Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  “If you’re certain,” Charlotte said, drawing out her words.

  “I am.” Freddie answered a touch too quick, judging by the smug look in her sister’s eye. She remedied, “You’re bosom friends with his sister. He must be looking at you.”

  As the servants emerged in a parade to clear away the guests’ plates and serve the dessert course, Charlie held her tongue. Freddie was thankful for the respite. She didn’t dare look at the head of the table now, whether or not Tristan was staring at her.

  Somehow, she had to find a way to escape his company this evening, before her sister came to the wrong conclusion.

  As the ladies engaged in needlework, the chatter in the drawing room was low, like the soft buzz of insects on a calm summer’s day. Leaning forward in her seat, clad in a pink dress with seed pearls sewn into the bodice, Lucy matched the strength of the whispers. She laid her hand on Freddie’s knee.

  “I hope you aren’t still angry with Tristan.”

  “Angry with him? For what?” Freddie abhorred his association with the French, but Lucy couldn’t possibly know that.

  She drew back, making a face. “For his crude behavior during battledore yesterday.”

  Freddie shook her head. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I assure you, it is forgotten.”

  Lucy perked up a bit. A black curl tumbled into her forehead, lending her a girlish look. Her brown eyes gleamed. “Then you like him.”

  Not in the least. Freddie caught herself from gritting her teeth and tried to smile instead. “I like him as well as may be.”

  Lucy exchanged a sour look with Charlie, on Freddie’s other side. They had boxed her into their usual corner, not allowing Freddie to move so much as an inch without gaining a sharp glare. Both women now looked as though they’d bitten into a lemon.

  Good. They can suck on that response for a while. With luck, it would convince her sister that she and Tristan harbored no feelings for each other whatsoever. None, at the very least, that didn’t sprout from acting as spies on opposite sides of the war.

  In the corner of the room, the pendulum clock swung back and forth with a steady tick, tick, tick. Each swing settled between Freddie’s shoulders, growing tighter and reminding her that she had a mission to complete. She’d already wasted two days.

  She had to find that code book at all costs.

  “I’m dreadfully tired. I believe I’ll turn in early for the night.” Freddie’s voice was strained and her cheeks were hot. She didn’t think her claim was that far from the truth.

  The moment she stood up, Lucy—on her left—latched onto her arm. “You can’t!” Something close to desperation lit Lucy’s voice. “Not yet. The festivities are about to begin.”

  Between her dark gaze and Charlie’s light one, Freddie felt as though she treaded a thin line. She bit her lower lip, uneasy. She hesitated just long enough for Charlie to grip her other arm. Her sister’s blue eyes turned pleading.

  “Please, Freddie? Stay a moment more. I didn’t spend all that time on adjusting the dress for you to sit in your room.”

  Guilt sank its claws into Freddie’s stomach. Charlie had worked hard on the dress. Beneath one of Freddie’s thin, net muslin overdresses, it looked divine. The neckline plunged a bit too low for Freddie’s comfort, but she’d solved that problem handily by wearing a fichu. The gloves she’d chosen, with the sunny yellow flowers on the back, sported leaves that closely matched the color of the underdress. Even her slippers were embroidered with threads that complemented the shade.

  Slowly, she slipped back into the chair. “Thank you again for your effort, Charlie. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

  Charlotte beamed. “Not at all. I’m happy you like it.” With a smirk, she retracted her hand and returned to her embroidery.

  Freddie hoped she wasn’t altering another of her dresses, but she was too afraid to ask. She leaned back in the chair, surveying the room as she searched for her mother’s comforting face. She couldn’t find her. Where was Mama? She’d seated herself alongside Lady Graylocke earlier this evening.

  Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Freddie dropped her gaze to her hands. She couldn’t have returned to her room to await Lord Harker, could she have? No, not two days in a row. It would have been suspicious in the eyes of the guests.

  Not to mention in Freddie’s eyes.

  To her left, Lucy held her lower lip between her teeth as she furiously scribbled her thoughts into her notebook. As Freddie watched, Lucy filled a page with indecipherable script and turned it to cram more words on the other side. Whatever her idea, it must have a tenacious grip.

  On Freddie’s right, Charlie shivered with a jolt. A moment later, she did it again.

  “Are you cold?”

  Charlie made a face. “Only a touch. It’s my neck. I should have worn a fichu tonight.”

  Without thinking, Freddie’s hand rose to her neck. “Take mine.” In an instant, she pulled it free and offered it to her sister. A thin, sheer bit of cloth, it wasn’t much protection, but it was better than nothing.

  With a sweet smile, Charlie said, “Thank you, Freddie. How thoughtful of you.” She tied the triangle of cloth around her neck as if she hadn’t a care how fashionable it looked.

  Freddie’s fingers twitched. She itched to adjust the set of the fichu, but she feared offending her sister. Finally, she could take it no longer. “Let me fix that.” She leaned forward, straightening the neckline filler until it hung better.

  Although Charlie usually fussed when Freddie straightened her clothes, tonight she remained quiet. Freddie narrowed her eyes, but didn’t comment on that fact.

  A moment later, the gentlemen poured into the room. Lucy bounded to her feet, waving her hand through the air. “Tristan, over here!”

  Freddie’s stomach dropped. Lucy had positioned herself facing the door, but Freddie had only to look to her right to spot Tristan’s tall, muscular form. The other women in the room appeared to be staring in his direction as well. At least, those whose attention was not squarely focused on Freddie’s group. She battled a blush as she leaned back in the chair, thanking her luck that her back was to the rest of the room.

  Two men separated from the flood at the door, Tristan and the duke. The duke’s expression was stoic, almost forbidding as he crossed a pace behind Tristan to reach them.

  When he reached the three women, the duke raised a sardonic brow. “A wave would have sufficed, Lucy.”

  For a moment, a dark expression crossed Tristan’s face. He shot his brother a look of annoyance, likely since the duke had taken it upon himself to comment on Tristan’s behalf. Freddie wouldn’t have liked being ignored like that.

  Once again, she had to wonder if Morgan had betrayed his country first, and Tristan had followed him out of loyalty to his family. She pressed her lips together, doing her best to play invisible.

  The moment Tristan stepped abreast of the chairs, his gaze settled on Freddie. Her breath hitched as she locked eye contact with him. Without words, she tried to tell him to stop. Stop looking at her, stop speaking to her. Their siblings were forming ideas, coming to unfortunate conclusions that Freddie couldn’t convincingly combat without spilling the truth.

  That was out of the question.

  Fortunately, Tristan looked away to address his sister. “You seem unusually enthusiastic this evening.”

  With absent strokes of her hands, she smoothed her dress. “I am. I managed to fill three pages of my notebook!”

  He smiled, though the expression had a wary edge. “It must be a riveting idea.”

  “It is. Oh, silly me, why don’t you sit?” She motioned to the armchair she’d just vacated.

  The duke’s second eyebrow rose to join the first. “There aren’t enough seats, Lucy.”

  Again, that annoyance crossed Tristan’s face, quickly buried.

  With a light, tinkling laugh, like wind chimes, Lucy slipped between the two brothers and laid her hand on the duke’s arm. “Tristan, you
can take my seat. Morgan, Mama told me earlier that she’d like a word with you. Why don’t we get that out of the way?”

  Lucy should have been the spy, not Tristan. She handled her brothers with such a suave grace that they barely noticed they were being manipulated. Morgan straightened his cravat and pulled on the cuffs of his tailcoat as he muttered under his breath.

  “What could Mama want this time?”

  Freddie would have wagered her family’s annuity that Lady Graylocke hadn’t requested his presence at all. She bit her tongue as the pair walked away.

  Tristan remained behind. His gaze gleamed, the clear, deep brown of his irises reflecting the candlelight, as he took the chair next to Freddie. She stiffened, and pointedly turned her face away.

  Charlie set aside her embroidery. At least Freddie would have one ally against him, even if Charlotte didn’t know the true depth of his character.

  However, the moment she tucked the embroidery into its basket, she stood, hoisting the basket onto her arm. “I should return this to our room. I won’t be but a moment, Freddie.”

  As was polite, Tristan stood as well. Charlie offered him a neat curtsey, and turned away.

  “Wait—”

  Freddie cut off her words when she glimpsed the smirk playing around Charlie’s lips a moment before her back fully turned. Freddie clenched her fists in her skirts. Charlie knew, just as well as she did, that their maid Lisane would collect the embroidery when the room was vacant. The only reason her sister had left had been to thrust Freddie into Tristan’s company—alone.

  With a flick, Tristan arranged the tail of his coat and dropped into the seat next to her once more. He stretched out his legs in front of him, barring her path. His gaze twinkled.

  “We meet again, Miss Vale.”

  I’d rather meet a pit of vipers. She bit the inside of her cheek. Although no one joined them in their corner, the guests now mingled throughout the room, the chatter rising considerably. Some plucky young debutante had seated herself at the pianoforte again. No one seemed to be paying her much mind. The noise obscured the sound of their conversation somewhat, but not enough to disguise their words to those who stood near enough.

  Freddie took a deep, steadying breath. She prepared for a war of wits. “Please don’t feel like you have to keep me company, Lord Graylocke. I’m perfectly content to sit here alone.”

  “Nonsense!”

  Freddie cringed as he raised his voice a touch too loud for comfort, drawing more attention.

  “It’s my pleasure to sit with a beautiful woman.”

  Blooms of heat lit her cheeks like fireworks. She narrowed her eyes. What was his game? After darting a glance to the gathering—more and more eyes turned in their direction, and she was certain the whispers behind gloved hands were centered on them as well—she leaned closer to Tristan.

  She kept her voice low, so hopefully no one but him would hear. “What are you doing?”

  His smile grew. “Speaking to you. In turn, you respond to me. I believe it’s called conversation.”

  She glared. “Stop. People are starting to get the wrong idea.”

  He crossed his ankles, leaning back in a relaxed pose and threaded his fingers over his stomach. “And what would that be, my dear?”

  She balled her fists. “Don’t call me that. They’ll think you intend to marry me.”

  He laughed. The sound was soft at first, but one corner of his mouth turned up. He lost the battle and threw his head back.

  Freddie kicked at his ankle to draw his attention. “It isn’t funny. Your sister is embracing the idea. As is mine.”

  That convinced him to shut his mouth, but a twinkle of mirth remained at his side. “Is it farfetched for a man to pay court to a woman?”

  “You know very well that it is out of the question when we are the man and woman in that scenario.”

  A predatory look crossed his face. Sitting upright, he leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his chin on his hand. “And why is that?”

  She lowered her voice even further, the barest hiss. “Because we are enemies!”

  His eyelids lowered, a languid expression. “We don’t have to be. In fact, if you gave me a chance, I’m sure you’d find that there are many advantages to having me as an ally.”

  Never. Never, never, never.

  Freddie counted to ten as she forced herself to take a deep breath. When she released it, she felt no better.

  “I will not be your ally. You are wasting your time.”

  Moreover, he wasted hers! With Charlie and Lucy preoccupied, this would have been the perfect time to dash out the door without anyone being the wiser.

  “Do you find me so odious?”

  “Yes.” She narrowed her eyes. “You know why.”

  “Do I?” He reached out and captured one of her hands. As he drew it between them, he gently loosened her fist. When he’d curled each of her fingers away from her palm, he pressed his lips to the spot he’d exposed.

  Freddie stifled a gasp. The touch of his hot breath and lips on her palm burned her like a brand. The thin silk of her gloves proved no barrier. She colored up, but didn’t dare peek behind her to see if anyone had noticed the gesture. She didn’t want to know whose wagging tongues were at play.

  Tristan’s eyes darkened with an emotion she dared not name. “I’d like to propose a truce.”

  She stiffened. She didn’t have time for compromises or truces. Even now, with their words veiled, Freddie knew that his main aim was to keep her from finding the code book. She would not give up.

  “I will not enter a truce with you.” Her voice was strangely breathless.

  Did he look disappointed? When he retracted his hand, his fingertips grazed the back of her hand from her wrist to the tips of her fingers. She shivered involuntarily.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Not even to ensure that I turn my attentions elsewhere?”

  Freddie gritted her teeth. Didn’t he know that by pretending to court her, he ultimately did her reputation harm? When they inevitably parted, if the rumors didn’t place her in a compromising position, it would seem as if he, the son of a duke, had shunned her. She’d never marry.

  She hardened herself. It didn’t matter. After all, she didn’t intend to marry. She refused to be dependent on a man, left destitute when he cocked up his toes because he couldn’t control his gambling habit. Most men of the ton gambled. Freddie knew that she couldn’t forbid the habit, but she didn’t have to indulge a man deep in debt, either.

  No. She would find the code book. She would attain the promised cottage for herself and her mother. Charlie would marry well.

  Freddie refused to allow Tristan to taint her reputation, and thereby Charlie’s.

  Balling her fist, she stood. “I am done conversing with you.”

  He rose with her. The chairs, squeezed into the tight corner, were so close together that when she stood, she found herself inches away from his body. Her gaze roved over his eveningwear of its own accord. This evening, he wore a bit of color with an emerald green tailcoat and tan waistcoat and breeches to offset his milk-white cravat and black Hessian boots. She couldn’t help but admire the way his broad shoulders filled out his coat. Did he pad them? No, she’d seen him without his jacket and he’d been every bit as broad. Swallowing to moisten her dry mouth, she dropped her gaze to her shoes.

  As another young woman poised on the seat of the pianoforte, someone gave a call. The exclamation was muffled, but Freddie caught the word ‘dancing.’

  The cry was soon taken up by others and the gentlemen worked together to clear the furniture from the center of the room. In the bustle and cacophony, Freddie tried to slip away.

  Tristan blocked her path. “Would you do me the honor of standing up as my dance partner?”

  Freddie’s breath caught. He wore his usual, fashionably bored expression, the air of someone unflappable. A burn of embarrassment spread throughout her chest as she ducked her head. “I…can’t.�
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  He leaned closer. The sandalwood smell of his cologne swirled around her, making her lightheaded.

  “Don’t think for a second that I’ll let you slip away to search my chambers again.” His voice was low, intimate, and disapproving.

  She firmed her chin, but didn’t look up. “I can’t dance.”

  “You must be jesting.” His voice was thick with disbelief.

  With a glare, she reared her head to look him in the eye. “I taught my sister, but didn’t have time to practice, myself.”

  One eyebrow twitched, as though he battled a sardonic expression. “You just admitted you can’t dance. How can you teach another?”

  “I only know how to lead.” It hadn’t been an issue before tonight. Compared to Charlie, Freddie faded into the background. She was happy there, a wallflower, unnoticed.

  But Tristan seemed determined to expose her. He held out his hand, palm up. “I’m certain the steps aren’t that dissimilar. Try it. I promise, I won’t make this a competition.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Freddie’s mouth. “Good, because I don’t know if I’d care for a repetition of battledore.”

  He gave a wry, one-shouldered shrug, looking at once chagrined and unapologetic. Reaching out, he caught her hand and brought it up between them.

  “What do you say? Will you dance with me?”

  This is a bad idea. Even so, she found herself wishing that she had practiced, that she would be able to show to advantage. When she hazarded a glance around the room, men and women were pairing off, but some people looked toward her and Tristan with unveiled curiosity. Mrs. Biddleford and her companion were two such people.

  Freddie couldn’t, in good grace, refuse a man so closely tied to the hostess of this party. Even if he was her enemy.

  She nodded, stiffly.

  The woman behind the pianoforte played a lively tune. Her skills were imperfect, but the cheerful beat hid many of the slips of her fingers. Tristan drew Freddie away from the wall and took up a ready stance for La Boulangere. He took both her hands in his. The heat of his long, broad hand seeped into her palm as he tightened his hold.