Desire Never Dies

by Jenna Petersen

She started as the carriage door swung open to reveal her footman, his hand extended to assist her from the vehicle. Her knees shook, and she couldn’t seem to make herself move as the young man waited, blinking at her.

  “My lady?” he finally ventured, his head cocking with confusion.

  “Yes, Thomas, I’m just a bit slow.” Tamping down her fear, she slid to the door and let him help her down. As he stepped away, she smoothed her gown and looked up at the large home. She had to show more than just Lucas Tyler that she could do this.

  She had to show Charlie. To show Lady M. To show Meredith and Emily. They all had faith in her. She had to prove their faith to be well placed.

  She had to show herself.

  Somehow she moved into the crowd now entering the doorway and in a few moments, found herself inside the buzzing ballroom.

  It had been a long time since Ana was in such a crush. When The Society for Widows and Orphans held events to raise funds, it was Meredith and Emily who took center stage. Ana normally stayed home, crunching figures and researching ways to increase attendance. The gatherings she did go to were teas and ladies’ luncheons which consisted of twenty women, rarely more.

  Truth be told, sometimes twenty seemed too many for her comfort. Yet here she was, in a ballroom with hundreds of people. They were laughing, they were talking, they were utterly comfortable in their fancy attire.

  And Ana felt miserably out of place. Lost. Weak. She longed for the ease of her day gowns and spectacles and inventions. Every fiber in her being told her to turn around and run back to her carriage. Every ounce of her soul reminded her how unprepared she was for the field, that Lucas was right about her being sheltered no matter how forcefully she denied that accusation.

  The only thing that kept her frozen in place on the edge of the ballroom floor was Emily. If Ana did not do what she had come here to do…if she didn’t swallow her fears, then all of Emily’s work would be for nothing. The man who had nearly put her best friend in a cold grave would very likely escape capture.

  And the begrudgingly good name of the Lady Spies would be tarnished in the eyes of the government forever. They might use her hesitation as proof that the organization wasn’t valid. God, they might even disband the group. She wouldn’t do that to Meredith and Emily. She couldn’t.

  “Anastasia Whittig? Lady Whittig?”

  Ana started at the sound of her name being squealed from across the ballroom. She spun around in time to see a pretty, plump woman in a blazingly violet gown come hurrying around the perimeter of the dance floor toward her at a shocking speed. Her face was flush with color and her eyes danced as she reached Ana. “By heavens, it is you!”

  Ana stammered, looking for something to say when recognition dawned on her. “Victoria Nethercourt!” she exclaimed, numbly allowing the woman to grasp her hands. This was one of her friends, albeit a friend from another lifetime, long before she lost Gilbert, long before she became a spy.

  “It’s Victoria Brightoncraft now,” Victoria laughed. “A Countess, can you imagine?”

  “Of course.” Ana nodded as the surprise of seeing someone she once called a confidante faded, replaced by an almost shy pleasure that she had been remembered after so long. “I heard of your marriage. Many felicitations. I hope you are well.”

  Victoria nodded emphatically and began to launch into a detailed accounting of the past few years of her life, but before she could proceed too far in her hurriedly spoken tale, yet another woman approached to reintroduce herself to Anastasia. And then another. And then another.

  Within a quarter of an hour, Ana found herself surrounded by a flock of friendly faces, all welcoming her back to Society with excited glee. Even Lady Westfield herself, whom Ana had never been close to even before her self-imposed exile, stopped by to say hello and express pride that her invitation had been the first Ana accepted in so many years.

  Ana listened to their giggling words, stored away the plethora of information she learned from their gossip, and generally marveled at their reception of her. These people not only remembered her, but they welcomed her back to their fold. Her old friends, ones she had lost contact with except in passing, cared for her.

  It was shocking and thrilling all at once.

  “Isn’t that Lucas Tyler?” one of the women asked, rising up on slippered tiptoes to glance across the busy ballroom.

  Immediately, Ana shook off her excitement as a new emotion flooded her. Dread. And when she looked deeper, anticipation. Lucas was here. She craned her own neck with as much subtlety as she could and immediately found him in the crowd, talking to another man.

  But he was looking at her.

  Her heart leapt into her throat where it cut off her air for a brief moment before she managed to control her reaction.

  “My, he is a handsome one,” Victoria said with a nod. “You probably don’t remember him, Anastasia, as he wasn’t in country when you came out and married.”

  Ana remained silent, unsure of how much she could or should reveal about her relationship with Lucas. Telling the women she knew him could either garner her much desired information or destroy her cover.

  Another woman, Lady Taberton took up the story. “Despite his not having a title, he does have money. And just look at him. Why, he’s one of the most sought-after bachelors in Society at present, Lady Whittig,” she said with a smile that was a little more knowing than Ana wanted to think about. “He’s considered a catch, several ladies have wagers running about who will snag him first, either for a husband or…” She trailed off with a suggestive wave of her hand.

  Ana bit back a gasp. Of course she remembered how frank the talk of the married ladies and widows could become, but she never recalled it bothering her so much. These women were betting on who would bed Lucas first!

  Assuming none of them already had.

  “I don’t suppose you would like to put yourself into the contest?” asked another woman, Lady Valleyton.

  Ana turned her gaze onto the pretty redhead who was watching her with a teasing, playful grin. Her offer was made in all friendliness, but it grated along Ana’s spine like metal on slate.

  “No,” she managed to say with what she hoped was a smile. It felt more like a grimace.

  Victoria patted her hand and gave the women a shushing glare. “Come now, ladies. You know how attached to the late Lord Whittig Lady Whittig was.”

  Lady Valleyton’s cheeks colored dark crimson as she glanced down at Ana’s mourning gown. “My apologies, my lady,” she stammered. “I never meant to offend.”

  Ana nodded stiffly. Actually, for the first time in a long time, she hadn’t been thinking of Gilbert at all. “It’s fine, of course.”

  “Well, those of you still in the running, get ready,” Lady Taberton interrupted. “Because he’s coming this way!”

  The group of women caught their collective breath, and Ana was ashamed to admit she caught her own with it as she watched Lucas shoulder his way through the crowd, dodging footmen and overly eager mamas with the grace of an athlete. All the while he moved toward her…not the group of giggling women, but her with all the focus of a hawk hunting a field mouse.

  When he got nearer, she saw that he was smiling, a friendly, rakish expression that made more than one woman around her blush. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, there was a dangerous, almost angry light in his gray stare that put her on notice. She had done something wrong, and Lucas wasn’t pleased with her.

  “Ladies,” he drawled as he reached their group.

  Clearly he was acquainted with at least one of the women to approach them all so boldly. Her gaze darted around her as she tried to determine which one…and how. She prayed it wasn’t Lady Valleyton with her pretty pale skin and silky auburn hair, not to mention the philandering husband who probably wouldn’t care who she took a tumble with since his legacy had already been insured by the birth of twin boys a year before. Drat the woman for already having her figure back.

  The
women smiled, but no one answered. Ana waited as the awkward silence stretched and finally realized that Lucas was staring at her, eyebrows raised. He meant for her to be his conduit in introduction.

  “Er—Yes, good evening, Mr. Tyler,” she managed to croak. The women in the group spun on her with surprise mirrored in every gaze. After all, she hadn’t spoken up about an acquaintance with Lucas when they were fawning over him like debutantes. “How—How nice to see you again.”

  He smiled, but again she noticed the tightness around his mouth, the tension in his forehead. “Yes, it has been a while. Since your last charity ball, was it not?”

  Ana nodded, following his lead. “Yes. You were quite”—she swallowed hard—“helpful in obtaining funds at the last function.”

  He nodded in encouragement, and her pounding heart began to slow to a more normal rate. “I beg your pardon, how rude of me. Have you met these ladies?” she asked, motioning to the staring group.

  “I have seen many of them, but I don’t believe I’ve been formally introduced.” Lucas flashed a winning grin that showed off the dimples Emily had mentioned. Despite herself, Ana’s heart did a strange little flip.

  Gripping her hands into fists, she gave the introductions and watched as Lucas exhibited every asset he had as a spy. He actually listened to each name, staring at the women long enough to recall their faces, but not so long as to be forward. He repeated their names as if he were putting them to memory, just as she sometimes did with tricky elements in a code.

  “Well,” he said with a bow when the pleasantries had been exchanged, “I hate to be rude, but may I steal Lady Whittig away from you? I have longed to speak to her about her next event for the Sisters of the Heart Society. Perhaps I could beg the next dance, my lady?”

  He met her gaze evenly, and she saw his order in his eyes. Don’t refuse. She was about to follow that order when she caught sight of her own black gown and remembered her reasons for wearing it. A woman in mourning did not dance.

  She sucked in a breath. “I have no intentions on dancing this evening, Mr. Lucas,” she said, ignoring the soft sounds of surprise made by the women in her party. “But I would be more than happy to discuss the details of our next Society event with you on the terrace if that would please you.”

  His eyes narrowed before he gave a curt nod. “Yes, of course.” Offering her his arm, he said, “Perhaps your friends will be more amenable to dancing later.”

  With their enthusiastic murmurs ringing in her ears, Ana took Lucas’s arm and allowed him to lead her past the dance floor to the terrace doorways in the distance. But as soon as they were out of sight and earshot of her renewed friends, his grip on her arm tightened and his steps filled with purpose and emotion.

  “You needn’t manhandle me,” she said as she tried to pull herself free of his grip.

  “Not a word,” he ground out as he maneuvered them onto the wide terrace and away from the others outside. “Not yet.”

  “When then, Mr. Tyler?” she snapped, yanking her arm free when he brought her to a stop in a shadowy corner at the end of the terrace.

  His eyes narrowed and a dangerous gleam lit up in them. “Now. Now you will explain yourself.”

  Lucas folded his arms as he waited for Ana’s answer. Instead of doing as she’d been told, she gave him a withering glare and stomped over to the terrace railing to look down over the gardens below. Her hand snaked up and she began to rub her arm…right on the spot where he’d touched her.

  He tilted his head. His grip hadn’t been tight enough to hurt her, so the reason for her to touch herself there intrigued him.

  “Well?” he asked, trying to bring his focus back to matters at hand.

  She spun on him, eyes flashing in a way that made the brown come alive with lighter color. “Why don’t you begin by explaining yourself, Mr. Tyler? What purpose did you have in dragging me away from those women? You created a spectacle.”

  He barked out a laugh. “I created a spectacle?” He drew in a breath and lowered his tone. This was not the time to lose control over his emotions. “What are you wearing, Anastasia?”

  She flinched at the inappropriate use of her given name, but glanced down at herself nonetheless. Her eyes came back up, filled with confusion.

  “A gown.” Her lips thinned. “They are all the rage with proper ladies this season, you know. Someone came up with the silly notion that we shouldn’t run around in our underthings.”

  He bit back both a retort and a sinful image of Anastasia in far less than a chemise. “No.”

  He took a step toward her as he lifted a hand to point. She stumbled back. Clearly, she did not fear him…what she feared was that he would touch her again. His breath caught at the idea as he watched her track his extended finger like it was a weapon.

  “You are wearing a black gown, Ana. A mourning gown.”

  Her stare broke away from his finger and moved to his face instead. Her forehead crinkled and she looked at him like he had gone completely mad. He was beginning to think she might be right in that assessment.

  “And?”

  He rubbed his temple as he tried to keep himself together. This woman was the most frustrating and tempting piece of skirt he had ever met.

  “You are wearing a black mourning gown…at a ball,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Between that fact and your stunning little return to Society, you are drawing far too much attention to yourself.”

  “Wait, you call ten or twelve women approaching me to say hello a ‘stunning little return to Society’?” She shook her head.

  He sighed. After years hiding herself away, she was so blind. “Only a few people may have approached you, but those who didn’t are talking about you, Ana. Your name was on the lips of every woman and man in that room and probably still is.”

  Her face drained of color at that thought. “Perhaps some of the women mentioned me, yes, but I cannot believe what you say is true. You’re exaggerating.”

  Lucas shut his eyes and slowly counted to ten in his head. “The women mentioned you. A large portion of the men are plotting to bed or wed you.”

  “What?” she cried, her voice elevating sharply before she remembered herself and looked around. Thankfully, most of the people on the terrace had gone back into the ballroom.

  “It is true, Ana, whether you like it or not. Men of a certain age and disposition like pretty little widows. And since you have been out of Society for a while, you are a novelty. You are a woman the men want because you have been out of their reach for so long.” He fisted his hands at his sides. It hadn’t been easy hearing snippets of conversation about Ana’s “attributes.” Only his training and cover had kept him from busting a few of the cruder heads.

  She stumbled back, but there was nowhere else to go on the narrow terrace. She leaned against the railing like it was the only thing keeping her up.

  “Before I married, none of those men even looked at me. I cannot believe I’m the topic of such conversation,” she said softly, dropping her chin to stare at her slippered feet.

  Her forlorn look touched Lucas in a place buried deep. Ana had actually liked being the belle of the ball, even if only for a few moments. She had enjoyed the fact that so many people remembered and welcomed her. Now her memories of the evening were tarnished as she realized the ramifications of them.

  He drew in a breath and gentled his tone. “I realize garnering attention wasn’t your design, but you must understand the fact that you are wearing black only magnifies the reaction to you. At the very least, it makes you instantly recognizable in a crowd. That is why you must start wearing color.”

  Her chin lifted slowly and the defeat was gone from her stare, at least for the moment. Ana straightened up and folded her arms across her chest. His heart gave the strangest little ache at the sight, the way her chin wobbled in indignation.

  “Mr. Tyler, I am a widow. Widows wear black.”

  If a tone could wither, Lucas would have been curled up o
n the stones at her feet, ready to blow away with the next stiff breeze. Instead, he narrowed his eyes.

  “Your husband died many years ago, my lady,” he said with a scowl. Normally he wouldn’t have been so harsh, but damn it! The woman kept calling on the memory of a man dead so long ago. It irked him to no end.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, but not before he saw the flash of sadness and loss in their depths. His chest tightened. She might be using her husband’s death to hide away from the world, but her grief was real. He wasn’t sure whether to shake her back to life or pull her into his arms for comfort.

  Her voice was soft and even as she said, “Regardless of the time that has passed, I loved my husband, Mr. Tyler. A love like that doesn’t happen more than once in a lifetime, so I will wear black to honor him…whether you approve or not.”

  With that, she turned away from him. Lucas held back a growl of growing irritation. And not just for the sake of his case. He shouldn’t care what some repressed widow wore or her reasons for doing so.

  He shook off the reaction as he took a step toward her. Grasping her elbow, he spun her back around to face him. “No—” he began.

  But he didn’t get any further. Ana lifted her chin in defiance and met his eyes. His angry orders fell away from his lips as he stared down at her. Moonlight danced off her sleek chestnut hair and made her eyes sparkle from emotion and the life within her that she repressed out of misguided guilt and lingering grief. He found himself longing to coax that life and emotion from her. To remind her not just how to be a good spy…but a woman again.

  Her lips parted as if she had read his thoughts and her eyelids drooped slightly when her gaze focused suddenly, powerfully on his mouth.

  By God, after everything she’d said, did she actually want him to kiss her?

  “Very—Oh my!”

  Lucas froze at the sound of a voice behind them. His gaze flitted to Ana. Her face had grown deathly pale with shock and fear. They had been discovered…and she was practically in his arms.

  Slowly he let her go and backed away, knowing with each step that it was too late to pretend that whatever woman had seen them was mistaken in her assumptions. He turned with a wince. It was Lady Bellingham, the young wife of the old Viscount, notorious for her penchant for gossip. She wouldn’t be able to resist telling the world what she had seen. Or almost seen.