While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (38 page)

“I’m not a gentleman,” he said. He made it sound like a promise. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll prove it to you.”

He reached up, knocked on the ceiling to indicate they were ready to depart, then pulled the carriage curtains closed. Before Francesca even knew what had happened, he was balancing her on his lap and undressing her.

Francesca gasped. “
What
are you doing?” She batted his hands away.

“What I dreamed about doing all last night.” He ignored her efforts at resistance and, removing her spencer, tossed it aside. Then he began on the tapes securing her gown.

“Ethan, this is highly improper.”

He raised one wicked eyebrow. “I know.” Loosening her dress, he pulled it down over her shoulders and kissed the bared skin of her collarbone.

“Ethan!” She’d meant to chastise him further, but her voice came out strangled as his warm lips grazed the swell of her breast. “What if someone realizes what we’re doing?”

“We’re married. We can do whatever we want,” he mumbled. Pushing her gown lower, his tongue traced the valley between her breasts.

She clenched her fingers on the material of the cushion behind him and tried not to groan. “But what if the coachman hears us?”

“We’ll have to be quiet, won’t we?”

She didn’t like the look in his eyes when he said it. The fiendish glint she saw in them warned her that she was the one who would have to worry about volume.

His hands cupped her breasts, and she groaned as his palms brushed over her hard, sensitive nipples. His fingers plucked at them through the material of the dress before he tugged down the fabric of both dress and chemise. She was completely exposed to him.

“Ethan.” It came out as a moan.

He shifted beneath her, and she felt his hardness between her legs. His mouth found her breast, while one hand continued to fondle the other. She leaned back, savoring the exquisite pleasure.

He was very bad.
She
was bad, half-naked in a coach traveling through the English countryside, a man kissing her bare breast while his other hand—oh my, his other hand—inched up her skirts. This was definitely not behavior appropriate for a proper young lady.

Ethan’s mouth, slick and hot, slid to her other breast as his hand closed on her thigh. Francesca let out a shuddering breath and all thoughts of propriety and good behavior with it.

Almost of their own accord, her hands began to loosen his clothing. She pulled anxiously at his cravat and tugged at the buttons of his collar. She wanted to run her fingers over his chest. Press her bare skin to his.

Both of his hands were beneath her skirts now, caressing her inner thighs. His fingers made small circles that promised to increase in diameter until they intersected at the juncture of her thighs. Not pausing in his ministrations, he leaned back to allow her to undress him. She struggled with a particularly recalcitrant knot in his cravat.

“Take down your hair.”

She yanked the knot again. “Hmmm?” Her fingers felt the neckcloth loosen.

“Take your hair down for me,” he repeated. The gold flecks in his eyes burned as he said it.

Seeing the heat in his eyes, she paused in her efforts and lifted her hands to loose the pins binding her simple coiffure.

“Slowly,” he ordered.

She shivered at the sensual sound of his voice. How could she have ever thought he didn’t want her?

She did as he’d instructed, feeling slightly embarrassed at her role as vixen, until she looked into his eyes again. Then she was trapped in the sticky sap of their amber depths. One after another, she drew out her pins, feeling the tickle of each curl as it brushed the exposed skin of her back. As she worked, his hands skated higher on her legs, so that by the time she pulled the last pin, she was panting as his fingers thrust inside her moist depths.

She cried out, heedless of who might hear her now, and then one of his hands was wrapped in her hair, pulling her mouth to his as his other hand worked its magic.

He kissed her long and hard, and she could not seem to get enough of his mouth on hers. His tongue thrust inside her, and she felt his hand release her hair to move between them. Then he was inside her, hard and full. Both of his hands wrapped around her waist and he guided her movements, showing her how to use her body and the motion of the coach to give them both the most pleasure.

When she found fulfillment, a scant moment before he did, she slumped against him, amazed she’d once again survived the storm of their lovemaking and equally amazed he’d shown her yet another way he could pleasure her.

She lay her head against his shoulder, inhaling the sandalwood scent caught in his coat. She never had managed to undress him. He looked down at her, and she smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very quiet.”

“No,” he agreed. “You weren’t.”

She stiffened and began straightening her dress. “Do you think the coachman heard?”

Ethan shrugged. “Possibly.” He seemed in no hurry to right his own clothing.

“Oh Lord! What will he think?”

Ethan arched a brow. “That you enjoyed yourself?”

She punched him lightly, now twisting her hair into a coil at the nape of her neck. “Be serious! I shudder to think of the impression I’m making on your staff.”

“I don’t know about them,” he said, pulling her back against his chest and ruining the order she’d just restored to her hair. “But you’re making an excellent impression on me.”

She smiled, unable to imagine herself any happier than at that moment—safe in his arms, the center of his attention. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, but when she opened them a few minutes’ later, her thoughts had turned to Winterbourne Hall and her new role as chatelaine. Her mother had lectured on her duties as mistress of such a grand estate interminably as they’d packed and prepared for her wedding. Now Francesca felt a pinch of chagrin that she hadn’t yet begun to formulate her strategy for dealing with Winterbourne Hall’s staff or to probe Ethan for a history of the house as her mother had advised. Good Lord, she’d wasted practically a whole day!

When she glanced up at Ethan, she saw he’d closed his eyes and was resting his head comfortably against the soft squabs of the coach. “Ethan?”

“Hmm?” His arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her to him more securely.

“It’s very important to me to make a good impression on your staff.”

He didn’t open his eyes, just nodded.

“I want them to respect and like me.”

“They will,” he murmured.

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes. “I hope they don’t completely throw me over for you.”

She frowned in confusion. “What a ridiculous thing to say. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The servants at Tanglewilde?”

“What do they have to do with anything?”

“Maybe it was the way each of them managed to turn my short interviews about your attack into an opportunity to further your application for sainthood.”

“They were trying to protect me.” She waved his statements away, rocking on his lap from the movement. “They didn’t know you then. They didn’t know your intentions.”

“What about the defection we witnessed yesterday morning? I’d have needed half a dozen more coaches and another estate to accommodate all the servants insisting on accompanying us.”

“Now that
is
an exaggeration!” She straightened indignantly and had to grasp his arm to steady herself. “Besides, they would never have left Tanglewilde. It was a gesture, a way to say goodbye.”

“Francesca, they had their valises with them.”

“I’m sure they were empty.”

He gave her a dubious look, closed his eyes, and settled back on the green-and-gold material of the cushioned seat once again. “Were I you, I wouldn’t worry about my staff at Winterbourne Hall. You’ll win them over in no time.”

She clasped her hands together. “I sincerely hope so. But I would have your assistance.”

He opened one eye. “My assistance?”

She nodded and scooted off his lap onto the seat across from him. He scowled at her, but she couldn’t risk the distraction of his closeness. Schooling her face into what she hoped was its most serious expression, she waited for him to give her his full attention. He regarded her as a mouse regards a cat.

“I’m sure I will regret asking this, but how exactly am I supposed to assist you?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking—”

“A bad sign,” he mumbled.

She pretended not to hear. “I’ve been thinking it might help if I had some background on the house and the staff before I arrived. That way I can impress everyone with the extent of my knowledge and familiarity with the estate. Don’t you think that would make this adjustment easier for all of us?” An idea came to her just then, and she eyed him suspiciously. “The staff
is
aware I’m coming, aren’t they?”

“I sent word.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. Should we start with the estate or the staff?”

“Neither.” He closed his eyes again.

“Ethan!” she said in exasperation. “We’ve already wasted a day and most of the morning! We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

He opened his eyes again, and his languorous gaze traveled over her disheveled state. “Is that what we were doing? Wasting time?”

She was immediately contrite. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I—” She paused, uncertain how to extricate herself from her latest predicament.

He sighed, seeming resigned. “I know, I know. You’re a woman with a mission. I can’t expect you to
waste time
in the frivolous pursuit of pleasure.” Francesca tried to protest again, but Ethan shook his head. “We’ll begin with the house, my eager pupil. I imagine you want the whole history?”

Francesca nodded enthusiastically, a little trickle of excitement rushing through her. “Oh, yes! Start at the very beginning.” She wished she’d thought to pack foolscap and a quill in her satchel so she might take notes.

He looked heavenward as she folded her hands in her lap and gave him her complete attention. “From the beginning—you’re certain you want to hear this? I’m convinced I can find a much more gratifying way for us to pass the time.” Hope flickered in his eyes.

She squashed it. “From the beginning,” she instructed, her voice firm.

He sighed again and began. “The house was built between the years 1519 and 1523, during the reign of Henry VIII. It was commissioned by Edward Louis Caxton, the second Marquess of Winterbourne.”

His voice was a monotone, but she didn’t mind. She’d endured her mother’s inexhaustible prattle for twenty-one years; nothing he could say would bore her. He paused, a weary look in his eyes, but she only murmured encouragingly, settling back to hear the story of her new home.

She made him tell it twice so that she could commit as much as possible to memory, but when she requested a third recitation, Ethan balked. He was only successful in silencing her by taking her in his arms and making love to her until she forgot even her own name. They passed that night at the inn in much the same manner, and Francesca decided she and Ethan would have to travel together more. It didn’t matter where. She always had questions and though Ethan’s answers weren’t very informative, they were incredibly satisfying.

J
ust past noon on the third day, Ethan looked up and out of the carriage window. Though Francesca had stared at the landscape for hours, never tiring of the changing landscape, it was the first time he’d shown any interest in the scenery. She scooted forward to peer at the passing roadside.

“What is it?” she asked Ethan, frowning at the view that, from all appearances, was perfectly unchanged from her last inspection.

“We’ve turned onto the road for Winterbourne Hall. It’s about a mile from here.”

Francesca shot up. “A mile!” She fumbled desperately with her hair, which never seemed to be in order when Ethan was near. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.” His gave her a bemused look.

“Yes, but why didn’t you tell me
earlier
?” She abandoned her hair and began trying to smooth some of the wrinkles from her skirt. It wouldn’t do for the staff to see their lord and lady occupying the same seat—married or not. Ethan raised an eyebrow, then gazed, with a paternal air, at his estates.

Winterbourne Hall was much larger than Francesca had imagined. She’d known from rumor and Ethan’s own description that it would be grander and vaster than Tanglewilde, but the drive alone was turning out to be quite lengthy. When she saw the large lake to her right, complete with ducks and a pretty little gazebo Ethan said his mother had enjoyed during the summer months, she knew they were finally nearing the house. A moment later, on her left, she stared at what appeared to be the ruins of a castle.

“Is that the castle?” she breathed. She pointed to the jumble of falling stones, though enough of the building was left standing so she could fill in the outlines of a medieval structure.

“Just the keep,” Ethan answered.

“Did you remember the name of the baron who built it yet?” His information about the castle had been vague, amounting to: “Some baron built it after returning home from the Crusades.” Needless to say, that had not satisfied her.

“Ask Mrs. Carbury. She’s a walking textbook of Winterbourne Hall.”

“That’s the housekeeper, correct?” She confirmed it, though she knew already. She craned her neck to catch a last glimpse of the romantic ruins as they drove past. The coach finally rounded a bend in the road, and when she looked forward again, her jaw dropped in true admiration. At the summit of the drive, shimmering white in the noon sun, was Winterbourne Hall.

“The north façade,” Ethan told her. She barely nodded, still taking it in. Were there people who actually lived in such places? It was like a palace or a monument. The north façade, as Ethan had called it, was regal—Palladian in design and so long and rectangular that, as they drove up the front walk, she could not even see the far end of the building.

The house itself was cream in color, the rows and rows of windows outlined in red. Like a regal white tiger, it reclined at the top of an impossibly green, grassy hill, and when Francesca turned her head to see the view, she almost gasped aloud. It seemed she could see the whole of Yorkshire, and all of it was lush and emerald and dotted with trees.