by Lenora Bell
Past tense. All of it past tense.
All of the ladies at the ball—they’d only wanted him for the title and the fortune.
Had he lost his devilish charm? He used to be irresistible. He was still attractive, wasn’t he?
The standing glass in the corner of the room said he was still handsome.
Moonlight was a nice, flattering light, not that he required flattering.
He examined his face in the glass. Chin still firm. Not a hint of wattle.
Jawline strong. All of his own hair. His father had been balding much earlier. Drew was only nine and twenty.
He lifted his nightshirt over his head and threw it on his bed.
He flexed both of his arms until his fists framed his head and his biceps popped into impressive relief.
Not bad.
It wasn’t fashionable to be so muscled. His valet had said it frightened delicate young ladies and had advised Drew to go on a reducing diet.
In Drew’s experience, once you got a woman into bed, she was inclined to appreciate strength if employed for her pleasure.
He could lift most women with one arm. Wrap their legs around his waist and carry them to bed.
He could lift two women with one arm. Not that he’d tried anything so sporting lately.
As a youth, he’d tried all of the dark and secret ways to forget the trauma of his kidnapping—loveless couplings, brandy, whisky, living midnight to midnight.
He hadn’t found anything that helped until he moved to Thornhill House and the enormous scale of the problems with the estate had dwarfed his own suffering. He’d thrown himself into improving the estate and he’d found a kind of tranquility of mind.
Good, honest hard work not only honed the body, but it also quieted the mind.
He tensed the muscles of his abdomen and slapped his belly with one hand. Taut and firm. No hint of a paunch.
He angled his hips forward and spread his legs wide. He had a damn fine cock, if he did say so himself. Never had any complaints there. Though it hadn’t seen much action in the last few years. He’d been so focused on his work.
Remove your coat, Your Grace.
What kind of young lady forced a duke to strip at gunpoint? It had been outrageous and . . . arousing. Extremely arousing.
He gripped his prick with his fist, wondering what Miss Penny might say if she could see him now. He had no clothing to remove.
He was entirely naked. Hard and ready for her.
Remove your gown, Miss Penny.
That’s what he’d say to her if she were brave enough to be in this room with him.
Lie back on that bed. Spread your legs. Touch yourself for me.
His breathing caught in his chest as he pictured her obeying his instructions, spreading for him like a flower opening to the sun.
Chapter 7
What the . . . ? What was happening right now?
Mina ducked further into the shrubbery and averted her eyes. Despite her bonnet’s protection a sharp thorn scratched her cheek.
When she’d first seen the lamp flare to life in the upstairs room, she’d thought it was Lord Rafe, until Thorndon had come to the window and started parading about as though he wanted her to buy his wares.
Heart thumping, palms sweating, she tilted her head back and risked another glance up at his window.
He was still there. Still standing directly in front of the window, completely naked. Illumined from behind by lamplight, and from the front by the full moon.
And he still had his hand on his . . . on that part of him which young ladies were not supposed to see until their wedding nights.
A part fashioned upon the same majestic proportions as the rest of him.
Thick and long and jutting right out in front of him at a nearly perpendicular angle. The observer in her took note of all the details she could make out from this awkward and distant vantage point.
At first she’d assumed he was doing some sort of exercises, with all the flexing of arms and the turning this way and that, and then she’d realized that there must be a mirror near the windows and he was preening in front of his reflection.
As an arrogant duke would do.
But when he’d begun to . . . when his hand started stroking up and down, she’d realized what was happening.
Her first glimpse of an unclothed gentleman was much more than a small taste.
It was an entire meal. A veritable ten-course feast.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know about the pleasure to be found by touching oneself. Her fingers had . . . strayed. Under the covers. Thinking about wicked rakes.
But she’d never imagined how a man might produce the same sensations.
It was a much more forceful and frenzied operation, apparently. Head thrown back. Muscles in his neck clenching. Fist pumping faster and faster.
Her breath coming faster, her heart beating. Little fireworks going off in her belly, in her chest, tiny explosions that left her lightheaded.
The hot-and-cold shivery feeling between her thighs increased to an almost unbearable pitch, but she was buried in too many layers of sturdy woolen clothing to seek any kind of relief.
Wool cloak, cotton dress, petticoats, drawers.
Far too much clothing.
If she were naked, and if she were in the room with him, and if they moved over to the bed (because she wouldn’t want the neighbors to see, which apparently he had no such concerns about) then he would know how to give her relief.
She knew that deep down in her bones. The way he’d held her as they danced. This was a man who knew his way around a woman’s body. So why was he pleasuring himself and not seeking the company of some willing female?
He backed away from the window, still holding himself. Maybe going toward the bed? Falling on the bed and finishing the work. Depriving her of seeing what occurred when the . . . finishing . . . happened.
You’ve seen quite enough. You’ll never be able to unsee it.
If she saw him in public she would picture him stroking himself, eyes closed. His ridged abdomen rippling with effort. Sheen of sweat on his broad chest. Powerful arms bunched with muscles.
You’re not here to ogle a duke. You’re here to search for clues.
At least the duke would sleep like the dead now, or at least she always slept well after similar exertions. And if he were sleeping in the house, it meant that Lord Rafe wasn’t here, unless they’d had a miraculous reunion in the last few hours.
The lamp died. The house was dark again.
She waited for what seemed like an eternity while her heartbeat slowed and her pulse stopped racing.
Carefully, watching for any movement, she crept from her hiding place. She loosened the bow under her chin and eased her bonnet down her back. Then she tied her skirts between her legs and found a handhold.
She made her way up the jagged wall step-by-step and handhold by handhold. The trellis of climbing vines made it easier and reassured her that if she lost her balance on the way up she’d have something to grab hold of. On the way down she’d use the long coil of rope she’d brought.
She’d been climbing trees and walls since she was a young girl allowed to roam within the confines of the estate grounds. No one had ever told her that her running and climbing were unladylike pursuits.
No one had cared enough to scold her.
She’d been bored and lonely, so she’d learned how to pick locks, to access the places on the estate where she wasn’t allowed to roam.
And that’s when she’d found the secret room behind a bookshelf in her uncle’s library. Inside the room, she’d found her mother’s diary—it had been coded but eventually she’d been able to crack it. And that’s how she’d discovered her family’s secret lives as spies for the Crown.
Sir Malcolm had denied everything and forbidden her to speak of spying, but it had only made her resolve stronger.
She’d begun to piece together the true nature of his work. He wasn’t only an antiqu
arian. All of the men coming and going from the estate were not just fellow antiquities enthusiasts.
They were spies.
She kept her ears and eyes open, spying on the spymaster. She’d found books about code breaking in her uncle’s library and studied them. She’d discovered a talent for solving puzzles, for finding patterns. She started taking apart clocks, pistols, anything mechanical, and finding new and better ways to put the pieces back together.
Spy craft was in her blood. It was her legacy and her destiny. The only method remaining for her to feel close to her parents.
Her future began now.
She wedged the window open first and then slowly inched upward, balancing on the ledge.
When it was open far enough, she shimmied inside and dropped to the floor. She held her breath, hoping that the carpet had muffled her landing.
This was a study by the looks of it. One wall was covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and there was a large desk crouching against a wall.
Nothing moved in the household. No sounds of approaching footfalls. The duke was sound asleep in his bed upstairs, exhausted by his exertions.
Huge fist clasping huge . . . ouch! She stubbed her toe on the claw foot of the desk.
Had she made a noise? She held her breath.
Nothing stirred.
She needed more light to read by. She lit the lamp on the desk, keeping the wick low and the light dim. Jumble of receipts in a box on the desk.
Good Lord. That was an extravagant amount of money to pay for waistcoats.
She opened the drawers and found more receipts. Nothing about travel plans—no coaching timetables or names of ships.
She found a pamphlet of bawdy verses underneath a bottle of . . . she opened it and sniffed . . . brandy.
She could use some brandy after what she’d seen tonight. She took a long drink from the bottle, sputtering as the strong spirits burned down her throat.
Why did men like drinking this stuff so much? It wasn’t very pleasant. But if she was going to be a real spy, she’d have to develop a taste for brandy, in the event that she had to drink with someone in order to wheedle information out of them.
The brandy wasn’t so bad the second time around. Didn’t burn so much and produced a lovely warm sensation in her belly, much like the feeling she’d had when she watched the duke’s self-ministration. Was that what one called it? Self-stimulation, perhaps?
She’d have to ask him the next time they spoke.
Oh good Lord. Perhaps brandy was a bad choice. She untied her bonnet strings and set her bonnet on the desk.
The verses could be a clue, or even a code. She had an aptitude for deciphering codes.
Her nimble tongue, love’s lesser lightning, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
Um. No hidden meaning there. Quite clear, that.
She perused the rest of the topmost verse, which had been written by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, apparently a man after Lord Rafe’s predilections. Oh dear. It got worse.
Much worse. She thrust the poem aside. She wasn’t here for bawdy verse—she needed cold, hard answers to such questions as where was Lord Rafe? And what new trouble had he found?
In a small drawer tucked into the side of the desk, she found a stack of letters written in a feminine hand and scented with jasmine perfume. Finally a clue. Jasmine perfume could spell trouble.
Why haven’t you come to see me lately? Your turtledove is cooing with impatience.
Ugh. Turtledove?
The letters were all signed with a flourishing letter F. She pocketed one of them.
Nothing else of interest on the desk or in the drawers. She patted the bottom of the desk, listening for the hollow sound that would indicate a false bottom. Voila.
It only took a few seconds to pick the lock and access the hidden drawer. She reached inside and found a crumpled sheet of paper.
She smoothed the creases from the letter against the surface of the desk and pushed the lamp closer. Bending over the paper, she whispered the words aloud:
I know what your brother is doing. You must PAY. Await further instructions and TELL NO ONE or Lady Beatrice will be KIDNAPPED.
Her mind was a little fuzzy from the brandy but she guessed the significance of the note instantly. Thorndon had come to London because of this letter.
Lord Rafe was doing something reckless—unless the letter was an outright lie, a daring ploy to extort money from the duke.
She traced the words with her fingers, intent on deciphering the possible identity of the scribe. So intent that she didn’t notice the approaching footfalls until a gruff, incredulous voice sounded, nearly in her ear.
“What the devil? Is that you, Miss Penny?”
Thorndon.
Acting on instinct, she hastily rolled the note and stuffed it down her bodice before straightening.
She turned to face the duke.
It must be the brandy, because she suddenly felt like she was standing on the deck of a ship in the eye of a storm.
Now that she’d seen him completely naked, albeit from a distance, he was even more attractive. His huge, sculpted body was mostly covered by a blue silk dressing gown, knotted at the waist. Her gaze darted downward.
His legs were covered by undergarments, but his feet were bare. That must be why she hadn’t heard him padding toward her, creeping up and surprising her. She should have been more alert, more cautious.
What explanation could she possibly give for her presence here? One of her uncle’s agents would have a convincing cover for any occasion.
“Yes, it’s me. Miss Penny,” she said.
Oh brilliant. Truly innovative.
Think, you foolish girl. You want to be a spy, right?
His brow furrowed, eyes dark in the gloomy room. “What the deuce are you doing here?”
“I saw you,” Mina whispered. “In your bedchamber window. I was crouching below in the shrubbery.” Her heart hammered. He was so much more formidable from this close-at-hand vantage point.
“My window,” Thorndon echoed. “You saw me.”
Understanding dawned across his face like the sun rising over a rugged sea cliff. She would have called it a blush, if a duke could be said to blush.
“I hope you didn’t see all of me,” he said darkly.
“I saw everything. From the crown of your head to the . . .” her gaze swept bravely downward, “ . . . area below.”
“Bloody Hell,” he muttered. “I didn’t know anyone was watching.”
“Clearly.”
“What were you doing lurking in my shrubbery, Miss Penny?”
She swallowed. There was only one thing to be done, one explanation for her presence that wouldn’t betray her true intent. “What I saw gave me . . . ideas.”
“Ideas.” Alarm flashed in his eyes. “Now see here, Miss Penny, you’re a young lady of good family and you should be home safe in your bed, not spying on—”
“Ideas about kissing.”
“Kissing.” He crossed his arms over his powerful chest. “Absolutely not.”
“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I think I’ll kiss you now.”
And she did.
Chapter 8
She kissed him. Really kissed him.
It was so surprising that Drew didn’t respond. He just stood there like an oak tree as she twined her arms around him, tugging his head down to her level.
Clinging lips. Scent sweet and clean. Soft breasts against his chest.
Just like his dream, only sans daisies and sheep.
Like a dream, only so achingly real. Solid, warm woman kissing him, trying to coax a reaction from him. She made a disapproving sound in the back of her throat and redoubled her efforts.
You’ve still got it, you handsome devil.
Their interlude in the garden shed hadn’t been enough
for her. She’d been gazing at his window and she’d been overwhelmed by the sight of him pleasuring himself. Which was somewhat embarrassing and . . . damn it, she was still kissing him.
He should do something about that.
Clearly the girl had a taste for danger. She couldn’t just go around kissing anyone she fancied.
Her tongue slipped inside his mouth in a tentative yet brave exploratory expedition. She tasted of brandy.
He pulled back. The brandy bottle on Rafe’s desk was suspiciously uncorked. “Have you been drinking my brandy, Miss Penny?”
Her lips curved into a smile. “Maybe?”
“You taste like caramelized sin.” He should end this now but he wanted more.
Just one more taste of her lips.
He should tell her to leave. Or he could take control. Kiss her again, but slower this time. More deliberate. Set a new tempo.
When he deepened the kiss, she followed his lead, opening wider, taking more of him and giving more of herself.
All the time in the world. No reason to rush.
She moaned and he swallowed the sound and asked for more. He’d been starving, he realized. Starving for this . . . for her. He’d thought of little else since he’d seen her undressing, like some mirage summoned from his most secret desires.
Her hands tangled in his hair, her head tilted back, throat exposed. He kissed the base of her throat, the delicate hollow of her shoulder.
Skin like driftwood worn to silk by the pounding of the ocean.
He wanted to push her clothing aside to find more smoothness to devour, but he couldn’t allow himself to touch her. That would be going too far.
“You’re so sweet,” he said roughly. He kissed her cheek. “So soft.”
In answer, she slid her hand inside his robe and traced the muscles of his abdomen.
“You’re . . .” She tugged on the knot of his robe but it held fast.
Thank the Lord for small favors.
When she couldn’t gain access, she slid both her hands inside, around his waist, down his lower back.
“You’re . . . hard. Everywhere,” she said. “There’s not an ounce of softness, or give.”