The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  He carefully laid his hand over hers.

  The contact nearly brought him to his knees. Yearning for her roared through him, brightening the dark places of his soul.

  He drew her in, pressed her body to his, because he could do nothing else. His mouth met hers, and he wondered if she could taste the desperation for redemption there.

  Whether she could or not, her arms came around him. Lean but strong, she held him to her. “You are important to me, Jones. Not because you are a spy, or because of Wycomb. Because you are you.”

  “I am nothing.” Even as he said the words, he thought perhaps he wasn’t. He’d never believed he would be more than nothing. But—now there was Cat.

  “Oh, Jones.” Her lips met his, quickly, then she drew back to look at him. “Honor is stamped into your soul. How do you not see it?”

  The words flowed through him, warming something he had known was cold.

  “Cat, my love.” It was painful to say, and it would be more painful later when she was married to another. But he could not deny it. “I will bow out, Cat. I will not get in the way of your marriage or your inheritance, but I must say it once. Just once.”

  …

  She was not shocked to hear the words. They had hovered in the air between them already. She’d felt them.

  “I love you.”

  She set her lips to his, hoping she could infuse him with everything she felt for him—love, respect, desire. He was so honorable, his principles guiding him in ways so many other men forgot.

  Jones leaned into her, his face pressing against the curve of her collarbone. “I wish I could take you away from all of this.”

  “Only if you come with me, Jones.” Her laugh was giddy and melancholy, all at once. “Only if I can be with you.”

  His heart beat wildly, the rhythm strong but quick. It was an echo to the pounding in her own chest. She raised her face, lips seeking his. She wanted the comfort, wanted the heat. This time he met her lips, hungrily, as if he thought it might be their last.

  She met him just as hungrily, her yearning for more swirling inside her. Strong arms circled her, pulled her more tightly to him. His body was hard against hers, and she felt, too, his manhood against her belly. Her breath shuddered out and she pressed herself to that hard length.

  The groan that ripped from him made the blood rush through her veins. She brought her hands to his face, cupped his cheeks. The late day’s stubble was a delicious scratch against her palms.

  “Don’t make me stay here tonight, Jones.” Desperate for freedom, she met his gaze. “Please take me somewhere else, just for a little while.”

  “Cat, we can’t. Your engagements.” Dark eyes were bleak, the lines at the corners deepening with something so far from laughter it made her heart stutter. “How would we—”

  “When I return from ton engagements. After midnight, perhaps one in the morning, the household will be quiet. I can sneak out.” She slid her hands to his shoulders, gripped hard. She knew the risk if she were discovered missing. “I need to breathe, Jones. I need to feel free for a little while. Please take me away—to anywhere. Just for tonight.”

  He was quiet a long moment. Night had settled around them, but it wasn’t full dark yet. His jaw clenched, shoulders straightened. She saw and felt both, and sensed the battle within him.

  “I’ll wait for you to return.” His lips met hers firmly.

  Cat slipped into Worthington House through the rear servant door. It led to the lower hallway and would, of course, be busy with the butler and housekeeper, cook and maids.

  She didn’t expect Wycomb to be in the servant hall.

  The fist was at her throat, tangled in her shawl and yanking her bodice up to her chin as if it had no shape or cut. Her back slammed against the wall, the scream in her lungs cut short by the force.

  “Who is he?” Wycomb shoved his face close to hers, bared even, white teeth.

  Cat pressed her lips closed, though she scrabbled at the hand clenched at her throat. Dimly she heard footsteps, gasps as servants gathered into a ring of black linen and white aprons around them. She did not look at those circling faces, willing them to stay away and not intervene.

  “Who is he?” Wycomb repeated, shaking her so her entire body shuddered.

  She braced for the blow. He wanted to do it—she saw that in the lean features and dark brows bent upon hate. His eyes flicked to the right, the left, as if gauging loyalty from the servants watching them.

  “I will recognize him next time. You will not be able to hide him from me forever. If you ruin the plans I’ve put in place, it will be your life, mine, and your inheritance at stake. Fall in line, Mary Elizabeth.” The fist at her throat pressed harder, just for a moment, before releasing again. “Fall in line.”

  He let her loose. She tumbled to her hands and knees, coughed to clear the pressure against her windpipe. Wycomb turned on his heel. The steps to the upper floors were not far, but they were blocked by a wall of livery and aprons. Side by side, footmen and butler and maid and housekeeper stood—two deep. Their chins were high, and just as Cat thought to call out and tell them to stand down, Wycomb spoke.

  “It is not the baroness who controls this household.” He sent his gaze to the left of the circle, swung it through the remainder until he reached the end. He would have met each servants’ gaze. Cat could see nothing beyond Wycomb’s straight back, but she knew his methods well enough. “The next time she leaves without permission, it will not be she who suffers, but you. Is that understood?”

  There was no agreement—but no one fought, either. Cat saw fear and defiance spread in equal measure between her people. Frantically she shook her head, hoping they would understand not to argue with Wycomb. A few of them glanced her way, but most stood silent and still.

  “Good.” Wycomb set his coat back into place. “Mary Elizabeth, we will be leaving in thirty minutes for our first engagement. Brown, have the fire ready in the estate room when I return, as I will have need of it.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Brown held himself still, shoulders back and eyes fixed on the ceiling far above Wycomb’s head.

  “I expect the carriage to be waiting.” Wycomb’s heels struck the planked floor, every step ringing as if he were the master.

  No one moved. The footsteps faded. Twenty or more people remained in the hall, and still no one moved.

  They were waiting for her.

  The wall was hard at her back, the cloth at her throat bunched and disorganized. Every part of her body was buzzing. But she saw them, the men and women that lived in this house. She knew each by name, could remember their family histories and often their future dreams.

  They were hers to protect.

  “Please, be careful and do as he orders,” she said softly. “I have some measure of protection.”

  They began to disperse, murmuring to each other. Fear rode under the words, writhing just beneath the surface of sound.

  “My lady.” The butler stepped beside her, leaned close so others would not hear. “Some of us are loyal—myself, the housekeeper. We will not abandon you, but there are some in your uncle’s employ. You cannot trust them.”

  “Thank you.” Her knees buckled in relief that at least someone was with her. She gripped Brown’s arm, using it to hold herself upright. “If something happens to me, care for my aunt. See her to safety as best you can, and get everyone else out. Do you understand me?”

  He was silent, the nostrils in his long nose widening. “Yes, my lady.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Cat stood at the rear kitchen door, staring at the handle.

  Wycomb had watched her all night, in every ballroom, every hallway. He might be watching her now—somehow, in the deep dark of three in the morning. A servant might be awake and report her actions. If so, she would lead him right to Jones by walking through that kitchen door and into the night beyond. But if she did not go, she could not warn Jones that Wycomb had seen them in the garden.

&
nbsp; More, she wanted to be with Jones. Needed to be with him.

  The handle was cold against her palm as she turned it. A flick of the latch with her other hand, and she was through the door and into the garden. She closed it as quietly as she could and spun to face the dark. Cool night air pulled at Cat’s hair, strands of it flicking in and out of the hood. Against her back, rough brick pressed against her shoulder blades. He would come. He must. She couldn’t have missed him.

  Please.

  She might never have seen the rear gate slide open—but she did, because she was ready. He was there. Jones. Tall and strong in the pale light of the moon. She ran, tripping through manicured shrubs and flowers already wet with dew to reach him. Jones caught her, arms waiting, and tugged her hood closer around her face.

  “Come,” he whispered, holding out his hand.

  She accepted it without hesitation. “Quickly, please!”

  Urgency propelled her words, then Jones. He swept her through the well-oiled iron gate into the mews. They were quiet, with no signs of life beyond the soft neighs of horses and a few rays of lantern light. Beside her, Jones walked as if he commanded the shadows and their secrets. She felt each of his movements, almost as though they echoed deliciously inside her. The long stride, the shift of his shoulders. Broad shoulders. It seemed she always noted these attributes—perhaps because they personified him, somehow.

  Strength. The ability to accept whatever responsibility he needed to.

  “Jones.” The need for his touch overwhelmed her. She turned, forced him to stop walking. “I want to be with you.”

  His arms came around her, bringing exactly the strength she craved. The sweet kiss on her forehead made her heart turn over in her chest. The kiss on her lips—hungry—made everything inside her become gold and brilliant.

  Wrapping her arms about his neck, Cat met his lips. Longing had built in her, greed for Jones seemed to well up. Standing on tiptoe she pulled herself closer and felt his answering desire as he gripped her hips. His mouth slanted over hers, driving, compelling, reveling. All of it resonated in her body as it yearned for his touch. His body.

  “Jones.” She didn’t whimper it, but it was a near thing.

  “The hack.” He didn’t growl the words as it wasn’t his way, but she felt the base need in him just the same. The strict control of his body as he guided her toward the hired carriage at the entrance of the mews, the low tenor of his voice.

  The door closed, the horses leaped forward so that the carriage jerked—and suddenly she was in his arms, on his lap. She could feel his erection pressing against her bottom, heard the ragged breath he let out. Then his hands dove into the hood and cupped her cheeks. His mouth devoured hers, his hunger a living thing.

  It was what she wanted. What she needed.

  “Wait.” She said the words against his mouth, turned her body. “Wait.”

  Scooping up her skirts, she straddled him. Knees on the carriage seat, center pressed against center. She wore no drawers and the heat of his erection through his breeches drew her close to him. Lace and silk rustled between them.

  “My Jones.” Her hands fluttered over his cheekbones, his jaw, even as her most private place pressed against his body.

  “Cat.” The word came out on a groan as hands dived under her skirt. Fingers skimmed up her thighs, but no higher. He held her lightly, as if to prevent his hands from roving higher. But between her legs, his erection twitched against his breeches. Against her.

  Control coiled his muscles and he drew back from her. Hands still hot beneath her skirts, he met her gaze between the shadows. “Not here and now. I would not treat you as a common woman when I kiss you.”

  She smiled at him and pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I would have you treat me as a woman.”

  His entire body shuddered, the tremor running through him to tighten his fingers on her thighs. His face dipped toward hers again, but the hack began to slow, the driver above shouting out commands.

  “We are here.” Jones lifted her, guiding her back onto the seat with careful movements. He moved to the door and opened it, then sent her a final glance. “Pull your hood close to hide your face again.”

  She did, but her body was thrumming in places she wasn’t accustomed to. Thrumming and beating and—lust. Love. All of it swirled in her. She gathered her skirts and stepped onto the street, then stood looking up at the townhouse in front of her. Respectable neighborhood, well-kept townhouse—nothing out of the ordinary to look at.

  Still, it was a spy’s residence.

  He stepped beside her, gesturing to the door. “It’s not mine. I only live here.” Embarrassment tinged both tone and expression.

  She set her hand in his. “I’m looking forward to seeing where you live, Jones.”

  …

  “My mentor—my commander as a spy—owns this townhouse.” Jones drew her into the front hall, part of him shocked she was here, another part soaring with approval. “I am staying on, for now.”

  “Are you alone here?” She peered around the dark hall. “No servants?”

  “No, I do the work myself. Much of the house is closed now, at any rate. Years ago, during the war, there was a housekeeper.” He reached for the tinderbox on the table beside the door and worked to light the candles there. He grinned, remembering those days, as the wick caught fire. Gold light blossomed and he turned to see Cat.

  The expression on her face was enigmatic, caught somewhere between surprise, delight, and confusion.

  “What?”

  “You looked happy, just now. No, not happy. Lighthearted. I have never seen you lighthearted, Jones.” She pushed the hood of her cloak away. Candlelight glowed on her hair, bringing life to its banked fire.

  “I don’t know that there is much to be lighthearted about.” He took her hand and led her to the first place he could think of—the study. It had become his haven of late as he’d filled it with his things instead of Angel’s. “Please come.”

  He set about lighting the candelabra around the room, then knelt before the fire. The room was chilled, as he’d not been home for hours. He worked the embers, set the wood out so it would light. When the flames caught, he turned back to Cat.

  She’d removed her cloak and stood before him in a gown that shimmered in the firelight. She’d not changed after her evening engagements and her body was still clad in silk and lace, with gold shot through the skirt. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than Cat in her finery, red hair piled high and creamy skin rising above a low square bodice.

  “You are lovely.” He could barely say the words.

  “Thank you.” She flushed, smiled. “Jones, I—”

  Quick footsteps pounded in the halls beyond. Cat whirled, terror moving over her features. She shrank back, hands searching for purchase on nothing but air.

  “Do not worry.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in. He felt the terror in her rigid muscles and hoped he could ease it. “They are harmless.”

  The Gents tumbled into the room amid laughter and flailing limbs. Three boys skid to a halt quick enough when they saw Cat.

  “Sir!” Rupert, new boots prominently on display, stepped forward. “It’s her!”

  “Aye.” He looked down at Cat’s face, at the easing of her features, when she saw that it wasn’t Wycomb. “The baroness can be trusted. She is working with me.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” Young John popped up onto his toes, face screwed up in disbelief. “She’s a lady.”

  “I don’t trust fancy ladies, sir.” Angus, more hurt in the past than the others, squinted at her. He folded his arms and Jones noted the threadbare elbows. He’d be shopping for a new coat soon enough.

  “She’s a lady, but a kind one.” Jones leaned down toward Young John, then sent a quick glance to Angus. “I trust her.”

  “That’s good enough, then.” Young John waved his arms at Rupert, dismissing Cat and seemingly fully at ease now. “You tell, Rupert. You was there.”


  “Right.” Rupert drew himself in, readying for the report by mastering his breath and tugging at his coat. “I watched the docks, sir, as you told me to. Yesterday, a man came down—not the one we’re supposed to watch, but another lord. Nicer. He came down to the docks and had a talk with the cap’n of the Anna Louisa.”

  “Interesting. Any idea as to who he was or what he was there about?” Jones let go of Cat and crouched down in front of Rupert. “Here, your lace is untied.”

  “They keep doing that. I’ve never had laces so fine on me boots.” Rupert frowned, but let Jones retie the thin laces. “No, sir, I don’t know what the lord was about, but I thought it was odd the Anna Louisa was gone this morning. Left before the tide, even.”

  His hands jerked on the laces, but Jones made no comment beyond, “Well done, Rupert.”

  Jones stood again and fished in his pocket for the necessary coins.

  “Jones?” Cat’s voice made him turn. Her smile was warm, amused, and full of laughter. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “Baroness, may I present the Gents.” He pointed to each as he went. “Rupert, who was the first Gent, then Angus and Young John.”

  “Hello.” She smiled at each of them in turn. They straightened to their full heights, shoulders back—as if her glance was enough to give them pride. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Milady, you sure do go to a lot of dances.” Young John cocked his head to the side, earnest face full of curiosity. “You look pretty when you dance.”

  “Well, thank you.” Cat laughed, the sound sweet and happy. Her lips remained curved, as she met Jones’s gaze above the heads of the boys. A bolt of lust shot through him, tangling with a fierce emotion that was more than simple love. He cleared his throat, trying not to simply pluck her up and carry her upstairs to his bedroom. He wanted her there, under him. Around him. With him.

  “Here.” He flipped the coins to the boys, one by one. They caught them, even Young John. “Now, make a proper good-bye, and get some rest. Your nights have turned into your days on this assignment.”