” Her gaze grew wistful. “If only …” She broke off abruptly, withdrawing her hand and lacing her fingers tightly together in her lap. “Anyway, I am not totally to blame for our lack of time together. Westbrooke Shipping seems to be very demanding these days.”
Dane didn’t answer. He felt certain that Jacqui had been about to reveal something, something that could, perhaps, provide Dane with the insight he needed to better understand his complex betrothed. He studied her in brooding silence, wondering if he’d ever get inside Jacqueline’s beautiful, complicated head.
He pondered her last words, and a twist of guilt wrenched him. No, Westbrooke Shipping hadn’t claimed nearly as much of his time as he’d pretended. Much of his evening hours had been spent watching the Holts’ house, waiting to see if either Jacqui or George did anything suspicious.
Nothing had occurred.
And Dane was beginning to feel like a bastard.
For the hundredth time, he found himself praying that Alexander was wrong, that all their concerns had been for naught. After all, there had been no further news from Jay, other than the fact that he was vigorously negotiating with the British. Perhaps there was another explanation for … for what? For the fact that each and every American condition had been anticipated verbatim? No, that was impossible. The reality was that someone close to their government was a traitor.
But Dane still could not accept that it was Jacqui.
He looked down at her now as she nervously shifted in her seat, the typical picture of a beautiful young woman about to meet her future husband’s mother. A wash of feeling swamped him and he wrapped his arm about her shoulders, pressed her head to his chest.
“All will be well, chaton,” he told her softly. “Just learn to trust me.”
Jacqui closed her eyes, allowing herself … just for an instant … to believe Dane’s words. It felt glorious to lean on him, to be absorbed in his strength. She nestled closer, feeling relaxed and content and … home.
“Dane … tell me about your mother.”
Dane smiled against Jacqui’s silky hair. “My mother is a most unusual woman. Quite the rebel, actually. She is spirited and so full of life that I often forget she is no longer a young girl. The two of you will get along famously.”
Jacqui looked up at him curiously. “Was she stunned by your news of our betrothal?”
“Stunned? No.” Dane chuckled, remembering his mother’s relieved At last! I thought for certain you’d never recognize your feelings for this young woma
n, much less act on them! “Not stunned, Jacqueline, but very pleased.”
“Have you told her much about me?” Jacqui continued cautiously.
Dane’s smile faded. There was too much he couldn’t tell his mother, too much he himself had yet to learn. His stomach clenched.
“My mother and I haven’t seen each other these past weeks,” he answered curtly. “I rode out to Greenhills long enough to tell her of our plans and to receive her invitation to dinner. You can speak with her yourself tonight.”
“I see.” Jacqui fingered the folds of her rose-colored gown. “She must miss your father dreadfully.”
“I’ve told you in the past, I don’t wish to speak of my father. I haven’t the slightest idea whether my mother thinks of him or not. I only know that I don’t.”
Dane’s tone was glacial, as it had been the first time Jacqui had mentioned his father. Only this time she wasn’t fooled into thinking his vehemence signified coldness or detachment. This time, with months of growing to know Dane behind her, Jacqui was startled to find that, rather than becoming miffed by Dane’s curtness, she was besieged by a wave of sympathy and remorse, an innate understanding of the internal pain that prompted his bitterness. To her amazement, she wanted to help him.
“What did he do to make you so angry?” she asked quietly.
Dane’s head jerked around, and his eyes narrowed at the question. “Leave it, Jacqueline!” he ordered.
Jacqui reached up to touch his face. “I only want to help.”
Something inside Dane snapped at the never-before-seen tenderness on Jacqui’s face. He fought the tide of feeling that reminded him how bloody much he loved her, how ill-fated that love seemed destined to be. When that attempt to stem his emotions failed, he channeled them the only way he could handle, the only way she would accept, dragging her onto his lap, burying his vulnerability beneath his passion. “Help me by giving me this,” he muttered thickly, burying his lips in hers. “Only this.”