A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors

by Michelle Willingham

  Determined not to think about that ‘tsk’ for now, Andromeda put her hands on her hips and scowled at Donald. “I came here because I knew Fen would help me. And Lord Slough would never have suspected if it weren’t for you.” She softened her tone. “Not that I blame you; you didn’t know any better. But I swear upon my honor that I did overhear them plotting, and those horrid Frenchmen breaking in here to find me proves it.”

  “I’m surprised Fen believed you.”

  Fen came in. “They’re getting a wagon to take the corpses away. I told the Watch they were thieves.” He eyed Donald. “I would have believed her regardless, but it so happens I already knew. Slough ordered furniture from me for delivery to Kent and bribed the driver to take passengers—French officers on parole, who then escape on smuggling vessels.”

  Donald’s appalled gaze flickered from Fen to Andromeda and back. Finally, he seemed convinced. Andromeda wondered cynically whether Fen really would have believed her without his foreknowledge. Again, she didn’t have time to think about such things.

  “Why hasn’t it been put a stop to?” Donald said.

  “Because my father refuses to believe me.” Fen paced the room. “Even as we speak, Slough is selling the names of our spies in England to the Vidame de Laborde, and meanwhile my father sits on his lordly arse and does nothing.”

  “Laborde is a spy?”

  “I just told you so,” Andromeda said. “Weren’t you listening at all?”

  “But—but he provides pastries for the most exclusive events in England. The Prince Regent, even.” Donald shook his head in disbelief.

  “They were bargaining right in front of us today,” Fen said. “Two thousand pastries meant two thousand pounds.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Donald said.

  “I couldn’t be more so.” Fen’s voice was as sharp as his knives. “They didn’t come to an agreement then, but I’ll bet they’re doing it right now.”

  Donald swallowed. “By God, this is dreadful.”

  “We need you to take a message to Lord Overwood,” Andromeda said. “Tell him everything we just told you, and that the spies came and tried to kill me tonight. Surely he’ll listen to you.”

  Donald nodded. “I shall tell him, of course, but this is such a fantastic tale that I can’t be certain he’ll believe me.”

  “You must take a message to my father, too,” Andromeda said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHAT AN UNBELIEVABLY stubborn girl she was, thought Fen. She had found paper and ink in Harry’s desk and was already composing a letter to Colonel Gibbons. Fen would have to deceive her, which was the last thing he would choose do to—if he had a choice. “Where did, er, old Diggs go?”

  “The beggar? He said he was going after the last of the intruders and an Englishman as well.”

  Damn, thought Fen, I should go help him, but it was out of the question. Not that Harry couldn’t defend himself—he was almost as good with a knife as Fen, without any magic to aid him—but he seemed oblivious to the fact that killing the spies wouldn’t clear his own name.

  Regardless, Fen had to send Crockett on his way and then stay to protect Andromeda. “Come help me tidy the showroom while Andromeda finishes her letter,” he told Crockett, who bristled. “Don’t get on your high ropes. I can’t lift the cabinet by myself.” This was a lie, but he had to get Crockett alone.

  “Oh, very well.” They went into the showroom, heaved the fallen cabinet upright, and set it against the wall. “It wasn’t so very heavy,” Donald protested.

  “I needed to talk to you in private,” Fen said softly, and then raised his voice. “I’ll have to cut a few boards to cover the window.” He motioned Crockett to accompany him to the workshop, where he set a plank across a couple of sawhorses. Under cover of the sound of the saw, he said. “I don’t want you to deliver Andromeda’s letter just yet.”

  “What? Why not? I promised her. I have to make up for what I did five years ago.” His mouth worked. “I still don’t know why I did it, Fen. I swear I didn’t plan to say what I did. It just popped out of my mouth, and—and I was too much of a coward to take it back.” He glowered. “I can’t renege on a promise to her now!”

  “Hush, will you? Think about it, Crockett. Where could Slough have got the name of our agents in France?”

  “Well, I―”

  “And why did he choose to marry Andromeda? He could have had his pick of any number of young ladies with equivalent dowries and far higher status.”

  Crockett frowned. “I don’t see―”

  “A few months ago, her father began working at the Home Office. Something to do with codes, she says. Our codes.”

  Finally Crockett caught on. “For sending messages to our own fellows abroad—so he may compose or at least see some of the messages. Know some of their assumed names.”

  Fen nodded.

  Crockett’s mouth dropped open. “You think Gibbons is a traitor, too?”

  “Hush!” Fen said again as he finished sawing one plank in two. “Take these boards out to the showroom and come back for more. I don’t want her to suspect that we’re having a private conversation.”

  Crockett did as he was told. When he returned, he said, “If Gibbons is a traitor, why would Slough be obliged to marry Andromeda?”

  “He wouldn’t, unless Gibbons made it part of the bargain. Andromeda has had several seasons, and he strongly encouraged her to accept the offer.” Fen put up a hand. “I’m not saying this is necessarily true. It’s just as likely that Slough offered for Andromeda because a close family relationship would give him easy access to the Gibbons household. I hope Gibbons isn’t involved, but for now we must be cautious. I want to spare Andromeda the worry if it transpires that he’s merely a dupe.” He sawed through the second plank, gave it to Donald, and took up a hammer and several nails.” Understood?”

  “Understood,” Crockett said. “Poor Andromeda.”

  “You don’t have to break your promise—just deliver the message late.”

  “So now,” Fen said, once they’d sent Donald Crockett on his way, “we wait.”

  Andromeda slumped onto an elegant bench which had escaped damage. It was startlingly easy to lose one’s habitually excellent posture when one wasn’t wearing stays.

  And when one had been pursued by murderous spies and witnessed the swift killing of two of them. She’d had more excitement in the past twenty-four hours than in her entire life up till last night.

  She hoped Donald would find Lord Overwood quickly and then hasten to her own father. He’d promised he would. He’d seemed uneasy as he left, but when she’d adjured him to be certain to go to Papa as soon as he possibly could, he’d nodded briskly enough, saying, “But you realize, I hope, that I must deliver Fen’s message to Lord Overwood first.”

  Of course she did, but there was no reason he shouldn’t let her father know, once the matter was in Lord Overwood’s capable hands—for whatever Fen might think, Andromeda was sure the marquis would send men to stop Lord Slough and the spies.

  Fen lowered himself onto the bench next to her and folded his arms. He looked fierce, determined, and... as immovable as stone. “You can’t just sit here,” she said. “What if they’re exchanging the names right now?”

  “My father has had plenty of notice, as well as ample opportunity to send a warning to our people in France.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t it be better to just go over there and stop Laborde and Slough?”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not going to leave you here by yourself.” He eyed her, and a responsive quiver ran through her. “You matter to me more than anything.”

  That was the second sweet and utterly romantic thing he’d said in the last hour. She wanted quite desperately to believe him, but the anguish of the past hovered inside her in a tight, hard knot.

  “You may think that I don’t love you, but you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t know what I think,” she said, “but I don’t want you to st
ay here because of me.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “I shan’t leave you alone, and there are other valid reasons for staying out of it for now. Imagine what will happen if I trot over there and summarily execute both Slough and Laborde.” Which he was completely capable of doing without the slightest hesitation, judging by the way he’d handled the intruders.

  She grimaced. “You will be arrested for murder.”

  “Precisely, unless I run fast and far. My father won’t lift a finger in my defense. He’ll happily wash his hands of me.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she said.

  “You also find it hard to believe that I love you, but it’s true.”

  She picked at one of her fingernails. If she did marry Fen... She couldn’t quite bring herself to think about that. Every time she thought about how he’d assumed the worst of her... how he’d refused to even speak to her... how he’d been able to cut himself off from her for five long years and never once look back... How could that be construed as love?

  But if she didn’t marry him... Horrid imaginings loomed up. Forced marriage to someone she couldn’t possibly love. Either that, or permanent exile to the country, where the neighboring gentry would avoid her.

  “I’m not prepared to spend the rest of my life in exile because of my father’s stubbornness,” Fen said. “Besides, I won’t be able to clear Harry’s name unless Slough and Laborde are caught in the act.” He yawned. “I need some sleep. Tomorrow is soon enough to find out the result of Crockett’s mission.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be able to go home,” she said.

  He hesitated, then nodded, his expression suddenly grim.

  All her suspicion swarmed up again. “Why shouldn’t I go home?”

  His mouth twisted. “Because I love you. Allow me some dismay at the prospect of losing you again so soon.”

  “Oh.” With every word of love, her defenses crumbled more. Another change of subject was in order. “If your father refuses to believe Donald Crockett, what will you do?”

  He laughed without mirth. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  Probably with a lot of bloodshed, Andromeda thought with a shudder. “What about Mr. Witherstone?”

  Fen eyed her warily. “What about him?”

  “What if he is caught killing the other intruder?”

  The corner of Fen’s mouth lifted. “You recognized him.”

  “Yes, but I think he wanted me to,” Andromeda said. “He winked at me, and then—”

  “Then what?”

  She wasn’t about to mention the valet’s response to her statement that she wouldn’t marry Fen. She was having enough trouble keeping her distance as it was. “He took some brandy as if he owned the place, and he was extremely rude to Donald Crockett. He was rude to me, too, when he disguised me as a boy. Usually, members of the lower classes do their best to be polite with their, er...”

  “Betters?” Fen’s sardonic expression didn’t annoy her as it would have earlier.

  “For want of a better word,” she said, and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Suddenly I knew who he was. Why is he in disguise, and why does he feel the need to go after the other intruder?

  “The footman who was killed at the dance was one of his friends. Naturally, he wants revenge. I hope he can manage it without getting caught, because I don’t relish the task of breaking him out of prison. He grew up on the streets, but even the most streetwise people make mistakes.”

  “He said he was going after an Englishman, too—the one who drugged him.”

  “Another traitor, I assume,” Fen said glumly. “I hope there are an equal number of Frenchmen working against Napoleon in France.” He stood, yawning again, and went into the workshop. He came out armed with an axe, an awl, a chisel, and several knives. “We should get some sleep. Cuff will keep watch and wake us if anyone else breaks in.”

  Andromeda followed him up the stairs. Were they going to share the bed again? It seemed a ridiculous thing to worry about when they might have to fight off more intruders. Perhaps she could persuade Fen to take Witherstone’s bed, seeing as the valet wasn’t using it.

  On the other hand, she dreaded the prospect of being alone. She followed him into his bedchamber. Once again, she pictured her grim future on her father’s estate, shunned by many, barely tolerated by the rest. Even the servants might find it hard to hide their disapproval.

  Or the alternative of marriage to a man she didn’t love at all, someone who might mistreat her because of her ruined reputation. Immediately, she dismissed that option. If she didn’t marry Fen, she wouldn’t marry at all.

  Her heart sank, and suddenly she was shivering, no, shaking all over. She hastened to the fireplace and with trembling hands added some fuel. Obedient to her request, the fire blazed up. She held her hands to the warmth, wondering why she was suddenly so cold—it wasn’t a particularly cool night. She added more coals and encouraged the fire to burn even hotter.

  “Whoa,” Fen said. “It’s becoming like an oven in here.”

  Andromeda hugged herself. “No matter how hot I make the fire, I can’t seem to get warm.”

  “It’s reaction,” Fen said, watching her gravely. “You fought for your life tonight.”

  She faced him, knowing it was a mistake, knowing also that nothing else would do. “Hold me, Fen. Warm me up.”

  Without a word, Fen pulled her against him. They were both tired. Surely they could hold each other for a moment or two; surely that would do no harm. Dispirited though he was at today’s failures, his astonishment at her comforted him. What a valiant woman! Twice she’d escaped with her life—tonight from trained assassins. She’d taken the sudden acquisition of magical abilities in her stride, and she’d never once fallen into hysterics.

  She quivered in his arms. “It’s all right, love,” he said. “Everything will be fine, just wait and see.” He kissed the top of her head; he wanted desperately to kiss her mouth. In spite of his good intentions, he was getting aroused.

  The fire crackled sharply. Was she affected, too? She pushed away, knelt before the fire, and subdued it with a wave of the hand, but still she trembled, hands clasped, and the fire reflected her agitation—nothing to do with desire.

  He sat on the hearthrug and pulled her against him again, this time with her back against his chest. A highly arousing position for him, but at least he wouldn’t be consumed by his longing to kiss her. He put his arms around her, resting his hands just below her bound breasts.

  His cock rose eagerly, but maybe she wouldn’t notice through the fabric of their breeches. His fingers itched to caress her, to unwrap those bound breasts and suckle them. He held himself utterly still, enduring the exquisite torment of her nearness.

  She shifted, squirming against his anguished cock. He sucked in a breath.

  She moaned.

  She couldn’t control the fire in the fireplace, and she knew why: because the fire within her was blazing out of control. He’d refused her years ago... but she was a ruined woman now. There was no reason to guard her virginity if no one believed she was still an innocent.

  She would never marry; she would never experience passion—unless she did so here and now. Desire, powerful and wanton, roared up, refusing to be denied.

  Fen cleared his throat. “Er... This isn’t a wise kind of warming up, Andromeda.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But... I don’t think I care.”

  He said nothing, but his hands loosened a little, and she knew, just knew he was going to refuse her again, as he had long ago. Not only that, she couldn’t blame him. Refusing her would be the honorable, gentlemanly thing to do.

  Meanwhile, the bulge of his member pressed against her derriere. Whatever his honor dictated, his body told her the opposite.

  “Why do you want this, Andromeda?” His voice in her ear sent trills of pleasure directly to her private parts.

  “What you call my fairy wantonness,” she said, “responds to you. It d
id five years ago, and it does now.” She swallowed. “More so.”

  “Because of your magic, perhaps.”

  Maybe so, but she didn’t care why. The whole question of love was too confusing, but the demands of desire were simple and overwhelming. She threw her head back, exposing her throat, demanding the pressure of his lips. Kiss me. Please.

  He didn’t. He remained completely still, but his breath bathed her throat, sending waves of heat through her limbs. She shifted again, helpless in the grasp of yearning. He made a sound in the back of his throat.

  She removed his hands from her torso and turned in his arms. His face was a mask of torment, but if it was the same torment as hers, the remedy was at hand. Before he had a chance to move away, she straddled him, pushing him down on the hearthrug. He let his arms fall at his sides. She ground herself against him, eyes closed, head thrown back. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” she said. “How often I imagined it and longed and wished...”

  “No more often than I did,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Don’t deny me, Fen. Don’t deny yourself, either. That may have been the right choice when I was only seventeen, but not anymore.” She placed her hands on either side of him and leaned down, her lips a bare whisper from his. “I’ve been a grown woman for years.”

  Still he resisted, but she couldn’t find within herself a magic to force his compliance. Whatever power she might have over fire, it had no effect at all on Fen Trent.

  “When you wanted me five years ago, it was because we loved one another,” he said. “Why do you want me now?”

  She withdrew slightly, dismay gnawing at her, but unexpectedly a hand cupped her derriere, warm even through the breeches. Would he take her, or wouldn’t he? She didn’t have an answer for his question, but the caressing hand sent hot chills through her.

  He spoke again, his voice harsh. “It doesn’t matter, sweetheart—as long as you know that bedding you won’t prove that I love you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN