Authors: Alyssa Alexander
The song ended. Sound faded.
When he closed the lid on the violin, he locked away another memory.
“Y
ET ANOTHER LOVESICK
swain falls at your feet, my dear Lilias.” Grant delivered the words with a sardonic grin, leaning down to murmur the words near her ear.
“Lord Spencer is not a lovesick swain,” Lilias corrected, tapping a censorious fan against Grant’s arm. The black ribs of the fan faded into the sleeve of his elegant evening coat.
“No?” One corner of his lips quirked up, an expression she knew well. He was trying not to laugh. “Are you certain?”
Unfortunately, Lord Spencer chose that moment to raise his hand in farewell and beam a besotted smile in Lilias’s direction. But he was standing at the edge of the line of dancers in a crowded ballroom. A young lady bumped into him on her pass around another couple, tripped over Lord Spencer’s feet and nearly went headfirst onto the floor.
“Perhaps he is a bit lovesick,” she amended, flicking open her fan and hiding an unbidden smile. Lord Spencer was sweet, but dim, poor dear.
“I have no doubt he’ll be calling on you soon.” Grant’s eyes met hers. “So many offers of marriage to choose from,” he murmured.
“Hush,” she reproved, glancing at her mother-in-law. But Catherine was chatting with another elderly matron, their elaborate curls bouncing as they bent their heads together. “If you tell Catherine, half the city will know about—about—” Lilias struggled to find the right word.
“My lovesick offer?” Grant suggested.
Lilias slanted him an amused look.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Grant waved an elegant hand. “I’m not about to publicize my proposal. Do I look to be as much of a fool as Lord Spencer?”
“Do you truly want me to answer that?” she asked pertly.
“Hmm. Perhaps not.” He smiled, then gestured vaguely over the crowd. “I see a few members of the House of Lords going into the card room. Please excuse me.”
Grant nodded his good-bye and disappeared into the crowd. Lilias sighed as she watched his back disappear. He refused to accept she wouldn’t marry him, instead pretending she hadn’t answered at all. Which left her in a muddle. She and Catherine were dependent on Grant. At some point, his goodwill would run out.
Sliding her fingers along the edge of her open fan, she listened half-heartedly to Catherine’s chatter.
“Those poor ladies. Every one of them still at the Angelstone townhouse, too,” Catherine tsked. “Well, his lordship has kept them on, as he should, of course. So I suppose there’s something to redeem that rake.”
Lilias angled her head and eyed her mother-in-law. “Are you discussing Lord Angelstone?”
“Of course, dear.” Catherine’s dark eyes sparkled gaily. “Who else? He’s been watching you for nearly ten minutes.”
Lilias froze, the fan clutched in her fingers momentarily useless. She narrowed her eyes at Catherine. “Are you quite certain?”
“I’m old, Lilias, but I’m not blind yet. That
gorgeous
man has been watching you most intensely.”
“I wish Lord Angelstone would look at
me
like that,” Catherine’s elderly companion tittered.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Leticia. You came out the same year I did, which makes you over twice his age, the same as I.” Catherine gave her acquaintance a chiding tap on the shoulder. Then she offered up a naughty grin, at odds with her white hair and papery skin. “But I wouldn’t mind him undressing me with his eyes as he’s doing to you, Lilias, dear.”
The sound that tumbled from Lilias’s lips was part snicker, part gasp. She tried to hide her amusement behind her gloved hand, but it triumphed over her shock and she laughed aloud. “Catherine, you truly are a darling.”
“Oh, oh! Look! He’s coming over,” Letitia whispered sotto voce. With obvious preening, the plump old matron waited beside Catherine, her face expectant.
Lilias’s heartbeat quickened, but she kept her gaze on Catherine’s dark, elated eyes. Catherine, of course, pretended she didn’t see Angelstone coming.
“Mrs. Fairchild,” a low baritone drawled behind her. “How delightful to see you again.”
His voice rumbled through her body, concentrating itself low in her belly. She fought against the shiver that rushed up her spine.
“Lord Angelstone.” Turning toward him, Lilias let her amusement linger on her lips. “Are you enjoying your evening?”
“I wasn’t particularly.” His eyes gleamed. “But I am now.” The warm candlelight glowed on that barely restrained queue of hair. He bent his head slightly and smiled down at her. And oh, it was a wicked smile. A knowing smile.
Behind her, Catherine sighed.
Angelstone’s eyes flicked toward Catherine. “I don’t believe we’ve met, madam.”
“Catherine Fairchild, my lord.” She extended her hand. Her tiny fingers folded into his. Angelstone raised them to his lips, lingering as he would with any young, available lady of the ton. Catherine’s cheeks pinked with pleasure. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
“And Lady Letitia, we’ve met, of course.” Angelstone bowed over the other lady’s hand.
Then his eyes arrowed back to Lilias. “Mrs. Fairchild, would you do me the honor of taking a turn about the room?”
Lilias tipped her head to the side, considering. Angelstone had already singled her out once at a ball. If he did so a second time the whispers linking them would begin within minutes.
Angelstone’s eyes were bright. His shoulders squared in the elegant coat, his snow-white cravat a shining beacon in the gold candlelight. He watched her intently, his body still. The quiet before the storm. Or perhaps the predator waiting to pounce.
Twin thrills of danger and desire sang through her body. In that moment, she yearned to be touched. To have even the most fleeting sense of passion and love. It had been so long since she had simply been held. So long since her lips had touched a man’s.
Would Angelstone taste as delicious and male as he looked?
She smiled, slow and inviting, as her very skin shivered in anticipation. “I would be delighted, my lord.”
His lips curved as he offered his hand.
Lilias wondered if it was an invitation to heaven, or hell.
—
A
SPY COULDN’T
abduct a woman in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Nor could he interrogate said woman when she stood next to a pair of ton
gossips. Angel kept his smile in place and calculated how best to get Mrs. Fairchild alone.
Petticoats rustled as she stepped forward and set her fingers in his. A light touch, an elegant brush of glove on glove. The smile Mrs. Fairchild sent him was full of mischief. It seemed remarkably genuine. For the briefest of moments, he thought that hint of mischief was purely feminine. A woman flirting with a man, and nothing more.
But she had carried the medallion. Why, if she were not playing an assassin’s game?
He needed to get her alone. He needed her at his townhouse. Interrogation, questioning, simple conversation. Whatever direction the investigation took, he could not continue it here.
She fell into step beside him, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow. He curled his fingers possessively around hers to hold them in place. She slid him a glance, amusement hovering around her lips. A slight elevation of her chin acknowledged his grip, but she did not protest. Which could mean nothing. Or everything.
“Don’t be long, dear,” Catherine Fairchild called as they began to stroll away.
They threaded their way through the glittering crowd. His shoulder brushed against hers. The froth of blue ribbon on her capped sleeve trembled against the black of his evening coat, as a tiny bird would tremble against its captor.
“Must I conquer the dragon at the gate?” He looked over, studying the lovely picture she made. He’d never dealt with an assassin wearing a fashionable gown the color of bright blue delphiniums. The Adders were all men, as far as he knew. But then, the element of surprise was a brilliant strategy. More so when a woman used desire to put her opponent at a disadvantage.
“A dragon? Catherine?” Mrs. Fairchild laughed lightly and shook her head. “No. She is only reminding me we are leaving shortly to attend Lady Smythe’s soiree this evening. Will you be attending?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.” His thumb rubbed the back of the delicate hand that rested on his forearm. “But perhaps I will.”
“You are quite intent on your quest, are you not?” Mrs. Fairchild slowly opened her fan, fluttering it lazily. She did not look at him.
Did she know he had the medallion, or was it simply an interesting choice of words? The medallion’s circular outline pressed against his chest—just to the right of his heart, and to the left of the knife hidden beneath his coat. Both were a stark reminder. “When a man wants something, he works to achieve it.”
He guided her to a corner of the room, stationing them behind a mass of green fronds issuing from potted palms. Her eyes were bright, her lips tipped up on one side. A woman with a secret. “But you have not yet succeeded, Lord Angelstone. I have not decided if I should accept your invitation.”
Ah yes, his invitation to
dance
. The idea of
dancing
with an assassin would be a noteworthy occasion in his life. If he lived, of course, which would be an uncertain prospect if she were a Death Adder.
“It seems a gentleman’s plight is to forever wait for a lady to decide,” he said. But he didn’t want to wait much longer to interrogate her. He had wanted to storm the Fairchild townhouse when he’d found the medallion. Every delay chafed. So he pressed his suit. “Perhaps you require persuasion, Mrs. Fairchild. Perhaps I cannot succeed in my mission without a demonstration of our various abilities.”
“Perhaps,” she said, angling her head to study his face. She touched the end of her fan to her lips, tapping the painted silk over her amused smile. A flush tinged her cheekbones. Not embarrassment. Excitement, if he could judge by her swift inhalation. Some spies were like that. Excited by the job. He imagined some assassins were the same. She said, “We all have a mission, don’t we? A need to fulfill.”
She did know he had the medallion. She
must
know.
He drew breath to speak. To press her further. But the arrested expression in her eyes held him. She was thinking. Discarding ideas. Making plans. That amused corner of her lips tipped up, then down.
Hell. A smart woman was a damn attractive thing.
She sent him a sultry look. Her fan continued its unhurried wave, but he saw the shift in her expression. Whatever game she played, she had made a decision.
“A test, then, Angelstone. A sampling. Let us see if the rake can live up to his reputation.” Her body shifted toward his, a bare half inch. But it was enough to send her fresh scent into the air. Enough to feel the slightest brush of her breasts against his coat. Enough that his body reacted with a line of fire from head to toe. She said, “Come to the blue salon. Fifteen minutes.”
Then she slid out from behind the palm fronds and leisurely strolled into the crowd.
D
ECEPTION.
S
HE WAS
well trained in it. If the Death Adder medallion wasn’t weighing heavily in his pocket, he might have believed Lilias Fairchild. In fact, he might have believed his own performance.
Then again, any good performance had its base in truth. They were attracted to each other, and there was no denying that. He had an awareness in the skin, in the bone, of where her body was. Each shift of her limbs, the angle of her head, the sweep of her lashes. He’d seen it all. Felt it all, as though each movement rippled the air and then touched his skin.
But that did not change the facts. Lust did not affect the truth. He dipped his hand into his inner coat pocket. The contours of the medallion were smooth against the fabric of his glove. Doubt niggled at him, but he pressed it back. Angel, himself, had collected all the Adder medallions left on the victims. There were none unaccounted for.
Fifteen minutes.
The next stage of his deception would begin then. He wondered which lie would be revealed first. His? Or hers? But the game had to be played. He had plans for her this evening—as did his commander—but it was best to let her show her hand first.
The blue salon was nearly dark when Angel arrived. The single candle on the mantelpiece cast a golden glow over the nearby settee and side table, but the remainder of the room lay in shadows. He couldn’t see Mrs. Fairchild and wondered if she’d lost her nerve. Then he saw the candlelight flicker and dance over her curves as she stepped out of the shadows.
“You’re late.” With a siren’s smile, she slowly closed her fan and let it dangle from her wrist. It bumped against her beaded reticule. “I could take offense.” She cocked her head.
“But you won’t.”
“Are you so sure of yourself, Angelstone?” She pursed her lips in the most seductive moue he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.
He prowled forward, assessing his prey. She seemed lighthearted. Flirtatious, even.
“Why did you ask me to meet you, Mrs. Fairchild?” It would be interesting to see how she answered his straightforward question. A spy could be caught by lies. Presumably an assassin could as well.
“I’m thinking.” She watched him, her eyes unreadable in the semi-darkness.
“What are you thinking about?” He was thinking of the curve of her cheek. It was smooth and delicate. He wanted to run his finger across the skin, then the slight ridge of her cheekbone. Perhaps even the sharper line of her jaw.
“You. Me.” Her breath caught. “Us.”
“A combination brimming with possibilities.” The game had to be played carefully. She would be every bit as well trained as he. He sent her an inviting smile.
“I confess, I hadn’t thought of another man since Jeremy died. And now”—she touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip—“I am.”
“Is that so?” She was good. Very good. He would swear desire flushed her cheeks. “Don’t you think you should gather sufficient intelligence to make an informed decision?”
She laughed, low and sultry. “Perhaps I should.”
It was she who stepped forward. She who set her hands on his shoulders. And it was she who pressed against him, tipping her face up toward his. His heart pounded as heat flowed through him, a torrent of need that shocked him.
“One kiss, Angelstone. To appease my curiosity.” She whispered it, just before her lips brushed against his.
Her lips felt like they looked. Lush and soft. Her mouth opened and her tongue danced lightly over his lips. It was like being caught in the glow of a hundred candles. A bright, burning radiance that warmed the skin and heated the blood.
His hands skimmed down to her waist, pulling her closer. Beneath her gown, he could feel the indent of her waist, the stiff shape of her stays. His fingers itched with the need to touch skin. He hated wearing gloves, and now he chafed at not only the barrier of his gloves, but the thin silk of her gown and the stays beneath.
Her hands slid up his shoulders. Fingers curled against the back of his neck, the silk of her gloves smooth and cool against his skin. He was flirting with death and didn’t care. Not when he knew where her hands were.
She made a small sound, a low, throaty hum that shot straight through his body. He cupped her cheeks, plundered her mouth. Fingers dug into his shoulders. Her body trembled, just the lightest quiver of her muscles. Her desire for him was real.
But she wasn’t.
Assassin
. The word battled through the voracious hunger that swamped him. He drew back slightly, looked into pale blue eyes framed by long, gold lashes. Her warm breath fluttered across his lips. Her lips were rosy pink in the candlelight, and turned up in a seductive smile.
“Is your curiosity appeased, Mrs. Fairchild?” The taste of her lingered on his tongue. “Or do you need more?”
“I certainly have something to think about.” Her fingertips glided along his shoulder, then rested there.
The kiss clouded his mind. She was more than accomplished. She was lethal.
He set his lips against the column of her neck, grazed his teeth along the sweep of skin that ran to her shoulder. Her breath shuddered out. Her scent rose from her skin and surrounded him. Fine tendrils of hair curled against his jaw. He raised his head and slid his hands down her soft arms to circle her wrists.
He leaned toward her lips, slowly. When he was a breath away, when the heat of her skin warmed his lips without touching them, he stilled. Fierce hunger raged in him.
But it could not be satisfied.
“Mrs. Fairchild,” he breathed. He felt a shiver run through her. “I suggest you accompany me to my townhouse.”
She pulled back from him, but he set his hands around her waist. A man always held his enemy close.
“You go too far, Angelstone.” Her eyes were bright and sharp. Gone was any sensual invitation. “One kiss doesn’t mean I’ll accompany you to your townhouse.”
Ah. So she did not give her body lightly, even for her profession.
Gemma had not, either. Then he would not lure Mrs. Fairchild to his townhouse with lies and subterfuge. The direct truth would serve.
“You’re very good, my dear. I almost believed you. But it’s not a kiss that will bring you to my townhouse.” He bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin. “It’s murder.”
Her eyes went wide. Her lips fell open on a puff of air. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” He captured her wrists. With one swift jerk he turned her around and twisted her arms behind her.
“Stop it. Let me free.” She bucked, but he held her wrists tight.
He pressed forward, crowding her, so that his chest touched her back. The vulnerable nape of her neck was in front of him, and though the need to taste her skin was an intense craving, he denied himself the pleasure. In seconds he’d pulled a fine, tightly woven cord from beneath his coat—an easy item to conceal if one knew how. In another few seconds, she was satisfactorily bound.
He spun her around. With her arms bound behind her, a pair of ripe breasts were pushed forward. That gorgeous flesh swelled high and proud above her gown. Damn if he didn’t want her. Still.
“We have some business to attend to this evening.” He reached into his pocket, then lifted his cupped palm. The medallion lay in the center.
Her eyes flickered. Lashes swept up toward his face, then down to his palm again.
He knew he had her.
“Where did you find it?” She surged forward, stumbled, righted herself. “Let me go.”
“No. I was quite taken in by your charms the other night, my dear. But then I found the medallion and suddenly your charms were not quite as appealing.” He dropped the medallion back into his pocket. Her eyes followed the movement. “I’ve already arranged for a message to be delivered to your family that you’ve been taken ill and returned to Fairchild House—”
He didn’t expect her foot to hit his bollocks full force.
He fell to his knees, then propped himself on one shaking arm. “Son of a—” He coughed. Swallowed. Incapacitated by the crushing ache, he struggled against the urge to retch. His arm gave way and he hit the floor shoulder first. A groan erupted from his throat.
Then she was on the floor beside him, twisting, wriggling that erotic body over him. Her bound hands fluttered around his sides, found his pockets. Fingers groped for the medallion, limited in their movements by the cord, but no less crafty.
He should have seen that tactic coming. Instead, he was lying on the carpet and trying desperately not to vomit. Fighting nausea, he rolled away and onto his hands and knees. He was still faster than a bound assassin, thank the fates.
“Bloody hell, woman.” He was lucky she hadn’t found his knife.
“Give me the medallion.” She scrabbled away from him, hampered by her skirts and bound hands. With a clumsy lurch she rose to her knees. Pinned beneath her, the cream gown pulled taut against her body.
She isn’t running
, his mind whispered.
She’s fighting.
He expected nothing less of an assassin.
“We’re not going to settle this here.” He coughed again, then reached for the cord binding her hands. Hauled her to her feet.
“I won’t—”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pulled her around to face him, pain still fueling his temper. Her eyes shone bright and angry in the candlelight. “We’ve business to discuss.”