My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  “Jason is not the one who worries me.”

  Just then, the duo in question circled near, as Alex inquired, “Tell me, Captain, is your vessel very large?”

  “Ah, I see.” Rebecca laughed and settled into the dance.

  As always, waltzing with him proved a powerful experience.

  “Your efforts appear successful.” Dirk chuckled. “Alex and Collingwood seem lost in a world of their own.”

  “I can hardly take credit for that.” But she noted the couple’s proximity, which tested the limits of propriety. “Mutual attraction played a small part.”

  He arched a brow. “Mutual attraction?”

  “Indeed.” Their hips met on a turn; she brushed a telltale bulge and gasped. She glanced down, and then caught his stare. “Do you not feel something?”

  “Aye.” In the light of the crystal chandeliers, Dirk blushed. “I feel it.”

  Rebecca could have shouted for joy.

  Despite the proper façade and polite manners, the no-nonsense viscount wanted her. The undeniable proof rode hard against her belly. And she was determined his passion would not go unrequited. Dirk had to know she desired him.

  Tonight.

  #

  “Join me in the study for a brandy?” her prey inquired as Rebecca gave her cloak and gloves to the butler.

  “What a marvelous idea.” Canting her head, she smiled at Dirk. “We can continue our conversation.”

  They would share a delicious intoxicant, all right.

  But not the sort poured into a glass.

  “An excellent notion.” The handsome nobleman ushered her down the hall. “I was wondering if you had ever met Wellington?”

  “Indeed, I have.” A hint of cigar smoke teased her nose as she entered the masculine domain. “He is a formidable military strategist, and his prowess is unmatched on the battlefield.”

  “I hear he also has a way with the ladies.” After closing the door, Dirk walked to a side table, lifted a crystal decanter, and filled two balloons. “Of course, that could be mere conjecture.”

  “There is more to it, I believe,” Rebecca said as she spread her fingers and warmed her palms by the fire.

  “Oh?” The curious lord joined her near the hearth and offered her a glass. “Do you know someone with firsthand experience?”

  Barely stifling laughter, she was certain Dirk was asking whether or not Wellington had dallied with her. On a side-glance, she clucked her tongue. “I am not one to gossip.”

  “And never would I encourage you to engage in such behavior.” He appeared befuddled as he narrowed his stare. “But--have you reliable confirmation of Wellington’s abilities?”

  The poor man was an easy mark.

  “Really, Lord Wainsbrough.” Somehow, she managed not to grin. “Such naughty conduct from a heretofore impeccable gentleman.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Dirk tugged at his cravat, and then swilled the contents of his glass in a single impressive gulp.

  Following his lead, Rebecca downed her brandy, accepted his empty balloon, and set it with hers on the mantel. It was high time to make her move. Summoning all her experience with the opposite sex, the siren spy, the one who never failed to catch her man, emerged. Social conventions and polite precepts fractured, scattering on the floor as autumn leaves.

  L’araignee took a bold step in his direction.

  He retreated.

  Again, she inched forward.

  Dirk backed into a chair.

  The operative moved, swift and sure, grasped his neck cloth, and quickly untied the folds of linen.

  “Becca, what are you about?” His brow furrowed as she drew the yard length of starched fabric and flung it aside.

  “Is it not obvious? I am making you more comfortable.”

  “Oh?” The usually stuffy lord appeared on the verge of protest.

  “Certainly, you did not believe we were going to extend our debate of edged weapons versus firearms.” Clutching the lapels of his elegant formal coat, she slipped the wool from his shoulders, freeing the garment and dropping it to the rug.

  “I must c-confess I d-did,” he stuttered as she unbuttoned his waistcoat and stripped it from him in much the same fashion. “It was an intellectually stimulating discussion.”

  “Perhaps I have another method of stimulation in mind.” She unhooked the shirt fastener at his throat. “One that will prove a pleasurable interlude for us both.”

  “But--” Myriad emotions invested his expression. A hint of shock mixed with hesitance, and Dirk opened and then closed his mouth. A single brow arched, he grinned. “Really?”

  On her tiptoes, L’araignee gently kissed his bruised nose. “Indubitably.”

  Desire flashed in his amber eyes.

  Before her quarry could object, she pushed him into an overstuffed chair. After kicking off her slippers, the secret agent hiked up her skirts, straddled his thighs, and eased to his lap. Brushing aside the ruffles of fine lawn, she set her lips to his. Dirk groaned into her mouth as she twined her fingers in his hair and held him to her. She could have cried like a baby when he prodded her with his tongue and suckled hers.

  For a few heated, desperately groping minutes, she merely sat there and let the normally restrained nobleman ravish her. With both hands grasping her bottom, he anchored her close and rocked his hips in an illicit rhythm, teasing her with a very promising erection. Passion nipped at her senses, blazing a trail straight to her loins, and delicious fire sang in her veins. When he broke their kiss, bent his head, and buried his face in her bosom, she stared at the moulded ceiling and moaned in appreciation.

  Prior to this night, in terms of the male species, L’araignee had always trusted her spy instincts. As a member of the Corps, she had been trained to distance herself from the physical demands of espionage. That included various trysts born of duty to the Crown. For her, licentious behavior was simply a tool of the trade, a useful tactic to evade a target’s defenses and gain secrets pertinent to national security.

  But not tonight.

  For good or ill, the seasoned operative was determined to put her talents to work in an all-together different contest. And when she finished, the high and mighty lord would consent to visit her bed. How badly she wanted to release the rapacious barbarian lurking amid the polite decorum, wanted to revel in the raw power masked by the proper façade, wanted to taste the uncontrolled lust of the man beneath the elegant attire. It was all there, burning as an unquenchable flame, just beyond reach. Patience stretched thin; she would seize her prize.

  And L’araignee knew just how to go about it.

  As Dirk hovered dangerously close to a nipple, she drew herself up and slid from his lap.

  “Becca, did I hurt you?” he asked in a raspy voice.

  “No, but remain where you are.” From a daybed she retrieved a pillow, which she dropped on the floor at his feet. Pressing his thighs further apart, she knelt between his legs. Now was her opportunity. This was her gift from fate, and she was going to claim it.

  “What are you doing?” With a countenance of curiosity and confusion, he leaned forward. “Is something wrong?”

  “Relax, my lord.” Palms to his chest, L’araignee urged him to recline. Grasping his wrists, she settled them on the arms of the chair. “Promise, no matter what happens, you will not move.”

  “But--”

  “Give me your word, as a gentleman.”

  “Now, see here--”

  “Swear on your viscount’s coronet.”

  “All right.” With a frown, Dirk dipped his chin. “I vow, I will honor your request.”

  In a flash, she nipped at the skin stretched taut across his ribs and speared his navel with her tongue. At his sharp intake of breath, L’araignee chuckled and moved lower to catch the waistband of his trousers with her teeth. Drawing imaginary circles along the inner sides of his thighs, she traced a naughty path to his crotch and caressed the mound of hardened flesh burgeoning beneath the fabric. Consciou
s of his intense scrutiny, she peered at him, and he favored her with a boyish grin and a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Are you ready for me?” she inquired as she unfastened the hooks and freed his fully aroused length.

  Dirk blinked, as would an owl. “Ready for what?”

  L’araignee knew exactly what she was going to do as she stared at him through half-open eyes. She had partaken of the act, had committed the deed countless times on men she would never have touched outside her occupation, her life as a spy. In return for the pleasure she gave numerous strangers, she gained priceless bits of information for Wellington and his generals. But never had she derived any enjoyment, in kind.

  Tonight would be different.

  Because the recipient of her talents was one of her choosing, for no other reason than she wanted him. And how she wanted him.

  Slowly, deliberately, she smiled, bent her head, and flicked her tongue to the plum-shaped tip.

  “Good God,” he exclaimed with something between a sob and a sigh. “Rebecca, you can’t mean to--”

  “Remember your promise.”

  With a furrowed brow, he appeared to contemplate his predicament. She narrowed her stare as she worked him with her hand, pumping at an enticing pace. When Dirk closed his eyes and sank into the chair, L’araignee commenced the decadent, delicate dance.

  Moving over him, she took him into her mouth, loving him with all she had and for all she was worth. She knew well the rhythm, the tantalizing slip and slide that would make him howl in delight. He was a succulent treat of unmatched masculinity, a fact that spurred her on, emboldened her anew. The thrill, the sheer power of holding something so potent, yet so fragile, in her tenuous grasp was overwhelming, a point she had never pondered.

  With fistfuls of her hair, he thrust his hips in opposition to her movements. The momentum grew, the cadence quickened as Dirk ravaged her lips and, somewhere in the back of her mind, L’araignee realized she had lost control of the situation. With fire and desire simmering beneath her skin, wild and wanton passion and anticipation burned in her belly, and she licked and suckled his miracle of flesh as she would a flavored ice from Gunter’s.

  As a sultry summons, his low, steady groan heralded his climax. Quickly, she snaked her arms under his thighs and took him deeper still. In a staccato of bursts, his impressive display of virility left her senses reeling as she drank from him.

  Suddenly, without warning, nerves charged, and a series of sweet spasms between her legs sent wicked shivers down her spine, not unlike those that had wracked her body in the carriage the previous night. And as before, wave upon wave of heretofore-unimagined bliss rushed over her skin from head to foot, and she floated in a make believe sea of sensuous euphoria. At long last, L’araignee found pleasure in the pleasure she gave.

  Weighted with sated languor, she pressed on Dirk a final kiss, then sat on her heels, wrapped her arms about herself, and closed her eyes against welling tears. Never in her life had she experienced anything quite so lovely as her seduction of Viscount Wainsbrough.

  Could the upright noble resist making love to her now?

  #

  Was there anything quite so lovely--or erotic--as the sight of Becca seducing him? At that precise moment, Dirk peered at Rebecca and smiled.

  Sparing a minute in silent rebuke at his complete loss of self-control, his thoughts swiftly turned to marriage.

  He was Dirk Randolph, Viscount Wainsbrough and oh-so-responsible eldest son of the equally conservative Brent Randolph. Like his sire, he led an orderly life and was a creature of habit, traits for which he would never apologize.

  But it seemed Becca had found a chink in his armor.

  She had discovered something primitive, unrefined, and untamed in his person, and he rather enjoyed it. Problem was, whatever she had unearthed, the beast would no longer be caged; and he had thoroughly compromised her. And while he may not be her first lover, he would damn well be her last. But honor demanded he speak the vows before consummating their relationship, and he was nothing if not honorable, so she would have to wed him.

  The spy with sad eyes.

  Therein lay the only impediment to his happiness.

  Dirk had not wanted a government agent for a wife, yet Rebecca would be his wife.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The previous night should have been a momentous occasion. Rebecca had taunted and tempted her conquest yet, in the end, she had slept alone. If not for intimate knowledge to the contrary, she might suspect Dirk was a eunuch.

  “I trust you enjoyed an undisturbed rest?”

  Dirk’s rich baritone startled her, and she tripped on the uneven pavement. “I b-beg your p-pardon?”

  “Careful.” He gripped her elbow and smiled. “I simply asked if you found your accommodations agreeable.”

  Could the man possibly be more formal?

  He spoke to her as though nothing licentious had occurred between them. As if she had not held his rather impressive erection between her lips. Rebecca gazed at the curious viscount and considered her next move.

  “Ah, I slept like a babe.”

  Surely, it was easier to lie than to explain the truth?

  She had bared her soul to him the previous night, and he acted as if they had done nothing more than share polite conversation over a spot of tea. Her spy instincts and common sense counseled that what happened was perfectly natural for two people attracted to each other, but her cheeks burned with uncharacteristic timidity.

  An essence of self-doubt nipped at her skirts as they neared the park, their mounts in tow. Dirk wrapped his hands around her waist, sneaking a quick kiss as he lifted her to the saddle, which more than lifted her spirits.

  The horse whinnied in protest and shot forth as if possessed by some malevolent entity.

  An attenuated cry of surprise escaped Rebecca as her tenuous grip tangled the reins.

  “Hold on!” Dirk shouted from behind.

  The world passed in a blur, and claw-like tree limbs threatened to upend her at every turn. L’araignee was an expert rider, but she was accustomed to mounting astride in breeches. Sidesaddle, dressed in a proper habit, she bobbed perilously atop the frazzled horse. If only she could slip her booted foot in the stirrup, she might be able to secure her position and slow the usually docile mare. As it was, the saddlebow provided her only anchor, and it was not enough to abate the brutal excursion.

  “I am almost there!” Her knight protector hollered.

  The thunderous clap of hooves sounded an impending rescue, and Rebecca bit her lip as she jostled violently. Serpentine fear danced a sinister jig at the tip of her tongue, pervading every tightly wound nerve when she spied a low-cut hedge, fast approaching. Under any other circumstance, she might have managed to clear the hurdle, but not after such a punishing jaunt.

  “Dirk--hurry,” she cried.

  Every muscle screamed in protest as she fought to maintain her precarious perch. Blood was a bitter pill in her mouth, and she prayed that would be the only blood spilled as an oak claimed her riding cap. Mere seconds from disaster, she cursed the hedge that would, no doubt, end the domestic fantasy she had enjoyed of late. The mare tensed beneath her, preparing to jump, and Rebecca closed her eyes.

  “Hold fast,” Dirk cautioned.

  The unyielding vise that snatched her from the saddle had not diminished the shriek of terror that had taken up residence in her throat. The peal of horror burst forth as a cannon blast, as they soared over the hedge atop her no-nonsense knight’s bay. They landed hard, but alive and unharmed, on the opposite verge. Fear was soon replaced by shame when Rebecca realized she was shivering uncontrollably in Dirk’s comforting embrace. Tears of embarrassment mixed with some as yet unidentifiable emotion, and she buried her face in his chest.

  “You’re safe, darling.” Dirk kissed her hair, then pulled back and cupped her chin, bringing her gaze to his. “Are you all right?”

  “I am.” She mustered a smile. “No small thanks to you.�
��

  Just as she thought it safe to let down her guard, she noted a crimson stain marring his white linen shirt. It was blood from the wound on her lip. A prescient awareness of impending doom sliced the calm, settling as an emotional knife through her heart.

  What was it that had concerned Sir Ross regarding her relationship with Dirk? The handsome captain might distract her. No one considered the impact on her should some unforeseen disaster befall the charming viscount. How selfish she had been in her amorous pursuits not to ponder the unwarranted attention that might result from her interest. She could never live with herself if the traitor targeted her new partner to get to her.

  “Becca, where are you?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I called you three times, but you simply remained still in my lap.” With a pointed stare and a brow full of furrows, Dirk cocked his head. “Where did you go?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She offered a less than enthusiastic chuckle. “I am right here, my lord.”

  “No, you are not. And you’re hurt.” He gripped her arms and gave her a cursory survey.

  “It is nothing. I bit my lip.” Bilious terror pooled in her throat. With Lucien aboard the Intrepid, safely under the protection of Captain Collingwood, how had she failed to consider her lone remaining vulnerability? The no-nonsense Viscount Wainsbrough was her Achilles’ heel because she cared for him. And how she cared for him. “It was quite an unusual ride.”

  Framing her face with his hands, Dirk caressed her lower lip. Suddenly, without warning, he bent his head and traced her lips with his tongue. Playfully he suckled, engaging her in a frisky duel. Sinking into his strong frame, Rebecca set about showing her hero how much she appreciated him--the best way she knew how. In full view of polite and proper society, she pressed on her partner very impolite, very improper kisses.

  To hell and the Reaper with the ton.

  #

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Dirk looked up from the estate ledgers he’d been reviewing. “What is it, Hughes?”

  “Timmons requests a moment of your time. I believe it has something to do with the incident in the park this morning.”