While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (36 page)

She huffed and whirled on him. “Hardly! You—”

“I’m willing to try,” he interrupted, irritation mounting. “Stop repeating what you’ve heard about me, and focus on what’s true.”

She spread her hands. “And what is true? You don’t love me.”

“Did the
ton
tell you that as well?”

She set her jaw, the light of challenge in her eyes. “No, but neither have you.”

Ethan winced. “Damn it, Francesca.” His cravat felt too tight suddenly, and he reached up to loosen it. “What does love have to do with anything?”

She went eerily still.

“People marry every day for property, title, companionship. Reasons that have nothing to do with love.”

“I see.” Back stiff and straight, she arranged herself gracefully in the smaller of the two armchairs. She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “And why, exactly, are
we
marrying?”

Ethan paused again. Why didn’t he just tell her he thought he might love her and extricate himself from this deepening morass? The words had been on his lips a dozen times as they’d made love the night before. They were there now, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to force them past the mountain on his tongue. Those simple words made him too vulnerable, and he could not allow himself to ever be that vulnerable to a woman again.

“Well?” she prodded, arching a brow.

“I want you,” he said again. He knew it sounded arrogant, dictatorial, but it was the closest he could come to confessing his love.

“What a lie.” She spat the words, fire in her eyes.

“What the devil—”

”You couldn’t even stay until I awoke this morning.” Her cocoa gaze bore into him. “You were gone before sunrise.”

“I wanted to return before the servants were up, and I didn’t want to wake you—”

“No!” She sent him an icy glare. “You don’t care about the servants or propriety.” She jumped up, pointed an accusing finger at him. “You just wanted to get away. And now you tell me you want me. Want to marry me? Never.” She spun away from him and stalked to the window.

A cold anger shafted through him. “You think what happened between us meant nothing to me?”

She didn’t look at him. “Why would it? I’m nothing to you. Just another of your—”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, coming up behind her. She broke off, but didn’t turn to face him. For several long minutes, he stood behind her, staring out the window at the steel blue morning sky, weighing his thoughts, his words.

Half of him wanted to walk away. He didn’t have to convince her. She had no choice but to marry him. Her parents would make her see that soon enough. But the other half of him wanted her willing, eager. That half of him wanted to tell her how he felt, show her what she meant to him, what last night had meant to him—even if it made him vulnerable. Even if—the other half of him screamed—it would make the pain of a betrayal far worse than any before.

He met her gaze in the glass of the window. “Has it occurred to you that I do, on occasion, care about propriety?”

Her saw her frown in the glass. “No.”

He could hardly blame her for doubting him. He placed his hand on the nape of her neck, ran his fingers along the white column he loved. She stiffened but didn’t pull away.

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth? Are we back to that again?” she said with a sigh.

“Yes.” He reached around, cupped her jaw, and turned her face to his. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman.”

Her eyes widened, but he still saw the flicker of doubt in them. He splayed his fingers over the soft skin of her cheek.

“And I enjoyed you more than I’ve ever enjoyed any woman,” he continued. “And if your mother wasn’t likely to burst in here any moment looking for you, I’d take you again right here and right now.”

She gasped.

He ran a finger over her parted lips. “I don’t regret you. That’s the truth.”

He had to crush the urge to place his thumb inside her lips, feel her soft mouth close on him.

“But you’re right in assuming I have regrets.”

She stiffened and stepped back. Her hand groped behind her and grasped the window casement. She buttressed herself against it. Her gaze, dark and intense, met his directly. “And what do you regret?”

“This morning I was trying to regret you.” He wanted to reach out, run his thumb along the arch of her eyebrows and smooth the anxious wrinkles.

“
Trying
?” Her voice was tinged with tentative hope.

“Mmmm.” He did reach out then, but contented himself with smoothing a loose curl behind her ear.

Her eyes followed every movement.

“You were lying in my arms, naked.” He gave her a wicked look and was pleased to see her blush. “And I knew I should feel guilty for what I’d just done.”

“I had a part in that as well.” Her voice was warm, her eyes growing dark with arousal.

His lips quirked. “And don’t think I didn’t enjoy your part.” He ran a finger along the curve of her small ear, feeling her shiver and seeing her try to contain it. “But I can’t fault you for what happened. I should have stopped it.”

“But I didn’t want you to stop it.” Her blush deepened. “I mean—”

“As much as I like hearing you say that—” He cut her off with a light finger on her lips. “It doesn’t change the fact that I should have done the honorable thing and didn’t.” Her lips moved under his fingertip, but before she could protest again, he added, “But I couldn’t summon an ounce of regret.”

“You couldn’t?” she whispered. Her breath tickled his knuckles and wrist. He had to pull his hand away before he gave into temptation and kissed her.

“No. I tried but”—he leaned his hand on the edge of the window near her head, pushing the heavy draperies out of the way as he did—“all I could think—”

She edged a little to the side, and he angled his body to keep her close.

“Was that I wanted you again.”

God, how he’d wanted her again. Wanted her now. They were so close that her scent, chocolate and cinnamon, surrounded him. The same scent that had forced him away from her side this morning, lest he act upon his impulses. He’d known she wouldn’t be ready. She’d been a virgin when he’d taken her, and knowing that had made everything with her a new experience.

Of course, he’d expected her to be a virgin, but in the back of his mind, there was always the possibility that Roxbury had been there first. Not that he would have held that against her. God knew he was no saint, and he could hardly fault her for a dalliance with a man to whom she’d been betrothed. But the knowledge that she hadn’t been with Roxbury—the bastard—that Ethan was the first, pleased him more than he’d thought it would. At that moment, she had been his, would always be his, as she’d never been or would be anyone else’s.

Then the thought was lost and he’d been caught up in a torrent of sensations. Making love to her was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. She was wild and unpredictable, then shy and reserved. He liked her innocence, even as he pushed its limits, encouraging her to test the edges of sensual abandon. To his surprise—and delight—she’d accepted his challenge, in the process taking him to the very peaks of his own fulfillment.

Afterward, he’d held her, stunned by the experience and even more astonished that he couldn’t conceive of letting her go. At that moment, he felt he could have lain with her cradled in his arms, her breaths becoming deeper as she drifted into sleep, for the rest of his life and been content. Perhaps he’d been a fool in the past, but he knew what he wanted now, and he wouldn’t allow her to run away.

He had allowed himself another half hour to bask in feel of the silky skin of her bottom pressed against him, the weight of her tangle of hair on his arm, and the scent of her all around him before the doubts set in.

Now he heard Francesca take a deep breath and focused again on the present. He was still leaning against the window, his body trapping her between him and the wall. His mouth was mere inches from hers. She stared at him, eyes almost too big for her face, her look far too intent for such an innocent. He wrapped a finger around one of her curls. “I couldn’t regret you. But I was thinking of regrets.”

“You regret Lady Victoria,” she said quietly.

He cursed silently and dropped the lock of her hair, his eyes straying to the view from the window. Outside, the sun was bright, glistening off the moisture from the recent rains. The puddles were stubbornly refusing to dry and drops still clung to the leaves and grasses.

“I regret the way it ended. I regret the way I lost control.”

“What happened?”

She turned to him and he stiffened. She’d confided in him about Roxbury, and she deserved at least as much from him.

“I was young and I fell in love with her.” He stared out the window, eyes seeing nothing of the park, focusing instead of the reflection of Francesca beside him in the glass. “She was beautiful, cultured, intelligent—all I could want in a wife.”

In the glass, he saw Francesca nod, as if this was exactly what she expected him to say.

“My friends warned me against her, told me she cared nothing for me, only wanted my money. I didn’t believe them.”

“Why should you? She’s the daughter of a duke.”

“Yes, but Prestonwood has never been one for frugality. It’s an established fact in certain circles that his estates are mortgaged to the hilt, and his heir, as you probably know, is as dissolute as his father. Victoria couldn’t count on either her father or brother to support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed.”

Francesca nodded her head. He supposed the tale was as familiar to her as to him. Change the names, and it could be the story of any number of members of the
ton
.

“One friend in particular, George Leigh—” He struggled to keep his voice level. Even now, so many years later, the bitterness of his best friend’s betrayal threatened to resurface. “Leigh warned me against her, but I couldn’t see past her beauty. I didn’t see
her
. And then I saw all too clearly and couldn’t accept it.”

In the glass he saw the scene again, replayed it in his mind. “We were at a ball, one of the last of the Season, and the crowds were enormous. I couldn’t find Victoria and retreated to the library to escape the masses. When I opened the door, I saw Victoria and Leigh, and there was no doubt as to what I’d interrupted.” He tried to keep the resentment out of his voice, but a trickle filtered in anyway.

“I knew she couldn’t be blameless,” he heard Francesca say and saw the ghost of a smile on her lips.

He wondered again how he could he ever have doubted this woman. Her belief in him appeared unfailing.

“You shot him.” Francesca’s voice was matter-of-fact.

He turned to her, unable to stop himself from grinning at the serious expression on her face.

“No.”

“But I saw him once, a year or so ago at Vauxhall Gardens, and he had a cane. He walked with a limp.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t shot, but I didn’t do it.”

“Then how—”

“When I found them together, I lost control. I did want to kill Leigh, but the pistol was his. I can’t blame him for drawing it. I was intent on murder. We struggled, and the gun went off. He shot himself in the leg.”

Francesca’s jaw dropped. “Why haven’t you ever said anything about this before? Do you know what everyone says?” She put her hand on the lapel of his coat, but he didn’t turn to her.

“I know, and I don’t care.” He flexed his fingers, easing the strain. “I might have corrected the misconceptions if I’d been here when the rumors began, but I left for France that night. I wanted away from London, away from Victoria. I went to my family in France, my older sister, Emily, and her husband.” He paused. “Only the year was 1792, and I ran right into the Revolution.”

Her hand tightened on his coat. “Oh my God.”

“I was too late to save them. I arrived in time to discover they’d been taken to prison—La Force. I did all I could to free them. I bribed the inspector, the warden, the guards. I acquired false papers, arranged passage across the Channel. Two weeks later, I stood in the Place de la Revolution and watched the crowds cheer as Madam Guillotine did her work.”

“Ethan.” Her voice was filled with an anguish that mirrored the pain he still felt. She moved closer to him, and he almost allowed himself to savor the comfort she offered. Almost.

But nothing could extinguish the memory or assuage the guilt. Nothing but his current work for the Foreign Office.

“The cheers were deafening.” He made himself go on, hardening his heart. “First Emily’s husband, Luc, the Comte du Aubain. A good man who had never known any other way of life. He was an intellectual. Quiet. Loved to read.”

Francesca took his hand, but he didn’t dare turn from the view of the park.

“Emily was my older sister and much like you. She was kind, compassionate, loved life. They executed her next. I was glad of that. At least she didn’t see the murder of her daughter.”

Francesca’s hand gripped his almost painfully. “They had a daughter?”

“Renée. She was two. The crowds cheered loudest when Renée’s white-blond head poked through Saint Guillotine’s window to Hell.”

For years he’d tried to shut the image out of his mind—the glint of the silver blade in the sun, the drops of crimson falling onto the flaxen hair of his niece and running down her neck as she gazed, terrified but silent, into the jeering crowds. And then she was gone. His beautiful, brave niece. Little Renée, whom he’d held in his arms when she’d been barely larger than his hand. And he’d done nothing to stop it.

“I didn’t stop it,” he said. “I let it happen.”

“What could you have done?”

He shook his head. It was a question he’d asked himself dozens of times over a dozen glasses of brandy or sherry and finally gin. Over the bodies of a dozen nameless women he thought would staunch the pain, but only left him feeling empty. “Anything but stand there and allow it to happen.”

“Is that why you joined the Foreign Office? To avenge the death of your family?”

He glanced at her. Did she always see the good in him? Would she always? “That was part of it,” he answered. “But truthfully, it’s an escape from Society, the endless gossip and speculation.”