“No.” She shook her head, and then let her gaze fall to his wandering fingers as he prowled beneath her gown. “I know Varringdale trained him but nothing more. However, he asked if Colin had shared the discovery that resulted in his death.”
“Bloody hell.” Dirk toyed with a garter, inched higher and traced flirty circles on her bare skin, and she gasped. “How did you respond?”
The agent opened her mouth--just as he brushed the little curls at the apex of her thighs.
In that moment, the veil lifted.
Gone was L’araignee, the agent provocateur of the Counterintelligence Corps. Slowly, Becca, his soft and sweet lady, emerged. With something between a sob and a sigh, she met his stare as he touched her most intimate flesh, moist with the proof of her arousal. When he parted her, shock and a hint of fear filled her expression. If it had been anyone else--a virgin--Dirk would never have been so bold, would have retreated. But Rebecca possessed knowledge to the contrary.
So there was no reason to temper his sensuous assault.
In a single fluid stroke, he navigated her supple sheath. She was amazingly tight, scorching hot, and he fought the urge to drive his length into her pliant folds.
Panic evident in her demeanor, she flinched, drew back, and crossed her arms over her chest. “W-what are you d-doing?”
“As if you do not know.” Dirk chuckled and seized her mouth.
Soul-stirring passion ignited the instant their lips met. Slivers of exquisite sensation shivered over his skin, pleasure poured through his veins. He angled his head, intensified the kiss, suckled her luscious tongue, and his wanton vixen hummed low in her throat. Fire burned in his loins, insatiable lust charged every nerve. He was gentle, he was restrained, but, heaven help him, he was hungry.
Never had he wanted any woman as much as he wanted her.
Before he lost himself in the voluptuous tide, and with her that was a definite danger, Dirk ruthlessly grabbed the reins and held himself in check. Summoning the finesse of a lifetime, he focused on Becca and let her responses dictate their erotic journey. After a few breathless minutes, she fisted her hands in his hair, bit his lower lip, and shifted her hips to meet his questing fingers.
As he made to withdraw from her sumptuous flesh, she cried, “No.”
“Patience, my dear.” He could not help but smile. “I will set you free soon enough.”
At her quizzical glance, he eased down her bodice, then tugged the ribbon of her chemise. Baring her breasts, he brought her own warm honey to a furled nipple. Slowly, deliberately, he pinned her gaze and licked the essence of her desire from the taut bud.
On a moan, Becca rested her head on his shoulder. With a lilting singsong of pants and sobs, she lauded his efforts.
And Dirk savored every sound. Ached to hold her naked in his arms. Yearned to lose himself inside her. Longed to bask in the pinnacle of surrender, as the ultimate fulfillment claimed her.
How many years had he denied himself such indulgence?
He was proper.
He was dependable.
He was the saintly Dirk Randolph.
And he was a bloody fool.
“Becca.” He whispered against her lips, “I want you.”
Returning to the oasis between her legs, he played a sultry rhythm. In a decadent slip and slide, he let her fly.
As she soared, she gifted her cry of completion into his mouth and gazed into his eyes with helpless adoration and something he could not quite understand. Had he not been on the receiving end of her unique talents, he would have thought her an innocent. But it was a powerful and humbling experience, nonetheless.
“You are so beautiful.” With tears welling in her brown depths, Becca cupped his cheek and said, “Thank you.”
She buried her face in his neck, and it was then that Dirk noticed he was trembling. Sinking in the cushions, he stared at the roof of the carriage and exhaled. Despite his intent to seduce the lady, he waited for regret, shame, or some other admonishing emotion to take hold of his senses. Instead, sated languor pervaded his limbs, suffusing his frame with perplexing satisfaction.
Perplexing because his cannon was loaded for battle.
With a fist, he pounded three times on the interior side of the equipage--signaling his coachman to start for Randolph House. If he had any lingering doubts concerning his chosen art of war, his temptress had just vanquished them. Convinced he was on the right path, Dirk celebrated his first victory.
His plan was working perfectly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A harsh smack sounded as leather connected with flesh, heralding an intense but friendly fight. At the center of the main ring in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon, Dirk flexed his pugilist prowess while pondering his passionate pursuit of a professional agent provocateur.
Last night’s tryst in the carriage had been a singular success. Never in his wildest imagination could he have anticipated the blissful rapture of Becca’s awakening. The raw vulnerability evident in her expression, the happy tears she shed, and the sweet cries of surprise mixed with unmasked joy conveyed a tale of which he had not foreseen. While it was evident the lady spy possessed experience in the voluptuous arts, it was equally obvious he had introduced her to something new.
Damian struck a glancing blow to his midsection, and Dirk responded with a one-two combination.
“Ouch!” Blake winced from the sideline. “That had to hurt.”
Although it had not seemed possible, and not in a million years would he have thought it likely, Dirk realized the seductive operative, during all her missions for the Corps, might never have tasted the fruits of her labor and enjoyed the unmatched force of completion. Perhaps her previous forays into the sensual realm had occurred only as a result of necessity, born of duty. In light of her reaction to his strategy, it was a sensible conclusion. The prospect left him melancholy and giddy at once.
Melancholy because hers was a virgin release.
Giddy because hers was a virgin release.
And it was he who had fed Becca her first heavenly delight.
Spellbound, captivated by the decadent memory, Dirk dropped his fists. Damian clipped his chin, and Dirk answered the attack with a solid punch--which landed a little too south for his lifelong comrade’s comfort.
“Watch it, brother.” Bobbing and weaving, Damian arched a brow. “I must still get myself an heir.”
“My apologies.” Dirk bent his head, assumed the correct stance, jabbed with his left hand, then his right, and followed with a left hook.
“By the by, how goes it with the luscious Lady Wentworth,” Lance inquired. “She is a prime piece.”
“Do tell,” Damian said between strikes. “And spare us the lecture on propriety and honor.”
“Oh, I say.” Waggling his brows, Blake elbowed Lance. “Nice duty, if one can get it.”
Stumped by their queries, Dirk paused to consider his reply. His adversary seized the advantage and caught him with a vicious uppercut that had Dirk backing into the ropes.
“I greatly esteem her.” He stalked to the center of the ring, butted fists with Damian, and squared off in another round.
“Balderdash.” Dalton clucked his tongue. “You did more than waltz on the dance floor at Almack’s.”
Ignoring the inappropriate accusation, which, knowing his scamp of a sibling, was founded on envy rather than truth, Dirk mentally charted his courtship of the female agent, wrestling with pesky details while physically pounding his opponent in the ring. With every thrust, jab, and punch, he crossed an item from his imaginary task list. Whenever a particularly thorny issue snared his concentration, thus muddling his romantic machinations, Dirk simultaneously vented his frustrations on Damian.
After a punishing combination dropped the duke, bottom first, to the canvas, an obviously stunned Damian shook his head and jumped to his feet. “You are in rare form, my friend.”
“Perhaps that intense energy stems from a bit of nocturnal jousting,” Dalto
n said with a wink. “What say you, brother? Have you docked your ship in Lady Wentworth’s harbor?”
“Now see here--” Stars twinkled, blurring his vision, as Dirk sustained a bruising blow to the cheek. With a gloved hand, he rubbed his now aching jaw and glared at Damian. “That was a cheap shot.”
“I beg your pardon?” With high dudgeon, the duke rested fists on hips and frowned. “You have no cause for complaint, after almost clipping my wick.”
“Bloody hell, I said I was sorry.” Again, Dirk lowered his chin and prepared to strike. “If you cannot take the pain, perhaps you should consider needlepoint?”
“Oh, that was fine form. And might I suggest you bed Lady Wentworth?” Damian lunged. “Perhaps then you would cease behaving like a horse’s arse?”
“I will show you a horse’s arse.” Exchanging blow after brutal blow, desperate to defend Becca’s honor and good name, Dirk marveled at the anger pulsing through every vein, surging in every muscle. Amid shouts for calm and cool tempers, he charged one of his oldest and dearest friends.
Ignoring pleas for civility, he trained his thoughts on the vulnerable member of the Corps and set his sights on his opponent. All his doubts surrounding her sexual history knotted his insides, gnarled his emotions, and flooded his senses. A rush of power soared through his right arm, homed in on his knuckles, and, in Damian, Dirk found a convenient outlet.
The duke fell to the canvas in a lifeless heap.
“Christ, Dirk.” Blake jumped into the ring. “Are you trying to kill him?”
“He was only fooling, damn fool.” Lance knelt and cradled Damian’s head.
“What was I thinking?” Ashamed at his utter loss of control, Dirk dropped to his knees. “Is he injured?”
“It is obvious you were not thinking. He’s out cold,” Dalton said in an uncharacteristically admonishing tone.
Stunned by his reaction to what had been nothing more than harmless banter, Dirk mentally flayed himself. How was it possible for a single person to upend his life so completely? His obsession with Rebecca had reached dangerous depths. He wanted the spy with sad eyes, yet he could not consummate their relationship until he knew the extent to which she had been compromised and the necessary vows were spoken.
“Should I fetch a doctor?” Dirk inquired in earnest but garnered only speculative stares. “Believe me when I say I did not intend to hurt him.”
At that instant, Damian groaned, furrowed his brow, and his eyelids fluttered. “Wainsbrough, are you there?”
“Aye.” Dirk leaned near. “What is it, brother?”
In a flash, the usually levelheaded duke punched Dirk in the nose.
#
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened to your face?” Rebecca smiled and elbowed Dirk in the ribs. “Or is it a matter of national security?”
He adopted the expression he used whenever he wanted to convey ire without uttering a word. As a rule, the look could make the most stalwart sailor cringe and cower.
Becca merely giggled.
“It is nothing,” he replied with open irritation. “Just a scratch from my weekly pugilistic exercise.”
“What did you do, beat your adversary with your nose?”
This time, she laughed.
As he surveyed the throng currently squeezed into the ballroom at Richmond House, Dirk tried not to consider his offended appendage, which was swollen to almost twice its normal size, and managed to scare off a young dandy circling the agent’s skirts.
“Lady Wentworth, may I have the pleasure of this dance?” Lord Albemarle asked, and then nodded a greeting, which Dirk returned in kind.
“Of course,” Rebecca replied with a dip of her chin.
“I shall wait here,” Dirk said. As Albemarle ushered the operative into the rotating sea of couples, he stood next to a pedestal bearing a vase filled with an array of exotic blooms.
A quick scan of the crowd revealed Varringdale, who appeared to be studying the spy’s moves with unmasked interest. Near the terrace doors, Dirk discovered Sir Ross Logan. The head of the Corps seemed lost in discussion with a prominent member of Parliament, if not for the occasional furtive glance in Becca’s direction. But when he spotted Clarkson, the lowly secretary, mingling with the Hogart twins, he almost knocked the flowers from the pedestal.
What was an unranked clerk doing at one of the ton’s galas?
“Are we not a fine pair?” Damian asked from behind.
Dirk peered over his shoulder and noted the nasty bruise encircling his friend’s left eye. “I still cannot believe I did that.”
“I could say the same in regard to your nose.” Damian grinned. “It is not broken, I hope?”
“No.” Dirk again gave his attention to the dance floor. Clarkson had disappeared, and, mid-turn, Rebecca cast him a charming smile. “But I had it coming.”
“Nonsense.” The duke moved to his side. “Wielding the woman’s reputation as a weapon, I resorted to schoolboy teasing and deserved to have my head lopped off. In my defense, your little brother can be quite provoking.”
“Some things never change,” he said with a huff. “Ever since we were in shortcoats, Dalton has found sport in my attachments.”
“Is that the way the wind blows?”
“Aye.”
“You know, until this very second, I doubted your sincerity where the lovely interpreter was concerned.” Damian leaned close. “Thought you were merely dedicated to the mission.”
Denial traipsed the tip of his tongue.
But Dirk saw no reason to deny the truth.
“Doubt me no longer.”
The dance ended, and Albemarle returned Rebecca to Dirk’s care.
“That was a fruitful waltz.” His partner in espionage opened a fan with a flick of her wrist. “Goodness, it is warm in here.”
“Did you learn something?” he queried as she tucked a stray tendril behind her ear.
“Indeed. The portly lord is a treasure trove of gossip on London’s elite--” Becca’s mouth fell agape. “Lucien!”
“Hello, beautiful.” As the lady spy stepped into her brother’s arms, Lucien Wentworth, sixth Earl of Calvert, glared at Dirk. “Wainsbrough.”
“Lord Calvert.” Although they shared a civil handshake, Dirk got the distinct impression he had just been put on notice. “I did not know the Intrepid was in port.”
“We sailed into Deptford this afternoon. I understand my sister is currently residing in your home.” Calvert narrowed his stare. “Why is that?”
“Lucien.” Rebecca elbowed her elder sibling. “The viscountess invited me to stay with her and partake of the Season. It was a generous offer, and I did not wish to refuse.”
“Rumor has it you are courting my sister.”
“Oh?” Dirk had not so much as flinched. “I rarely heed rumor.”
“If you besmirch her character I shall call you out,” the young navy man warned.
“Rest assured, my intentions are honorable.” And then it hit him. Dirk realized just what he intended, knew well the inevitable conclusion of his declaration.
Perhaps Lucien understood too, because his expression softened. “Take care of her.”
“You may depend upon it.”
#
“Is my first lieutenant bothering you, Wainsbrough?” a booming voice, laced with humor, inquired.
To the undiscerning onlooker, Rebecca gauged the masculine interplay with unimpaired aplomb, but inside her heart skipped a beat at Dirk’s declaration.
“Bless my soul, it is a ghost from the past.” Dirk chucked the naval officer on the shoulder. “How long has it been? Five years?”
“Captain, allow me to present my sister, Lady Rebecca Wentworth.” His tone bespoke admiration, and Lucien beamed, as would a proud parent.
Rebecca studied the impressive blue uniform festooned with braided epaulets that declared his rank. Standing over six feet, with guinea-gold hair and impossibly blue eyes, the man rivaled her brother’s milita
ry resplendence. And from the chorus of feminine whispers, it was evident many noblewomen shared her assessment.
“Captain Jason Collingwood, commander of the Intrepid, at your service.” He bowed with a flourish that drew several breathy sighs from the young ladies nearby. “Please, call me Jason.”
“And you must call me Rebecca,” she said as he pressed a chaste kiss to her gloved knuckles. But as he made to stand upright, the captain paused. A ripple of awareness passed from his fingers to hers.
“Might I beg a favor?” Jason compressed his lips.
Intrigued, she nodded. “Of course. What would you have of me?”
“An introduction.” He motioned discreetly. “To the lady in red.”
After a wink at Dirk, she gazed at the individual in question and smiled. “Pray, a moment.”
Strange, she would never have imagined her well-honed spy instincts could be put to such use. As she waited for an appropriate opportunity to insert herself into the conversation, Rebecca pondered Jason’s potent reaction to a certain party. Had Dirk suffered a similar response when they first met aboard his ship? If memory served, he had stuttered.
And then the bloody French had attacked the Gawain.
War was so inconvenient.
With a whispered summons, Rebecca secured the female in demand.
“Lady Alexandra Seymour, may I present Captain Jason Collingwood of the Royal Navy.” Rebecca stepped back. “Lucien serves him aboard the Intrepid.”
As Jason kissed Alex’s hand, the highborn daughter of a duke giggled and said, “You are lovely.”
To wit the obviously surprised seaman replied, “Not half so lovely as you. Shall we dance?”
“That was smoothly done.” Dirk slipped an arm about Rebecca’s waist.
“Will Damian mind?” She bit her lip.
“No. Collingwood is not a stranger in our circles. Still, we should probably guard them.” Dirk led Rebecca into the mix of whirling partners.
“Surely he would not think of accosting her here.” She rethought her matchmaking machinations.
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