A License to Wed: Rebellious Brides (11 page)

“For devil’s sake, Elle.” Removing his spectacles, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “None of this would be necessary if you’d just tell me where the papers are.”

She remained silent, her mind busily working through her options.

He let out a heavy sigh at her stubbornness. “After we have the packet, you are free to go about your business.”

“You’ll allow me to leave?” A sudden image of Susanna playing on the beach near Langtry provoked a painful yearning in her chest. “I can go home to England?”

He put his spectacles back on, carefully setting the ends around each ear. “Once I have the packet, I’ll have no reason to keep you.”

She didn’t trust him. The papers were her only leverage, and she still intended to trade them in exchange for reuniting with her child. Only now, instead of making a deal with Duret, she would forge an agreement with Will. In order to do that, she had to make certain he didn’t find the dispatches before she was ready to relinquish them.

“As I’ve told you,” she lied, “I no longer have them on my person.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” he said. “You would not have left them at Duret’s home, and you haven’t had the opportunity to tuck them away elsewhere.”

“We were in the arcade. There are many places to hide them there.”

“Although I considered that possibility to be highly unlikely, I had my factors search the arcade, to no avail.” His keen gaze settled on her. “No, I am convinced you’ve kept the dispatches close.”

She turned her limited options over in her mind. If his Mrs. Ketchum was an expert in this sort of thing, she’d be sure to discover where Elle had hidden the packet. She eyed Will speculatively, noting his tense position and his obvious intimate awareness of her
―
a remnant from their past together. He might not love her, but he wasn’t physically indifferent to her charms. He was a man, after all.

She made up her mind in an instant. Distracting him with the sight of her body was her only option. She came to her feet. “Let’s do it now.”

He tipped his head back, his eyes widening. “I beg your pardon?”

“My child has been on this earth almost six years and I’ve never laid eyes on her.” She fisted her hands on her hips so that he wouldn’t notice how badly they were shaking. “I’m not going to allow modesty to delay my reunion with her.”

He pushed slowly to his feet. “You’d prefer to disrobe here and now…err…before me, rather than wait a day or so for Mrs. Ketchum’s arrival?”

“Unless there is someone else here who’d like to watch my performance.” She reached for her ale, hoping it would give her the courage to do what she must. “As Duret’s whore, disrobing before another man shouldn’t discommode me in the least.”

He grimaced. “It’s only a day or two, Elle.”

She needed to be far away from here before this Mrs. Ketchum appeared. It was a ramshackle plan, but her only hope was to keep Will sufficiently distracted in order to hinder his discovery efforts.

“One more unnecessary hour away from my child is too much.” Tilting her head back, she poured the bittersweet ale down her throat until nothing remained. Setting the empty cup on the table with a decisive thud, she spoke with a bravado she did not feel.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Will had not foreseen this development.

He waged an internal struggle to remain calm. Masking all outward signs of his inner agitation, he spoke in mild tones. “As you wish.”

“Then we are agreed,” she said, the words firm. “Once you confirm for yourself that I don’t have the packet, I can leave for England.”

“We.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“We will go to England together. I don’t intend to let you out of my sight until I have what I seek.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Although I don’t foresee this farce coming to that. I expect to divest you of the papers here and now.”

She set her jaw. “You will be disappointed.”

His immediate thought was that nothing about seeing Elle naked could prove disappointing. Dismayed at the direction of his thinking, he mentally steeled himself, calling upon years of training and the clinical detachment that had always served him well on critical missions. He’d searched opponents in this manner numerous times
―
there was no telling what deadly weapon an enemy might have hidden on his person
―
and this wasn’t any different.

Except that it was completely different. This was Elle, the only woman he’d ever cared for, and she was about to divest herself of her clothes. And he was expected to do nothing but watch.

She remained, unmoving, across the table and it occurred to him she might be waiting for a cue. He waved a careless hand in her direction. “Proceed.”

She exhaled a long, shuddering breath and stepped back from the table, giving him a full view all the way down to her peach half boots. “Will this position suit?”

“Admirably.”

She bit her lower lip, betraying her nerves. Relief sprinkled through him. She was bluffing, she had to be. She was betting he wouldn’t force a lady to disrobe.

In a bland voice, he said, “Whenever you are ready.”

She sat and untied her half boots then pulled them off in quick, confident motions. “Do you need to check these?”

He shook his head. “They’ve already been looked at.” He’d removed her boots and examined them thoroughly when she’d been under the effects of the ether.

She stood and turned to face him, smoothing both hands over the skirt of her peach silk gown. “You will have to help me with the buttons.” The words were matter of fact, betraying none of the nervousness one might expect from a lady asking a man to remove her clothes.

“Of course.” He resisted the urge to shake out his shoulders to relieve the tension building there. He rose and moved to stand behind her, where the scent of her skin mingled with violets rolled over him. And never failed to stir him.

She wore an outer gown of peach netting over her dress. He touched the first button, the cool silk at odds with the heat emanating from her body. Her breathing suddenly seemed more pronounced and yet also more shallow, and he wasn’t certain whether it was his own heightened sensitivity to her, given their physical proximity, that made it seem so. He meant to make quick work of both gowns, unbuttoning the outer layer followed by the silk gown, but his fingers seemed thicker and more clumsy than usual. He was grateful that her back was to him, so that she couldn’t see the way he fumbled through the task. Finally done, he quietly exhaled his relief and immediately backed away, distancing himself from her warm heat and the accompanying tantalizingly feminine scents.

She did not appear to be struggling as much as he. Her face a mask of indifference, she shrugged out of the net over-dress and draped it on the back of her chair. He didn’t bother to examine the piece. Given its transparency, there’d be no place to hide a packet of papers. Next, she moved to the silk under-dress, pulling it off one shoulder and then the other, before allowing it to drop, pooling around her ankles. She stood before him in her stays, chemise, petticoat, and stockings.

His throat went dry. The stays lifted her breasts like some divine offering. An acute, almost aggressive, energy began to stir deep inside him. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the chemise underneath that kept her breasts mostly hidden from his gaze. But that wouldn’t be the case for long.

Elle in a state of complete undress before him
―
yet being unable to touch her
―
was going to test the outer limits of his control. He’d barely managed to restrain himself during the ceremony of the toilette, and on that occasion she’d kept some clothes on.

She stooped to pick up her gown and tossed it in his direction with both hands. The cool silk rustled as he caught it. He ran his fingers over each inch of the fabric, checking for hidden pockets or panels.

“I’ll need you to unlace my stays.” Her voice, now a bit tremulous, had lost some of its bravado, and slashes of color arced over her high cheekbones.

Blood began to pool in his nether regions, where it had no business being. He cleared his throat and assumed his most aloof manner. “Very well.”

He deliberately walked behind her with calm self-assurance, exhibiting no signs of his increasing discomfort. Her tantalizing scent drifted over him, and he could hear her quiet inhalations. The nape of her neck was pale and smooth where it met the downy wisps of her hairline. He batted back an impulse to touch his lips to that lovely patch of skin.

He unlaced her stays, painfully aware that when she removed the contraption, her lovely breasts would be unencumbered, loose and free beneath the thin linen of her chemise. When he was done, he stepped back a little too quickly as she turned to face him. Keeping her serious silver gaze even with his, she drew off the stays and handed them to him. The garment still carried her body heat, as well as her lingering scent.

He broke their shared gaze and forced himself to examine the corset. It was made of boned white cotton, with a stiff, ivory busk in a long, narrow pocket that ran down the front, all the way from the belly button to the breasts. He checked the top of the pocket to assure himself of its ivory contents. Something clinked and clattered to the floor, distracting him from the inspection.

Elle immediately dropped down to retrieve the item, which quickly disappeared into her closed palm.

“What is that, if I may ask?”

She flushed and averted her gaze. “You may not. It has nothing to do with anything.”

His interest piqued. “All the same, I wish to see it.”

“Why? It is a private matter.” She looked up, but her gray eyes were shuttered. She was hiding something. “A small coin is obviously not a packet of papers.”

He stilled. “A coin?” He reached down to help her rise. She took his proffered hand, and he noted with regret how icy cold her soft hand was. She nimbly came to her feet and immediately pulled away from him.

“May I see it?” he asked. “Please.”

She exhaled long and heavy through her nostrils and extended her arm, dropping the medallion into his open palm. He stared down at the Cleopatra coin he’d given her six years ago on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday.

His chest contracted. “You did keep it.”

“Yes.”

“Why is it on your person?” He looked up at her. “You said you didn’t know where it was.”

She kept her face averted. “I may have dissembled a bit.”

His brows lifted. “A bit?”

“All right, more than a bit.” Her head snapped up so that their eyes met, and the fire he saw there heated his blood. “I’ve kept the blasted coin as a talisman of sorts.”

“A talisman?” His eyes widened. “You believe it brings you good fortune?”

She looked heavenward, her embarrassment apparent. “It’s silly and means nothing. You are welcome to keep it if you’d like.”

Something joyous loosened in his chest. She’d kept his gift close all these years. Perhaps the woman Elle had become wasn’t so different from the girl after all. “No,” he responded in the gentlest of tones. “I gave it to you. It is yours to keep.”

She shrugged as if it were of no matter to her, the movement causing a gentle sway of her unfettered breasts. Averting his gaze, he turned and resumed his position, standing across the table from her, putting a much-needed barrier between them. Speaking in an abrasive manner, he said, “Continue, if you please.”

She shot him a defiant glare before turning her attention to divesting herself of her petticoat. The white lace skirt had two arm straps extending from the waistband. She shrugged out of them and then reached back behind her waist to loosen the ribbon. He gave thanks she didn’t need his assistance with it. The fewer clothes she wore, the more distance he needed to keep from her.

When she dropped the petticoat, all blood rushed from his brain, leaving him lightheaded. She wore the shortest chemise he’d ever seen—and he’d seen a few in his time—which stopped several inches above her knees, baring the lacy white garters that held up her fine silk stockings.

“Good Lord,” he uttered reflexively. “What sort of chemise is that?”

“It is in the French style.” The short chemise explained why he’d been able to see through her scant French gowns to her flesh-colored pantaloons.

His face heated. “I wonder why French women bother with a chemise at all.”

“Do get on with it, won’t you?” she said, her nerves apparent. “Or do you prefer to continue discussing Paris fashions?”

He fell silent, momentarily mesmerized by the alluring vision before him. The thin linen chemise did nothing to hide her considerable enticements. The rosy shadows of her breasts were easily apparent, their pearl tips straining beneath the fabric. Farther down, he could distinguish the dusky triangle at the apex of her thighs. Farther still, the sight of the garters around her slender pale thighs drove him to distraction. No practiced courtesan could have looked more beguiling. His tightly held control cracked, and heat raced to his groin, making him harder than the Rock of Gibraltar.

Damnation. Embarrassed and uncomfortable, he shifted his body so that she wouldn’t see what was going on between his legs. If only he’d had the foresight to don a proper tailcoat, which would have hidden the prodigious evidence of her effect on him.

“Your petticoat, if you please,” he said, aggravated by how hoarse he sounded.

She leaned over and grabbed the white heap to toss his way. He made a show of examining it inch by inch, paying special attention to the waistband, hem, and flounces in the skirt, places where the missives were most likely to have been sewn in, taking far longer than he needed in order to give his body time to get a hold of itself.

She shifted, diverting his attention from his inspection. His heart seized in his chest as she daintily placed one pointed foot on the seat of her chair, her long, shapely leg bent at an angle, the chemise’s short length teasing at the shadowy enticements between her legs.

She untied the lacey garter and tossed it to him. He caught it with one hand, and his basest instincts surged, his upper lip curled back and the predator within growled. She had his full attention as she rolled the white silk stocking down the shapely length of her leg, his mouth drier than the Egyptian dessert, where he’d once spent several weeks working to undermine France’s attempt to limit British access to India and the East Indies.

She finally straightened, removing her foot from the chair, only to replace it with her other foot. Good Lord, she was going to repeat the entire untying-her-garter-and-rolling-her-stocking-down business all over again.

He tugged at his cravat, regretting having stoked the fire earlier; it was already far too warm. His primal urges were about to boil over and take command, obliterating any gentlemanly inclinations.

She untied the second garter.

“Halt,” he barked in a raw voice, his fingers gripping the edge of the table, his member pointed steel between his legs.

She looked up askance, her leg still propped on the chair, her captivating silver eyes widening. “Sorry?”

He tossed her dress at her. “Make yourself decent.”

She straightened, removing her foot from the chair, and caught the dress against her chest. “But I am not done yet.”

“I can easily surmise there is no place to hide the packet I seek anywhere in your shift or stockings.” Stepping out from behind the table, he bent and reached for her petticoat and stays and chucked them at her, one after the other, perhaps a little more forcefully than was necessary. “That’s enough.”

Her under things fell to the floor beside her. Her surprised gaze shifted downward to the pronounced bulge between his thighs, where his prick pressed hard against the placket of his breeches. A gleam entered her eye. “Had enough, have you?”

“Yes, quite,” he said in a brusque manner. “Obviously, we need to find your maid. She must have the papers.”

“Sophie doesn’t have them. You’d be wasting your time.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about the best uses of my time?” He turned away and headed for the door, anxious to make his escape and find some cold water with which to douse himself. “I suggest that you rest now. We depart for England at first light.”

She retreated the following morning in a hired coach arranged by Will. Avoiding the main roads, they spent long days on the road and nights in the homes of farmers along the route who seemed to be expecting them.

Will did not join her on this leg of the journey. When she asked why, he murmured something about having matters to attend to. They were to rendezvous at the coast in time to meet the vessel that would take them to England—and to her precious little girl.

A cautious joy surged in her chest every time she thought of Susanna, who was never far from her mind. A part of her was afraid to fully embrace the idea that she would soon hold her precious baby in her arms after all these years of being apart. She tried to dismiss the nagging fear that something—or someone—would intervene and keep her little angel from her. The constant worry had her sleeping fitfully, despite the exhausting days on the road.

On the third night, they stopped at a cozy farmhouse where the laconic host’s morose demeanor did not invite conversation. Not that she cared. She was only too happy to eat the delicious stew prepared by his amiable wife before retiring for the evening. Exhausted from travel and lack of sleep, she fell into the narrow bed, desperate for much-needed rest.