While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (34 page)

She was flying, her head spinning, her body thrumming with desire. And just when she felt that she, like Icarus, had flown too high and would be burned by the flames of this sun she had so foolishly thought she could control, she was securely under him, cushioned by the softness of the blankets beneath her.

Somehow her dress was gone, and she wore only her light chemise. She should have felt exposed, embarrassed, but then her eyes focused on the cheerful curtains she knew so well, the orderly shelves she’d stocked herself, and the familiar armchair she’d sat in countless times.

Then she looked at Ethan, and the same feeling of familiarity and comfort washed over her. Until he pulled away from her, stripping off his waistcoat and shirt. Then all she felt was desire—longing—for his touch. Despite the heat and nearness of the fire, she shivered from need as much as the brief lack of contact.

She reached out to him and murmured, “Come here.”

He grinned.

“Give me a moment.” He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

She was suddenly glad she was lying down. Once again, the sight of him shirtless—the raw, sculpted power of his chest—left her mouth dry and her head spinning.

She brushed her outstretched hand over that power, admiring, not fearing it. The gold flecks in his eyes blazed even hotter as he came down next to her. He braced himself on one elbow and gave her a long, probing look. Francesca’s breath quickened as his hot amber gaze flowed over her. He looked at her so long and so hard that she began to wonder what he saw. Was there something wrong with her?

But just when she would have raised her arms to cover herself, he leaned over her, weight braced on his elbows.

“You’re ravishing.” He met her gaze with his own. “The most ravishing woman I’ve ever seen.”

She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say, but certainly not that. “Ravishing?”

He ran his fingers down her cheek, then replaced his fingertips with his lips.

“God, yes,” she heard him whisper.

His mouth on her caused an immediate reaction, as did the feel of his bare chest, the heat of his skin burning her through the wispy silk of her chemise.

“Is ravishing good?” she managed through shuddering breaths.

He chuckled. “Very good.” It was barely a murmur as his mouth was on her collarbone. He slid the straps of her chemise down, but she hardly noticed, too intent on the mounting pleasure triggered by the feel of his hot breath on her flesh. Then his lips were on her breast, her hard nipple in his mouth, and she moaned.

At first she could hardly believe the sound, so carnal and so wild, had come from her. She wanted to close her eyes in shame.

“You like that,” Ethan said, voice thick with desire. His mouth drifted lower, and his lips were now making a warm wet trail from her abdomen to the curve of her stomach.

“If I have my way, before long you’ll be doing more than moaning.” He flashed her a sinful grin before stripping her of the chemise all together.

She didn’t know what shocked her more—that he
wanted
her to make such unladylike noises or that she was now completely naked beneath him. He didn’t give her time to consider. She gasped as she felt his hands between her legs, opening her, fingers deftly searching for the place that would bring her the most pleasure.

She cried out when he found it, exhilarated by the small explosions his fingers triggered. She found herself not only crying out, but wantonly arching her hips, shamelessly seeking a repeat of the ecstasy he had shown her could be hers that day in the tack room.

Her body was taut, hands tight around the edges of the blanket beneath her, breath coming in little gasps. Then he stopped. Pulled away from her.

She cried out in frustration, in the haze of her arousal forgetting all sense of propriety. He raised an amused eyebrow and lowered himself over her, kissing her long and deep.

His lips tasted like the perfumed soap she’d used in her bath that afternoon and underneath the smell of lilacs was his own scent—sandalwood and leather and Ethan. Forgetting her frustration from a moment before, she wrapped her arms around him and embraced this new experience—his tongue stroking hers, his body pressed against hers, his legs between hers.

He nudged her legs wider, positioning himself more firmly between her. It was then that she felt him, hot and hard. Somehow, probably while she was insensible with pleasure, he’d managed to remove his trousers, and now she felt his nakedness next to hers. A little fissure of anticipation raced through her.

He must have felt her reaction because he edged forward and placed his hard manhood at her entrance. It was a new sensation, intriguing because, as their scents had mingled, their bodies were now joined in the most intimate of ways. He’d stopped kissing her, and she looked into his face and saw that he was watching her, eyes burning brilliant with desire.

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was deep and thick, strained by the measure of control she could see he was exerting.

She shook her head. “No.”

“It’s not too late.”

She smiled and stroked his tight jaw. “Yes, it is. It was too late the first time I saw you.” She arched against him, bringing him inside her just a little more. They both gasped at the pleasure.

“
Cara
.” He closed his eyes. “If you want me to stop, say it now. In a moment I won’t be able to.”

“Good,” she whispered and moved against him again.

With a fierce groan, he buried his head against her shoulder, then, very slowly, began to fill her. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back when his fingers stroked her again, bringing her back to the point of release. The two sensations were so different—his body inside her and his hands on her—that she found herself wondering how many different types of pleasure there were. But then Ethan moved inside her, simultaneously rubbing his fingers against her, and she lost count.

A flash of hot pleasure jolted through her just as Ethan plunged into her. Pain lanced through her, and Ethan paused for a moment and glanced at her with a look she didn’t understand. Then he moved inside her, filling her, pressing intimately against her.

The heady pleasure lingered but could not mask the pain. Her body felt raw and stretched. Strange that he should be inside her; strange for her body to feel both pleasure and pain simultaneously. She looked into his eyes and found his hot gaze on her. He kissed her and pulled her closer, and she closed her eyes and held on.

S
he awoke sometime later. It must have been near dawn because through the split in the window curtains she could see streaks of mauve filtering through the black horizon. The fire had been stoked and she’d been carefully covered with the blankets. One of her arms was lodged under a makeshift pillow.

She rubbed her fingers over the material and realized it was Ethan’s coat. And here she’d been trying to keep him in the valet’s good graces. Exasperating man! No wonder Pocket always looked so aggrieved.

But she couldn’t stay angry with Ethan—not after what they’d shared last night. Her body was still glowing, infused with tingles of pleasure every time she thought of him. Somehow, she’d always known it would be like this with him. She’d had no experience with lovemaking, but from the first time she saw Ethan she knew nothing with him would ever be ordinary. She stretched languorously, her body unconsciously seeking his warm, solid form beside her, but she felt only empty space. Puzzled, she cracked her eyes open once more and scanned the hospital.

It was empty, and she realized she was alone. She sat up and glanced around the room. Lino was curled in the corner near the fire and the bunny was nibbling at the straw in her cage. There was no sign of Ethan. But then, why should she expect him to be here? What reason would he have to stay? It wasn’t as though he loved her.

Tears stung her eyes, and she resolutely dashed them away. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever. She’d vowed not to regret making love with him, and she would keep that vow.

Outside she heard a step on the porch and realized Peter must already be at his station. Het face flushed. She had been out all night. She could only imagine what Peter must think of her, what lay before her when she stood before her parents.

She was a ruined woman now.

Through the window, she saw the sky had turned orange, and the sun was rising. In the distance, the biting November wind whipped the tree branches. Francesca shivered. Only her shivers had nothing to do with the weather.

“F
rancesca!
Mia figlia, preziosa! Mi dolce! Mi cuore
!”

Ethan stifled a groan. Lady Brigham attacked her startled daughter before Francesca had even stepped through the library door.

Rather than strangle the woman, Ethan shoved his hands in his pockets. Not five minutes before he’d told the viscountess to remain calm when Francesca arrived. The night before he’d had Alex inform Francesca’s parents she was in her hospital, safe and unharmed. It went without saying that he was with her, and the fact that Brigham hadn’t banged down the hospital door in the wee hours of the morning meant the viscount assumed that by the time he heard of his daughter’s whereabouts, the damage had been done.

Upon entering his chamber earlier that morning, Ethan had been greeted by her irate father. Brigham had taken one look at him, strode to the hallway, and called for his pistol.

“If you could oblige me,” Ethan said as he laid his waistcoat on the unused bed, “I prefer a straight shot to the head.”

“Oh, I’ll shoot straight, by God,” Brigham answered him. “But I don’t intend to aim for your head.”

Ethan cringed. “I was afraid of that,” he grumbled. “Would you consider an alternate solution?”

Brigham shut the door. “I’m listening.”

Ethan could all but hear the church wedding bells.

An hour later, when Francesca entered, Brigham was calmer and seated behind his massive mahogany desk. Behind him, equally massive mahogany shelves bulged with rows of books, some stacked two and three on top of one another. Unlike his wife, the viscount was taking the news of his daughter’s attack and imminent marriage quite well.

“Stop pawing the girl, Madam,” the viscount told Lady Brigham, who was now alternately embracing her child and examining her for signs of injury. Brigham put down the pipe he’d been puffing and rose from his dark brown leather chair. “How are you, Franny?”

Francesca gave her father a grateful look. She’d yet to glance in Ethan’s direction, though he was leaning on her father’s desk just a few feet away.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” Francesca managed before she was engulfed in another of her mother’s fierce embraces. “Just fine,
Mamma
,” she squeezed out.

Then, over her mother’s shoulder, Francesca’s gaze finally dared Ethan’s. She darted her glance quickly away, but not before Ethan saw the questions in her eyes. How much did her parents know? What had he told them? And the last: what, besides desire, did he feel for her this morning?

Ethan knew the answers to the first two, but the third still eluded him.

“Oh,
mia cuore povera
!” Lady Brigham finally released her daughter, falling into the leather armchair between the desk and the fireplace. She adjusted the hem of her yellow muslin dress so that it pooled about her elegantly. “My poor heart nearly burst when your
findanzato
told us what happened.”

Francesca flicked her gaze back to him, and Ethan saw the panic in her chocolate eyes.

“He told you what happened?” she repeated carefully.

Lady Brigham put a hand to her forehead. “I need my smelling salts. I am not well.”

Brigham came around the desk. “Calm yourself, Madam. Look at your daughter.” He gestured to Francesca, now standing abandoned in the center of the room. “She is perfectly well.”

And from all appearances, she was. But Ethan knew otherwise. He’d seen the bruises marring her pale skin himself, caressed each the night before with a silent but brutal reproach for not protecting her better.

Lady Brigham turned to him. “It seems that once again we owe you our gratitude, Lord Winterbourne.” She fluttered her lashes.

“Yes.” Brigham drew the word out, turning his hostile stare on Ethan. Ethan stared back, unblinking until the viscount slid his gaze to his daughter. Francesca paled visibly and gripped the material of her pearl gray gown.

Studying her, Ethan doubted her choice of attire this morning had been as random as his. The gown, with its high neck and long sleeves, concealed the bruises on her neck and arms. In fact, the only mark that could not be masked was a small scrape on her cheek, and even that would heal in a day or so.

The scrape did nothing to mar her beauty. When he’d left her sleeping a scant two hours before, he’d marveled that even after all she’d been through the night before, she could sleep so peacefully, the innocence of her expression enchanting him even more than she had when he’d held her in his arms.

But watching her now, shifting under the weight of her father’s stare and the heavy silence in the room, Ethan could see she was far from well. Her face was pale and her eyes puffy with faint purple smudges underneath. She was obviously exhausted and should have been in bed. He had half a mind to order her to rest, would have done so if this meeting with her parents could have been put off.