The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) (2 page)

The Marquis of Clarendon slowly woke to the sensation of something delightfully soft and wet and warm attached to his penis. He opened his eyes a fraction to see a fall of long dark hair and the profile of Miss April Lamont as she proceeded to do an exceptional job of what he paid her so well to do. The musky scent of their lovemaking lingered from the night before. He ran his fingers through the soft silky hair that lay across his belly. He watched the bobbing head a moment, then sighed. His hand fell to his side and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the bliss of her ministrations. It was, he considered, an exceedingly pleasant way to start the day.
    It was early afternoon before he had dressed and was pulling on his boots. He rose, moving behind April where she sat at the dressing table, his eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair. She was an exotic creature with raven-black hair that fell to her waist, violet eyes and a soft, voluptuous body. Still stark naked, her heavy, rose tipped breasts swung freely with every stroke of her brush.
    He had always been partial to women with generous curves and she had them in abundance. But even more enticing than the lushness of her body, she had the aura of a woman who was confident in her ability to satisfy a man’s desires. And her confidence was justified. She would have no trouble finding another protector. Maybe someone who would take her out and about town. Something that to the tempestuous Miss Lamont’s vexation, he was not willing to do. His mistresses were never a part of his social life. He considered it bad form and had never made any exceptions. Still, he would miss her and wished he didn’t feel compelled to break off their arrangement.
    Sighing, he took the brush from her and pulled it through the silken strands. He had always enjoyed brushing a woman’s hair. It was an erotic experience that invariably led to sex play, but he was fully dressed and the knowledge of the news he was about to deliver took the edge off his desire.
    “April,” he said quietly. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
    She looked up at him and purred. “Must we? You look so serious. I would rather play.”
    Ten minutes later, he left the townhouse with a scowl on his face and the beginnings of a lump on his head. Had he been any slower he would be wearing her handprint on his cheek as well. Ungrateful chit! He had given her a generous check, offered to let her remain in the townhouse until she found another protector and in response she had snatched the brush from his grasp and smacked him on the head with it while hurling out an array of impressive curses. So much for a sweet and poignant parting.
    Had he explained his reasons for ending their relationship, she might have been a little less volatile, though in truth he doubted it. But it was a moot point, as he had no intention of announcing his title of marquis, at present. The news would spread fast enough. At best, he would have a day or two before the feeding frenzy began and he wanted to be out of London well before that. Grunting, he climbed into his Phaeton and took the ribbons from his tiger. Thank God, the little vixen hadn’t possessed a gun or he might have departed this world without meeting his obligation of siring an heir. An obligation he viewed with distaste, but there was no help for it. He must marry and breed, whether he wanted to or not. Still scowling, he flicked the ribbons and they were off.

Cecelia placed her fingertips to her temples. Two days of wracking her brain had brought about nothing more than a headache. They had not yet heard from Mrs. Weathers, so she supposed she should take the attitude that no news was good news. But it was also possible that she might simply show up. Gad! That would be awful! Dealing with someone like Mrs. Weathers took preparation.
    She glanced out the window and her heart caught in her throat as she glimpsed a lone figure on horseback trotting up the lane leading to the circular drive. Then relief flooded her as she realized it couldn’t possibly be Mrs. Weathers. But it could be a messenger letting them know Mrs. Weathers was on her way. She rushed to the window and squinted against the sunlight. Though the distance was too great for her to make out his features, the set of his shoulders and the way he held himself was distinctive and there was no doubt as to who their visitor was. She lifted her muslin skirts and dashed into the long corridor, down two flights of steps and out the front door reaching the tall figure just as he was dismounting. “Rand!” she burst out. “Rand! What on earth are you doing here?”
    Despite several hours in the saddle and the thin layer of dust that had settled on his clothing and boots, he was looking remarkable elegant in a forest green jacket of superfine and form fitting buckskins. His features were classically handsome and a lock of blond hair curled over his forehead. He was, she reflected not for the first time, a very fine looking man. And she was far from being the only female who thought so. Women had been throwing themselves at his feet as far back as her memory could reach.
    He grinned, displaying a dazzling row of straight white teeth. “That was quite an inelegant greeting, brat,” he drawled. “Have you lost your town bronze already?”
    “Brat?” Cecelia put her hands on her hips and said indignantly, “The last time we spoke you addressed me as Lady Cecelia!”
    He chuckled. “Last time we spoke you weren’t galloping down the steps and shouting like an ill-bred hoyden.”
    “True enough,” she admitted ruefully. “I suppose I deserved that. Very well, I will begin again.” She cleared her throat, then fluttering her lashes, she curtsied and said, “Welcome to our home, Mr. Danfield. We’re honored to have you as a guest. Won’t you please come inside and take refreshment?”
    “That was unbearably theatrical,” he said. “I believe I like you better as a brat.”
    She grinned at him. “I’m so glad you’re here. Eugene and Priscilla have taken a trip to Dover and I desperately need rescuing.”
    “From your Aunt Mirabella?”
    “Oh, no.” She shook her head vigorously. “No, this is much worse than that.”
    Raising a brow, he murmured, “Worse than Aunt Mirabella? Interesting.” He gave directions to the groom who had taken his stallion’s reins. The lad touched a forelock and led Hudson toward the stables.
    “Have you come directly from London?” Cecelia asked.
    “Yes. I sent Billy and Davis on to the manor to settle in before I get there.”
    Cecelia cocked her head to the side. “You’ve brought Billy?”
    He smiled ruefully. “I had to. Mother wouldn’t take him to Bath with her and I was afraid if left on his own he’d set fire to the kitchen again or cause some other sort of catastrophe in my absence. The lad means well but...” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I was hoping your brother might be here. Don’t know why I didn’t realize he and Priscilla would be off honeymooning somewhere.”
    “How long will you be in Surrey?”
    “A couple of weeks. I’m headed on to Devon after that to view some property.”
    “Well, I’m awfully glad you’ve come,” she repeated as they entered the spacious foyer. “And I’m glad you’re staying a while. Without Eugene and Priscilla here, I’m in such a fix and I simply don’t know what to do about it.”
    “I’m beginning to wonder if I even want to hear this,” he commented, then nodded to the butler as he handed his hat, gloves and riding crop over. “Good afternoon, Reeds.”
    The graying butler inclined his head with great dignity. “Good afternoon, sir. I trust your journey was pleasant.”
    “Pleasant enough, but dusty. I’m afraid I’m wearing a good bit of the road on my clothing.”
    “Why don’t you freshen up and I’ll have tea and brandy brought to the drawing room,” Cecelia offered.
    Rand gave her a lopsided grin. “I’ll meet you there, brat.”
    “Oh, do stop,” she retorted. “I’m too old to be called brat.”
    Laughing, he brushed his knuckle against her chin. “Not in my book.”
    Annoyed, she narrowed her eyes at him as he turned and followed Reeds up the wide curving staircase. During the season, he had waltzed with her, complemented her on her gowns and treated her like a lady. Now, he was calling her brat. She frowned. Men could be the most vexing creatures. She would never understand them. Shrugging her shoulders she headed towards Aunt Mirabella’s room to let her know they had a guest.

A short time later with his jacket brushed and boots shined, Rand was sipping brandy and munching on tiny sandwiches in the large, sunny drawing room located on the second floor of Reston Manor. It was a pleasant room to relax in. Sunbeams danced in the light that shot through mullioned windows. The air was fragrant with the scent of beeswax. A grandfather clock ticked away in the corner. The blue and gold upholstery and drapes were faded, but other than that, the room had changed little since he and Cecelia’s older brother, Viscount Stratton, were children. He had spent as much time here as he had at his own family estate that bordered the northern boundary of Stratton land. Unlike Reston, his property wasn’t an income producing estate and after his father’s death eleven years ago, he had seldom visited.
    He took a swallow of his brandy as he gazed at Cecelia over the rim of his glass. The view was undeniably pleasing. It was still somewhat of a shock to realize that she was no longer the impish little girl who had trailed after him and Stratton around during their school breaks.
    Cecelia wasn’t an English beauty in the traditional sense. Her triangular face with its pointed, determined chin, tip-tilted green eyes and untamed mass of copper curls that sprung out about her head like a halo gave her a look that was more impish than aristocratic. But the contrast between her vivid coloring and ivory skin was startling. She was tall and slender and when she wasn’t racing about she carried herself with impressive grace. Her once boyish figure had developed a pleasing set of curves. Not the lush mounds of flesh that most of his bed partners had, for that wouldn’t have suited her at all, but firm gentle curves that could easily fit in the palm of his hand. Unconsciously, his long fingers curled beneath his glass.
    
Christ Almighty!
He set his glass down with a thunk.
Where the devil had that train of thought come from? What was he thinking?
She was his best friend’s youngest sister and this was bloody insane! Given her brother’s protectiveness, her desirability was something he mustn’t think about if he wanted to keep his head off a pike. Stratton would sooner see him in hell than have him lay a finger on his sister.
    “What are you scowling about?” Cecelia’s voice broke through his musings. “Is something wrong?”
    He shook himself from his reverie and offered what he hoped was a brotherly smile. “Nothing of import. Now tell me your woes, brat. I can’t possibly come to your rescue if you don’t tell me what the problem is.”
    She chewed thoughtfully on a ginger biscuit. “Well, it all started three days ago when Aunt Mirabella fell and sprained her ankle. It isn’t overly severe but she’s been told to stay off of it.”
    “I noticed it was uncommonly quiet. I thought she might be out visiting. She’s normally sailing up and down the corridors with those wretched dogs at her feet.”
    Cecelia’s face took on a look of disgust. “That’s exactly how it happened. She tripped over one of the silly creatures.”
    Rand raised his brows for a moment and then a bark of laughter came from somewhere in his chest. His lips quivered as he restrained himself. “That’s tragic,” he finally spit out.
    “Yes, it is.” She was not quite as successful at restraining herself. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips and soon overwhelmed her.
    “This is appalling,” she said a few moments later as she wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. “We mustn’t laugh. It’s horrid and cruel and not at all funny.”
    Still chuckling, he said, “You’re right, but the visual image that comes to one’s mind is difficult to ignore.” He brought a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Sorry. Now that we have both regained our self-control, do tell me why Auntie’s sprain has created such a deplorable situation for you. She is the injured party, after all.”
    “Because,” she said with a touch of impatience. “With Aunt Mirabella injured, I have no companion or escort and I simply must go to the Littleton’s house party as it’s the only entertainment to be had any time soon.”
    “Ah,” he murmured as he nodded his head. “Remiss of me not to realize your dilemma. But it doesn’t seem such an unsolvable problem. I would think it should be easy enough to find someone to take her place for a little while.”
    Cecelia took a sip of her tea and sighed heavily. “She
has
someone in mind and that’s the problem. Her name is Mrs. Weathers. She’s a good friend of Aunt Mirabella’s and she’s just
awful.
I know that’s rude, but it’s the truth. She’s almost as tall as you are and about four times as wide, she dyes her hair, whitens her face, still wears those ridiculous beauty patches, snorts and honks like a goose when she laughs and Aunt insists that she act as my companion,” she said in a rush. “We haven’t heard back from her but if I have to have her as a companion I’ll
die
of mortification. My only consolation is that we’re not still in London. It would be a hundred times worse if we were in London. Once word got out that she was my companion I wouldn’t be invited anywhere. And I wouldn’t blame them.”
    He was sympathetic to her plight but also relieved that her tribulations weren’t of a more serious nature. “Could you convince Lady Fitzberry that she needs Mrs. Weather’s time and attention far more that you do?”
    “I’ve tried. She simply won’t listen. She truly believes that she’s doing me a favor.”
    “Unless you can convince her otherwise and find another replacement, I’m afraid I have no solution for you other than to become a social recluse until your aunt recovers or your brother and Priscilla come home.”
    “But that will be ages,” she said mournfully. “Eugene and Priscilla plan to be away for at least six weeks. They had to postpone their honeymoon because of me in the first place and I don’t want to spoil it for them by asking them to come home early. And Dr. Bailey said it would take at least three or four weeks before Aunt Mirabella was up and about. Maybe even longer. If I must stay home all that time, I’ll die of boredom.”
    He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Mmm. Then it appears you have two choices left. Would you rather die of mortification or boredom?”
    “Don’t tease.” Her features drew into a frown as she poured more milk in her cup. “Sometimes it’s dreadfully unfair being female. At my age, you and Eugene could go wherever you wanted, do whatever you wanted and you didn’t have to worry about a chaperone or companion. I don’t see why I have to be denied the opportunities and freedom the other half of the species enjoys, simply because I’m female.”
    “Believe me, Cecelia, at your age I would have been better off if I
had
been chaperoned. The decisions of an eighteen year old pup are rarely sound. And everything considered, you’re far better off than most. Your wealth and position free you from the burden of struggling to keep body and soul together. You’re healthy, attractive, fed on a regular basis, beautifully housed and no doubt have enough gowns to fill a warehouse. And from what I understand your father is allowing you to marry a man of your own choosing. Within reason of course,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. “As I doubt he would approve if you wanted to run off with the gardener.”
    She chewed on her lip as she considered what he said. “When you put it that way, it makes me sound terribly selfish and childish. I suppose you’re thinking I really am a brat.”
    He gazed at her a moment and then pulled a sheepish smile. “Actually, I was thinking that we both are. I’m rather hypocritical to take you to task when I take my own good fortune for granted as much as you do. I have no true cause for complaint, yet I was about to burden your brother with my own sad tale. Neither one of us seems appropriately appreciative.” He took a sip of his brandy and set down his glass. “You asked me earlier what I’m doing here. The truth is I’m hiding.”
    Cecelia’s eyes lit up with delighted curiosity. “Oh, this is splendid! Who are you hiding from? Can you tell me about it or is it something not fit for a lady’s ears? And even if it isn’t, you must tell me anyway because I’m in dire need of entertainment.”
    He sighed. “I’m hiding from anyone and everyone. The gossip hounds, marriage minded young ladies and their mamas, my own mama. Especially my own mama. However, it won’t be a secret much longer so I may as well let you in on it. In fact, you’ll be the first person I’ve told.” He laughed at the impatience brewing in her expression then rose and offered a courtly bow. “Allow me to present myself, Lady Cecelia. Meet the new Marquis of Clarendon.”
    Her green eyes widened. “You’re bamming me.”
    He sat down. “Believe me. I wish I was. There was always a possibility that I would inherit the title but it was a very remote possibility. I had never seriously considered it would come to pass because there were so many before me. Unfortunately, over the past year those in line began dropping like flies and I am all that remains. There is no other Clarendon heir. If I don’t have a son the title will cease to exist.” Suddenly weary, he rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. “I left London before the word got out. I want to adjust to the idea before I deal with the reaction of others. Truth of the matter is, the responsibility of being a marquis is one I would rather not have.”
    “You don’t want to be a marquis? But why?”
    “Because, my dear,” he explained. “It also puts me in the unenviable position of needing a wife. And I’m afraid I don’t really want a wife.”
    “Most men say that at first.” Cecelia frowned as she reached for a cucumber sandwich. “Besides, I don’t see what difference it makes. As a man, you can continue to live your life just as you see fit and no one will say two words about it.”
    He propped a booted ankle up on his leg and murmured, “I believe you’ve fully expressed your feelings on the subject.”
    She shrugged her shoulders, then asked, “But why did you need to talk to Eugene? I doubt he has any wish to assist you in finding a wife. Particularly since you don’t want one. Though Priscilla might have some ideas.”
    “I wasn’t after his help. Or Priscilla’s. I only wanted a sympathetic ear so that I could whine and bellyache before I left for Devon to visit the estates.” He smiled ruefully. “What a bleating pair you and I make.”
    “I don’t see why you need be so gloomy about marriage. I mean, one never knows. Maybe you will find the wife of your dreams.”
    He snorted. “There is no wife of my dreams and I’m far too cynical and jaded to believe such drivel.”
    “At one time Eugene ran just as fast and far from the marriage mart as you,” she argued. “And look at him now. He and Priscilla adore one another. I’ve never seen him happier.”
    “They’re still in the honeymoon phase,” he pointed out. “They’ve only been married two months. That initial glow won’t last forever.”
    She eyed him with dismay. “Rubbish! Do you really think they’ll become tired of one another and be unhappy? If so, you’re wrong.” He shook his head. “No. I must admit that I don’t. I think they’re well suited and will remain happy in their marriage. But Stratton was fortunate enough to find someone like Priscilla. And fortunate that she agreed to marry him. But she’s a rare woman. Very rare. She didn’t give a flip about his money and title. Somehow in this pathetically shallow world, they’ve managed to find love.” His voice grew tight. “I’ve come to terms with the need to marry, but I don’t expect to marry for love. I’ll find some chit who wants what I can give her, namely the title of marchioness and a healthy bank account, and in turn she will give me an heir.” He shrugged. “With luck, we won’t grow to hate one another. It seems a fair enough trade.”
    Cecelia’s expression darkened. “It sounds positively horrid to me. And if it’s such a fair trade, why do you sound so unhappy about it?”
    “Because it’s a trade I hadn’t planned on making. Your brother knew from the beginning, he would need to marry. I wasn’t prepared for this. And I don’t have the luxury of taking my time. I’ll be two and thirty in a few months.”
    “You are practically in your dotage,” she murmured scathingly.
    He couldn’t help but grin. “And you, my girl, are barely out of the school room.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Not according to Aunt Mirabella. If I’m not betrothed by the time Mama and Papa have returned, she’ll consider her time spent here a dismal failure. But since I’m neither jaded or cynical, I believe I’ll wait until I find someone I love and care about before I marry. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with someone I don’t care about. Or who doesn’t care about me.”
    “Well, I wish you great success in your search.”
    “I’m not actively searching. That would be far too tedious,” she responded. “I’m not certain that I’m ready to marry anyone, just yet. And even if I were, the right person hasn’t come along.”
    “You haven’t find anyone at all over these past few months that you would even consider? In all of London? From what your brother has told me you had plenty of suitors. And a number of proposals.”
    “Five I think. Five different gentleman, anyway. Lord Miller proposed on a weekly basis. He was terribly tiresome about it. He drove Eugene crazy.” She sighed. “Truth be told, I was more than ready for the season to be over.”
    “You didn’t enjoy it?” “At first. And I did love the dancing. But after the first month or so the social schedule became mind numbing, as well as exhausting. The general opinion seems to be that sleep is no longer a necessity when one comes to London for the season. I’m afraid, I become a bit ill-tempered on only three or four hours of sleep, and as far as my suitors… I know my dowry had more to do with the proposals than anything else, and it would be nice to be liked just for one’s self.”
    “For the record, brat, I’ve known you all your life and I like you.”
    “Thank you, but…” She stopped.
    “But I don’t count?” he finished.
    “Of course you count. Just not in that way.”
    Rand wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or insulted. He supposed he should feel relief, but oddly enough he
was
insulted. In fact, his feelings were more than a little bit hurt and he had to stop himself from asking ‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’
    “Most of the men who paid attention to me during the season barely even knew me. They knew of me and my family, they knew of the Stratton title and wealth, but they didn’t know
me.
Not a one of them could have told me what I like to eat, or my favorite time of year, that I detest needlework or that I love to ride because it gives me a glorious sense of freedom, or