A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  Grabbing a pillow and plopping on the settee, she fingered the fringed edging, her mind racing. She would write Drake and request he send some of their ledgers. Simon would need to familiarize himself with the investments she and Drake had chosen.

  Rafe could pick them up and bring them back on his return trip. She composed her note at the small writing table. If he planned to start at dawn, she needed to get him the note tonight.

  The study was deserted. Perhaps he was abed. If his chamber door was shut, she would forget the whole endeavor. However, if a candle burned or the door was open, he surely wouldn’t mind her interruption.

  His door was shut and nothing moved. There, it was decided. She stared at the dark, wooden door and backed away, bumping into a pedestal holding the statue of a horse and rider. Grabbing at it, she saved the teetering display with a gusty sigh of relief.

  The door flew open and rattled on its hinges. She bobbled the statue again. The shot of surprise made her clumsy and the statue landed on the floor with a thud, the rider beheaded. Her gaze pinged from the statue to the man framed in the doorway.

  “Good God, not you.” Rafe ran a hand over his beard and turned on his heel to retrieve the brandy glass sitting on his nightstand. His shirt was half-untucked from his breeches, and his hair was mussed and untied. Somehow, his rumpled state only heightened his appeal.

  She looked down the hall toward safety, which seemed to stretch to infinity. Dark currents crackled around them. She sidled a few feet into the room, her hand outstretched, the note shaking. “I hoped you might undertake an errand for me in the city.”

  Ignoring her, he sprawled on the bed, still in his boots, ankles crossed. He took another gulp of the amber liquid, peering over the top of the glass.

  “Am I to be your errand boy, Your Grace?” he asked mockingly. “You really should have been born a man, Minerva. You certainly have the bearing and authority of a duke. Or perhaps a field commander. You and Wellington would have gotten on sle-splendidly. No wonder you turned your brother into milquetoast. You’re more a man than he is. ’Cept for your gorgeous breasts. You had to stick them right under my damn nose today, didn’ you? Twice, in fact.” Rafe held up two fingers as if she needed help counting.

  The man was obviously deep in his cups. She dropped her outstretched hand and infused all the disdain she felt into her words. “It’s too bad you weren’t born more of a man, my lord.”

  “More of a— Bloody hell, are you casting aspersions on my manhood? Are you quite serious, woman? I’m more than enough man to handle you, although why I would want to, I have no idea. You’re tyrant enough to shrivel any man’s cock.”

  Her sharp intake of breath seemed loud in the aftermath of his outrageous statement. If he meant to shock her with his crude language, he’d succeeded, but it was the substance that sent her reeling backwards. She was frigid, the ice princess. No man would want her because she was smart and independent and didn’t flirt and coo inanely, constantly stroking the delicate male ego.

  She fisted the letter and held his glittering, wintry gaze. He swung his legs to the floor and stalked her. There was no other word for it. The door was close enough for swift retreat, but she refused to show that level of cowardice. Nevertheless, she hit the tall wardrobe without even realizing she’d shuffled backward.

  Finally, toe to toe, the sweet scent of liquor rolled off him. “You’re foxed, Rafe Drummond.”

  “Very astute. But I’m a grown man and can drink when and how much I please. I’m not your poor sot of a brother who you boss around like a ten-year-old.” He propped his hands on either side of her. Certainly, intimidation was part of his goal, but she wondered if he didn’t need the support, he was that far gone.

  “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “You’re the foolish one. Why are you here?” His whisper sent a skitter down her spine. Of fear? Partly, but something else too.

  “I told you. An errand, a favor. I hoped you could take this letter to Drake?” She held up the crumpled missive. He plucked it from her numb fingers and tossed it over his shoulder.

  “I thought perhaps you were here for this…” Rafe wrapped both hands in her hair and pulled, tipping her face up. Her scalp tingled in pleasure and pain.

  His lips crashed down on hers in a bruising kiss. One of his hands stayed wrapped tightly in her hair while the other dropped to cup her buttock and fit her against him. She should hate this—hate him—but her body ignited.

  “Did you come here for this?” He sneered, pressing her into the wardrobe and grinding his erection against her hip.

  Yes. The word reverberated through her body. She barely stopped herself from speaking the humiliating truth aloud.

  “Blast it, why aren’t you running away screaming?” The cruel light seeped from his eyes, and his hand eased in her hair.

  “I don’t know.” And she didn’t. Why did this man draw her so forcibly?

  Rafe shook his head and sighed. Eyes never leaving hers, he kissed her again. This time, he gently slid his lips along hers and pressed softly into her mouth with his tongue, perhaps apologizing the only way he knew how. He massaged her scalp, and a moan escaped her throat between his devastating kisses. She leaned into his chest, rose to her toes and wound her arms around his neck. He ran his hands up and down her back as their tongues danced and explored with a devastating carnal lushness.

  This was why she was here. For the gentle, sensitive soul no amount of gruffness or alcohol could hide.

  “For the love of… I’m so terribly sorry.” Mrs. Devlin didn’t sound the least bit sorry. She sounded angry.

  Rafe stepped back, and Minerva leaned against the wardrobe, her breaths coming too fast. Now though, it wasn’t passion reddening her face to match the draperies and dizzying her.

  With trembling knees, she pushed off the wardrobe, retrieved the crumpled missive and handed it to Rafe with as much dignity as she could muster. “If you could take this to my townhouse for Drake, Lord Drummond? Please excuse me, my lord. Mrs. Devlin.”

  She forced her chin up and her shoulders back and glided out of the room as if exiting the Prince Regent’s drawing room. Would she be able to look Mrs. Devlin in the eye again? As soon as she was out of sight, she covered her hot cheeks with both hands and ran to her room to curl in a ball on her bed. Yes, she was embarrassed. Not because she had kissed Rafe Drummond, but because she had been caught doing it.

  “Master Rafe, really. Do I need to remind you that Lady Minerva is not a woman to be trifling with? She’s an innocent and a duke’s sister and I hope you aren’t taking advantage of the situation because he’s in debt to you.”

  “Mrs. Devlin, are you suggesting that I am forcing Minerva to pay off her brother’s debt in my bed?” He swayed on his feet, wondering which of the Mrs. Devlins he should direct his outrage toward.

  “I’m honestly not sure of your motivations. It smells like a tavern in here, so you’re obviously in your cups. Who knows what you’re thinking? Or more likely what you’re thinking with. I’m thinking it was a good thing I came along when I did.” At that, Mrs. Devlin marched out and slammed the door, the bang like a physical slap to his head.

  Lady Minerva Bellingham had come to his bloody room. Had he taken advantage, forced himself on her? Most assuredly. He ran a hand down his face, scrubbing at his beard, unbelievably tired and undeniably foxed.

  He stuck the missive in his travelling bag and decided retreat was the only option. He collapsed on the bed, not bothering to remove his boots or clothes, and slipped into the welcome dark oblivion brandy offered.

  Chapter Twelve

  A week later and with the lights of Wintermarsh visible through the oak trees, Rafe sighed, feeling a portion of his discontent seep into the leaf-strewn path. He always missed home when he was gone, but an unnamed melancholy had dogged him for days. Really, ever since he’d lost sight of Wi
ntermarsh’s chimneys on the road to London. He should have waited until the next morning to depart London, but after meeting to finalize a new ship design, he’d shoved papers and Minerva’s ledgers into bags and ordered a horse.

  Practically running from the stables to the house, he didn’t examine his urgent need to check on his charges—well, one charge in particular. Bertie directed him to the drawing room, and he threw the door open. Minerva popped up, playing cards fluttering to the floor at her feet. Simon, more circumspect, remained seated, tapping his cards on the felt game table.

  Was it the hearth fire or the heat in Minerva’s eyes sending tingling warmth through his body? Had it only been a week? He drank her in. Her hair was piled atop her head, tendrils escaping to brush her cheeks and neck, and her rose-colored gown exposed a sliver of creamy skin at her throat.

  Simon broke the silence. “Welcome home, Drummond. I assume you’ll want an accounting?”

  Rafe nodded absently, his gaze stuck to Minerva.

  “Yes, well, why don’t I wait in the study for you?”

  Rafe grunted, and thankfully, Simon left.

  She cleared her throat. “You’ve returned.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your business go well?” Minerva bent to retrieve her scattered cards.

  Without her searing blue eyes on him, he found his tongue, even though it felt clumsy. “Quite well. I saw your man Mr. Drake and brought back the ledgers.”

  Minerva aligned the cards in her hand. Unable to stop himself from touching her, he took the cards, brushing his fingers over hers, and laid them on the table. He didn’t move away, instead turning them over and fanning them out. Her gaze remained fixed on the cards.

  “How did you find Drake? Was he managing satisfactorily?” she asked.

  Rafe moved away and sat in one of the armchairs, not immediately answering her. An echo of the jealousy he’d experienced on meeting Drake crimped his stomach. He had expected a bald, doddering, bespectacled solicitor—not a handsome, virile man in his prime. The same primal territorial aggression from that morning filled his chest and tensed his shoulders. He forced himself to relax.

  The not-so-subtle questions he’d launched at the stoic Drake had been answered with a hint of amusement but total truthfulness as far as he could discern. In return, her man of affairs had asked several pointed questions that had had him shifting in his chair, feeling less than certain with his denials and reassurances. He’d departed with the ledgers after giving Drake a firm handshake—perhaps a bit too firm. Rafe had inwardly cursed when the sly Scot hadn’t been able to hide a dry smile.

  “Mr. Drake is well. Worried about you. He wanted reassurances I wasn’t mistreating you.” Rafe stared at Minerva, trying to interpret her hand wringing. Did she harbor tender feelings for the dour Scot?

  “What did you tell him?” Shielded by her lashes, her eyes cut to him.

  “I told him that I was treating you well enough, but when I said it, I felt like a toad, because I haven’t treated you well at all, have I?” He’d gone over their last encounter a thousand times. What he remembered of it, anyhow. He’d been too rough, that he knew.

  “I don’t have any complaints.” This time she didn’t try to hide her eyes. The tranquility on her face washed away some of the blackness around his heart and made him want to kiss her again.

  He turned away, not trusting himself. “I saw Lily and Gray while I was in town. She sends her best.”

  “I don’t suppose you could take her a message from me if you go back to London before our time ends.”

  “They’ve planned a sojourn to the coast and will stop here on the way, so you can tell her yourself.” Rafe picked up a pillow and flicked the useless decorative tassels on the corner.

  “Has there been any gossip about our situation?”

  “Not that I heard, but then they’d hardly whisper on-dits that concerned me in my ear. I was hardly out socializing anyway. Lily didn’t mention anything, though, and she’s in the know.”

  She let out a gusty sigh. “That’s a relief. I was a bit worried Hampton might try to spread poison about Simon. And Stonewell seemed to have some suspicions as well.”

  “Your hair looks different.” He rose and tossed the pillow aside.

  Minerva’s hand flew to her hair, patting and tucking at the loose locks. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Jenny has it in her head to learn to be a lady’s maid, and she’s practicing on me.”

  Rafe stayed her hand. “No, I like it. You look quite lovely, in fact.”

  “Thank you.”

  While he fingered a loose tendril, Minerva brushed her fingertips over his knuckles. The simple, careless touch set him on fire. It seemed his time away had only strengthened his need, dammit. He strode away, toward a semblance of sanity only rows of numbers could provide.

  “Lord Drummond.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his hand on the door latch.

  “Rafe. Will I see you in the morning?” The desperation threading her tone and written plainly on her face took him aback. “About my ledgers.”

  “Yes, the ledgers. I’ll be busy tomorrow catching up on estate business. You and Simon can discuss them at your leisure.”

  “All right. Have a good evening. I’m glad you’re home.”

  Rafe heaved a sigh, gave a perfunctory nod and escaped. What the devil was he going to do? Avoiding her hadn’t worked. Running away hadn’t worked. He should ignore the odd feeling of betrayal and tup another woman. He’d bloody well planned on it in London, even taken a step over the threshold of a quality brothel. One sweeping glance around the room, and he’d turned on his heel, cursing himself roundly.

  Surely, he could act the rake for one night. Christ, he would close his eyes and imagine her face if he had to. Then perhaps he would gain some peace.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “How do I look, sister?” Simon put his arms out and spun. Of course, he looked quite dashing. More like a man and less like her little brother. His shoulders pulled the seams of his jacket taut, and the sun had burnished his hair. A strange melancholy threatened, but she shook it off. This was exactly what she had hoped for when she’d agreed to Rafe’s mad scheme.

  Minerva pretended to straighten his already impeccable waistcoat and cravat. “You look marvelous, Simon, but I thought Lord Drummond made no bones about the fact there was to be no socializing while you worked off your debt.”

  “He’s been pleased with my efforts, especially how well I handled things when he was in London. We’re headed to the nearest house of ill-repute.” Simon waggled his eyebrows, sounding pleased.

  Minerva felt as if someone punched her in the stomach while pulling the rug out from under her feet at the same time. “You and Lord Drummond are going whoring?”

  “That’s a rather common, unladylike way to describe it.” His words were scolding, but his tone was amused. “But in a word—yes. Christ, it’s been weeks since I was around beautiful, available women.” Simon smoothed the lapels of his frockcoat and set an emerald stickpin in his cravat.

  “Good grief, Simon, that’s a terribly ungentlemanly thing to say.”

  “Good grief, Minerva, I’m not referring to ladies.” He mocked her priggish tone and sauntered out of the room whistling softly.

  Minerva plopped on the edge of Simon’s bed. Rafe was perfectly within his rights to go whoring every night of the week if that’s what he desired. The mere thought of it settled an aching pit in her stomach, so much so, she had to lean over and rest her head on her knees. She had no claim on the boorish, asinine blighter.

  Forcing herself up, she took several deep breaths, gathering her cool façade back around her piece by piece. After leaving Simon’s room, she stutter stepped when Rafe started down the hall toward her. She wanted to escape, duck into an unused room, fly down the steps, jump out of a convenient win
dow. Anything to avoid him. But she couldn’t move, not an inch. The sight of his loose-limbed, confident gait congealed her muscles.

  The civilized trappings of his dress tamped down his customary fierceness. She’d never seen him in evening clothes. A simply but elegantly tied cravat circled his neck. His shoulders looked impressively wide in the black jacket. His breeches barely held his muscular thighs in check. They flexed indecently as he closed the last few feet to stand in front of her. Everything molded to his muscular frame.

  No doubt, she gawked, but she couldn’t halt her silent perusal for all the tea in London. His dark hair was tamed into a queue, and he’d trimmed his beard. His scar wasn’t the first thing one noticed when the rest of him was this incredibly striking. He looked strong and virile yet elegant. No woman would resist his overtures. In a word, he was utterly devastating.

  Here she stood in a once-green muslin gown Jenny had let her borrow so she could sort through a trunk of books that had been stored in the Wintermarsh attic. Decades of filth smudged the skirts. It was even a little short, exposing her ankles. Her hair was untidy and probably adorned with cobwebs. She ran a hand down her braid and, sure enough, it came away sticky.

  “You…” Minerva cleared her throat, as her heart seemed to be stuck in its narrowest point. She tried again. “You look awfully—” magnificent, breathtaking, stunning, “—nice.”

  “Thank you. I haven’t pulled these on in a season or more. I was afraid they wouldn’t fit any longer. I lost a considerable amount of weight convalescing last fall.”

  “No, you’re filling them out rather—” her gaze skittered down and held on his flexing thighs, “—nicely.” Good Lord, was she a total muttonhead? She started down the stairs. Rafe fell into step beside her.

  “I hear you and Simon are headed out for a night of debauchery.” Her emotions crashed into one another roughening her voice.

  “That’s a bit of an overstatement. But Simon’s been working hard. We could both use a night away. A distraction,” Rafe said casually.