“What a dreadful man,” said Lady Westerly in her ear, startling her. “Did he make a lewd suggestion to you?”
“
Bien sûr
,” Lucille said. “Of course, and so did the hypocritical Sir Digby. But you must not think it bothers me. I am a widow, so I am not easily discomposed.” She smiled kindly at Lady Westerly’s visible struggle between embarrassment and her desire to be thought an equally worldly-wise widow. “What did Lord Valiant do that has given him such a dreadful reputation?”
“He ruined an innocent young woman.” Lady Westerly lowered her voice to a shocked whisper. “When he was only fifteen years old!”
Lucille gave an appropriately scandalized murmur.
“His father, the Marquis of Staves, found a husband for the poor girl. Not that I approve of her behaviour, mind you, but one has but to look at Lord Valiant to realize it was all his fault. I can’t think what my nephew is about to allow him to stay.”
“Lord Valiant is no longer a foolish schoolboy,” Lucille said. “Surely he knows better than to seduce innocent maidens.”
“His father has disowned him,” Lady Westerly said darkly.
Lucille didn’t need to feign surprise. “Oh, surely not!”
“The Marquis of Staves is an upright and proper nobleman. He would not do such a thing if he did not believe his son had gone beyond the pale. I have heard the most dreadful rumours... Oh! I have an excellent notion.” A crafty look crossed her pinched features, but the butler appeared to announce dinner, so Lucille didn’t get to hear what the excellent notion was.
It soon became apparent. Lady Westerly, at the foot of the table, disregarded good manners and spoke loudly and over everyone else about her nephew’s praiseworthy career, painting him as a noble war hero.
“Enough, Aunt,” Lord Westerly said. “I am merely one of the lucky ones who emerged from the slaughter alive and in one piece.”
“It seems Lord Valiant was lucky, as well,” she said. “Dear Lord Valiant, you were away from England during recent years, too. Tell us, what did you do?”
Val leaned back in his chair. His wonderful long eyelashes—oh, how Lucie loved those lashes—hid the challenge in his eyes. “I was a spy.”
Shocked whispers went around the table. Lady Westerly’s smile turned smug.
“And on occasion, an assassin,” Val said.
One of the indignant fathers surged to his feet. “This is unacceptable!”
“All in the service of God and country,” Val murmured.
“Necessary, no doubt, but most ungentlemanly,” said a ruddy young man. “Such work should be left to the low fellows to whom it comes naturally.”
“Oh, it came quite naturally to me,” Val said with an utterly charming grin. Again, it took all Lucie’s control not to smile.
“No wonder your poor father disowned you,” a second father said. “How can you blatantly admit to such infamous work?”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth,” Val said.
“But not a suitable topic for ladies,” said a third father, more mildly.
“Why not?” Lord Westerly interposed. “Perhaps ladies should know what Englishmen have done in the service of their country.” His narrowed eyes and clipped tone betokened anger, rigidly suppressed—but not anger at Val. “Perhaps, instead of thinking only of balls and gowns and jewels, they should be made to understand what those men have suffered and sacrificed for their sake.”
“Definitely not.” The second father shook his grizzled head. “It harms their delicate sensibilities.”
“I don’t mind knowing,” Theodora said. “I would much rather possess knowledge than delicate sensibilities.”
“I think I would, too,” one of the young ladies said shyly, and was immediately shushed by her mother.
“Perhaps, my dear, but not about spies and assassins,” her father, the milder one, said.
If Lucille hadn’t known Val in the past, she might not have realized that under his insolent front, he was not enjoying himself much at all.
* * *
He came to her at midnight, silent and dark, intent as a panther. Swathed in her nightclothes, she clutched her wrapper tightly against his approach. What had happened to her? She had once been bold with men, never at a loss. She’d been bold with
him
...
No longer. She loved him, but she had made a choice long ago, a choice that meant losing him but keeping her honour, and living with that had turned her into a shadow of her former self.
He had his own notions of honour. She didn’t think he would break a truce.
He slipped into her bedchamber, shut the door and leaned against it, watching her. Even as her heart beat heavily and desire pooled in her loins, anxiety and regret gnawed at her. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “Why expose yourself to their unkindness?”
He grinned, all mischief now. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
He was trying to rile her. She managed a mocking laugh. “If it was to gain my sympathy, it worked. I wanted to slap them.” As always, he stole her breath, her resolution, her very soul. She had to decide
now
.
He prowled forward and took the decision, illusion that it was, out of her hands. “I didn’t come here for sympathy.” He pulled her against him and kissed her hard. Pleasure washed through her, the same as always, dark and hot and irresistible. No other man had this effect on her. Oh, how she had missed him. She gave a tiny sob and twined her arms about his neck, drinking him in like a parched wanderer in the desert who has finally found the oasis.
After drinking one’s fill in the desert, one moved on.
But she didn’t want to think about that, so she set herself instead to doing. She unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled his shirt gently over his head, skimming it over the bandages on his left arm. She knelt, unbuttoned his pantaloons and pushed them down. He stepped out of them, and she went for his smalls.
His member sprang out, thick and heavy and ready for her. She took it in her hand, inhaled its musky scent, and gave it a long, slow lick. He shuddered, but slid his hand into her hair and raised her to her feet.
“Lovely Lucie,” he whispered, “as sweet as cherry wine.” She quivered at the sound of his voice. He wasn’t like other men, silent and panting or blurting obscenities. While making love, Val murmured of passion and wooed with possessive heat. She had always thrilled to the sound of his voice. Like no other, she thought, the reminiscent pang sending a tiny, cold arrow into the heat of desire.
He began on the buttons of her wrapper, and she knew he would have undressed her slowly, painstakingly and tantalizingly with his one sound arm, but she was afraid to pause for fear that the arrow would force its way in, that the cold would take over and destroy what little was left to them. She let the wrapper fall, ripped the nightdress over her head, and pushed him onto the bed.
She crawled up after him, drinking in his virile beauty.
I
love you
, she thought, but she didn’t say it, because he wouldn’t believe it, probably didn’t even want to hear it.
She mustn’t think about that, must merely lose herself in pleasure for this short, sweet truce. She played with him, rubbing him against her core, pulsing unbearably, and he pulled her face to his and kissed her again, possessive and sure. She broke away, panting, to guide him inside her.
Ah. She had done this with many men, but with Val it was different. It was right.
One arm lay gently against her hip while his other hand roamed. Skin to skin, mouths and arms and hands, her breasts against his hard chest, his every thrust a caress, their every rise and fall an exchange of ultimate pleasure. Of love.
No, it wasn’t love anymore. It couldn’t be, but she didn’t have the strength to resist, and then their pace quickened, and she couldn’t think anymore. Dazed with the heat of their joining, she rocked over him, mindless, riding up the crest to pleasure. He pounded up into her, and she sensed his climax and let herself explode with bliss.
As she lay in his arms afterward, the pulsing gradually slowed, and realization hit her. Except for that first endearment, he had said nothing to her. No whispers, no murmurs or growls or...anything. Contentment drained from her.
There was nothing right about this. She’d been a fool to think it meant anything more to him than a quick tumble.
She rolled away. “Just this once for old times’ sake, but I cannot do this anymore. As you say, it is no longer wartime. I cannot be a succubus without good cause.”
His brows drew together. “You’re not being a succubus with me, any more than I’m being an incubus. We’re just Lucie and Val.”
“No,” she said, “there is too much between us for that.”
He slid off the bed, lean and strong and beautiful. “We’re here together. There needn’t be anything between us except...this.”
Two naked bodies and two guarded souls. They could never trust one another, and without that there was only this pleasure—which, while wonderful in its way, no longer held any appeal for her without love. She wished she could be innocent like Theodora, who had opted for true love or nothing.
She retrieved her nightdress and pulled it over her head. “That’s like being a succubus. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
He picked up his clothing but didn’t put it on. Perhaps it was too difficult with only one sound arm, but she couldn’t offer to help. She wouldn’t risk touching him again. “From now on, I want to use my power to send dreams to help people, to do only good,” she said. “I shall concentrate on my mission.”
He shrugged, indifference in his posture and his gaze. He was a competent actor, but she feared this was no pose. “I hope it’s less ridiculous than mine,” he said. “It’s no secret worth keeping. My spymaster sent me to arouse the sensual feelings of Miss Southern.”
Lucie halted midway through donning her wrapper. “What? Why?”
“Someone to whom my spymaster owes a favour wants Miss Southern to marry and believes that if she feels the pull of sensuality, she will be more likely to fall in love.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “You needn’t look so appalled. I won’t seduce her. She’s not my sort of woman, and even if she were, I’ve been ordered not to.”
“Your mission had nothing to do with me? You were not ordered to kill me?”
He rolled his eyes. “As I already told you, I didn’t know you would be here.”
“That does not reassure me,” she said. Even if he was telling the truth, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t soon be ordered to kill her. It didn’t mean that this wasn’t a test of his loyalty to England. “My mission is much like yours. I am to arouse Lord Westerly’s interest in the female sex, in the hope that he will wish to marry and carry on his name.”
Val wrinkled his nose in a sneer. “You intend to seduce him?”
What business was it of his? He couldn’t possibly be jealous. “No, because I think Theodora loves him. Even if he has no interest in her, it would be too much like betraying a friend.”
His sneer turned bitter. “A friend you cultivated in order to come here.”
“She is my friend nonetheless,” Lucie said, aching with the pain of all she couldn’t say.
I
didn’t want to betray you.
I
had no choice.
“You’re wasting your so-called loyalty,” he said, going to the door. “Westerly asked me to try to make his guests uncomfortable. He didn’t invite them and doesn’t want them here. He’s not interested in marriage.”
A brief sadness for Theodora flitted through Lucie’s heart, and then it filled again with her own misery. “You know nothing about my loyalty,” she said.
He shrugged again. “I know enough.” He left.
She locked the door behind him, threw herself onto the bed and wept her heart out. What a strange expression, she thought, when at last she reached the stage of exhaustion. Her heart still resided in her breast, and it didn’t intend to change its mind about loving Val.
She should have known better than to bed him; it had only opened old wounds. He despised her. He didn’t even
want
to understand.
* * *
What an idiot he’d been. He’d believed nothing remained between them but animal attraction. He’d thought to share some pleasure with her, nothing more. He should have known better than to think they could indulge their physical passion without emotions elbowing their way in and spoiling it.
She didn’t love him. He already knew that; had known for years. An incubus shouldn’t be so susceptible, shouldn’t care so much, but the fact remained that he’d fallen in love once and for all, and nothing would change that.
Once he’d realized the hopelessness of it all, he should have reverted to logic. Considering the agony he’d gone through, first because of the betrayal and then in fear that he would have to kill Lucie, he should have leaped at the chance of an explanation—a cool, rational discussion of what she had done and why. Instead, his bruised heart had taken charge and he’d sneered at her.
And upset her. Tears had glimmered in her eyes as he’d left. She no doubt deserved it, but that didn’t mean he liked being the one who’d made her cry.
He’d thought her dead to all tender feelings. After the betrayal, she had shunned him entirely. She’d refused to even look him in the eye—a fool’s move, since it made her as good as a traitor confessed. Could it be...that she’d avoided him from a sense of shame?
Why would she claim loyalty unless she felt he’d misjudged her? Or was this claim merely another act?
Oh, hell. How should he know? Maybe he should get it over with and just leave.
Or maybe he should find out what was really going on. Hope, massive and most likely unjustified, swelled with him. He would stay a little longer—at least until he knew the real reason he’d been sent to Westerly House.
* * *
Eventually, Lucille fell asleep. She woke on Christmas morning determined to make headway with her mission, but even a traitor and former spy couldn’t attempt to send dreams in church—even though many people tended to nod off during the sermon. She chuckled at the thought of the mischief one could create. What a pity she couldn’t share the jest with Val, but she had to stay away from him. She dressed and went with the rest of the party in a pious and subdued frame of mind.