While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (8 page)

Wild and...ravishing.

He had no idea where the word had come from, he’d never thought of a woman in those terms before, but the description fit her. Fit her so well that he realized it had been on his tongue half a dozen times since he’d first seen her this morning. He’d simply been too preoccupied to notice her.

Hardly a trace of the girl he’d been introduced to at Harcourt’s ball was visible in her now. Her hair flowed halfway down her back in rich, dark curls, and the dangling red ribbon illuminated them like a streak of fire. Her eyes, large and chocolate brown, were fringed with thick black lashes and framed by gracefully arched dark brows. Against her creamy white skin, those eyes gave her an intense, passionate look Ethan knew he would have remembered if it had been in her expression when they’d first met. A man didn’t easily forget the intensity of eyes like hers. Intensity like that could be turned to passion in the right lover’s hands.

His gaze touched briefly on her other features. She had smooth, unfreckled skin, a small straight nose, and lips the color of faded roses. He wondered if her mouth looked as full when she smiled, if her lips turned dusky pink or wine-red when she’d been thoroughly kissed.

Without a word, he released her hand.

“Thank you,” she muttered and took two steps away from him. “If you would force us to make a grand entrance, I shouldn’t look as though I’ve been rolling in the bushes.”

He almost smiled, but his lips froze when she scooped her thick mass of curls into a tail and tied it back with the dangling scarlet ribbon. Turning half to the side, she straightened her cloak and the pale blue frock she wore underneath. Her movements were clumsy and hurried, her cheeks tinted a honey color. She was obviously uncomfortable under his gaze and scrutiny.

But Ethan didn’t look away. His attraction to her surprised him. She wasn’t at all the sort of woman he typically found himself drawn to. She was barely old enough to be called a woman. He didn’t think she could be much over eighteen.

He preferred women who were closer to his own age of thirty—confident, worldly women. Women who understood that a kiss or an invitation to his bedchamber meant nothing but a few hours’ diversion. Women who met his heated glance with sultry looks of their own. Women who knew how to entice a man, lure him into their embraces, and use him as he intended to use them. Women he could easily walk away from.

Ethan glanced at the girl’s fumbling fingers. She was nothing like those women. Not yet, anyway.

But give her time. An image of Victoria flickered in his mind.

“If you’re through with your toilette...” It was as much a growl as a statement.

She paused and gave him an icy glare from beneath her thick lashes. “I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry, my lord. My father isn’t even at home.”

“I’ll wait.”

Finally, she took a deep breath. “Very well. The sooner we start, the sooner it will be over.”

“You sound as though you’re to be marched before a firing squad.” He ran his gaze over her. Her hair was still tousled and windblown, but she’d managed to contain it and straighten her clothing.

“Firing squad?” She gave him a mysterious look. “Hmm. I’ve never thought of her that way.”

“What does that mean?”

She arched a brow. “Oh, you’ll see.”

He waited, expecting more of an explanation, but she gestured toward the estate instead. At least they were finally moving again. He clucked his tongue to encourage Destrehan.

“The image of a spider is usually the first one that comes to me,” he heard her say after they’d walked a yard or so. “Something hungry and venomous. A black widow.”

He shot her a look over his shoulder, and she gave him a small enigmatic smile. The biting question on his tongue died. He noticed her mouth looked just as full, just as ripe when she smiled.

E
than never saw the web, didn’t even realize he’d been caught, held fast in its silky, glittering strands.

“
Cara
! My darling, darling Francesca!
Mia figlia preziosa
!” A tall, slim woman with a cap of short platinum curls seized upon the girl as soon as the majordomo shut the door behind them. It clanked like the door to a prison cell.

“
Mamma
,” the girl choked out. The force of the woman’s embrace was such that the girl stumbled backward, and Ethan barely had time to step aside in order to avoid a collision.

“
Mia figlia
!” Her mother, who from her horrendous accent was obviously
not
Italian, pulled back, grasping her daughter’s shoulders. The woman’s voice echoed through the gray-and-white marble entrance hall, bouncing off the busts and marble statues lining the walls. “
Impossible
!” She bodily turned her small daughter by the shoulders. “Look at you.
Dov’è stato
? I have been
so
worried.”

“You have?” The girl blinked. “Why?”

But Ethan doubted the woman heard her daughter’s breathy reply. The lady’s dark blue eyes, sharp as fangs, sunk into him.

“And—
mamma mia
—can this be—? Is this gallant
gentiluomo
Lord Winterbourne?” She released her daughter and gave a deep curtsy. “An honor, your lordship.” She spread her dun-colored skirts, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Over her mother’s bowed form, the girl struggled to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Lord Winterbourne,” she continued, when her mother had risen. “Lady Brigham. My mother.” The last was said with a sigh. The woman offered her hand to Ethan.

He shook off his daze, took her hand, and kissed the woman’s gloved knuckles. “A pleasure to renew your acquaintance, Lady Brigham.”

“
Non, Signore
. The pleasure is all mine.”

Ethan stepped back, and Lady Brigham appeared to study him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. She pressed one finger to her lip with slow, exaggerated taps then held it there and narrowed her eyes. “And what, pray tell, is your business in Hampshire, my lord?”

Ethan was only too familiar with the woman’s tone of voice. It oozed matrimonial insinuation. Lady Brigham raised her eyebrows and looked sidelong at her daughter. Miss Dashing appeared to have shrunk six inches.

“I’m visiting my brother at Grayson Park.”

“Ah, the earl.” Lady Brigham drew in a breath, her white gauzy fichu swelling like a sail. “I see.” The finger tapped at her lips again as she exhaled. “But surely Francesca did not wander as far as the Park?” The unasked question hovered in the air, and he was thankful the girl snatched at it.

“No,
Mamma
. Lord Winterbourne was riding, and we met purely by chance. He offered to escort me home.” She spoke quickly, obviously hoping to move the conversation along.

Lady Brigham’s eyes widened. Ethan swore he saw them glitter.

“I
see
.”

Damn. This was why he avoided Society. Spend ten minutes with an unmarried miss, and you were suddenly betrothed. “Is Lord Brigham at home? I’d like to speak with him.”

The woman inhaled sharply, her eyes almost popping from their sockets. “Oh! I
see
!”

Ethan frowned. Beside him, the girl closed her eyes, looking mortified. The devil take him if he hadn’t inadvertently confirmed her mother’s matrimonial hopes.

He had no patience for this. “If the viscount is not at home,” Ethan plowed on, “I’ll wait in the library—”

“You will do no such thing!” Lady Brigham clapped her hands three times in rapid suggestion. “You must join us in the drawing room.” She gestured to the dark, formidable doors at the end of the entrance hall.

“Thank you, Lady Brigham, but—”

“Call me
Signora, per favore
.”

Ethan took a deep breath. “
Signora
. When do you expect—”

She turned and walked away, shoes clicking loudly on the floor as she passed the numerous Roman statues adorning the niches in the echoing hall.

Ethan didn’t move for a long moment. Had the woman actually cut him off and walked away from him?
Him
? A
marquess
. Who the devil did she think—?

“I must warn you I am determined to at least offer you some refreshment.” Lady Brigham held up a hand, stopping in front of a bust of some Caesar or other. “There is no use arguing, I’m afraid.” She gave him a sly smile. “It’s the very least I can do for a
gentiluomo
who’s asked to see Francesca’s
father
.” She opened the door to the drawing room and glided inside.

Ethan ground his teeth, then watched as the girl plodded after her mother.

His every instinct told him entering that room would be a mistake. He’d be trapped, alone with the crazed, Italian-squawking woman. He looked back along the entryway toward the door.

The majordomo stepped behind him, cutting off his exit. “My lord.” The man indicated the drawing room with a graceful gesture.

Damn. Outmaneuvered, Ethan took a step forward. He could almost feel the invisible silk strands tighten around him.

F
rancesca watched Winterbourne warily survey the drawing room from the doorway as she took her usual seat in the high-backed settle with dark green cushions. To her right, her mother reclined on a damask chaise longue in the center of the room. Winterbourne obviously wasn’t prepared to admit defeat, though with Norton, Tanglewilde’s majordomo, hovering behind him and her mother lying in wait before him, he would have to concede the entrance hall, at least.

Personally, Francesca disliked the hall and the drawing room. She hated the cold, formal entry with its sightless marble busts, and the drawing room was too much her mother’s domain—overly vibrant and lush. Like her mother, it smelled of roses and powder. The chairs and settle were upholstered in damask and silk, their woods rich and warm. The gold draperies were heavy, laden with the weight of their fabric, and the floral pattern of the paper on the walls was rich and sumptuous. A luxurious room, and an inviting web designed by a spider who knew how to lure fat, juicy flies.

The spider arranged her skirts again on the dark green settle and raised both eyebrows expectantly at the fly in question.

Lord Winterbourne narrowed his eyes. “Madam, I thank you for—”

“
Signore, per favore
.” Francesca flinched as her mother cut Winterbourne off again. Even worse, Lady Brigham shook a finger at him before spreading her arms and smiling graciously. “
Avanti! Prego, si accomodi
. Please sit down.” She rang the bell on the small table next to the longue, alerting the footman to bring the tea tray.

“
Signora
.” Winterbourne all but growled the Italian word. “If you would have your man show me to the library, I’ll wait for the viscount there.”

“My, but you are certainly anxious!” She gave him a conspiratorial wink before waving his request away. Francesca groaned. She had the sinking feeling that before the day was done, she’d be thoroughly humiliated.

“
Mio marito
will be home very shortly now, my lord. Paolo, our majordomo”—her mother gestured to Norton, who, to Francesca’s annoyance, she insisted on addressing by the Italian version of his Christian name—“will inform his lordship you are waiting. Ah! The tea is here. Do sit
down
, Lord Winterbourne.”

The footman stood behind Winterbourne, tea tray in hand but unable to enter whilst the marquess blocked the door. Snagged by her mother in front and penned in by her staff in back, Winterbourne had no choice but to step into her mother’s crafty web. From the way his shoulders tensed, she saw he knew it, but he took a seat on the green-and-gold silk armchair next to Francesca with surprising good grace.

She was tempted to feel sorry for him but reminded herself it was his own fault he was here. That realization must have crossed his mind as well because the look he gave her was full of camaraderie. The kind of look she, Lucia, and their brother John often shared.

He wasn’t a nice man, she reminded herself, and she wouldn’t feel sorry for him, even if he gave her that look again.

Especially if he gave her that look again. The unexpected warmth in his gold-flecked eyes heated her through, from heart to belly. She took a steadying breath and told herself it was probably a ploy to convince her to help him. As though she could.

Peter, the red-haired footman, served the tea and set the tray, burdened with small sandwiches and Francesca’s favorite chocolate tarts, on the rosewood side table just within her reach. She glanced up at him, and Peter gave her a conspiratorial wink. She smiled at the footman as her empty stomach grumbled. Lord, she loved those tarts.

“Tea,
Signore
?” her mother offered.

“No.” His tone was steely. He shifted, and Francesca noticed the chair seemed much too small for his muscular frame.

“Oh, but you must try a sandwich. I am certain you are famished.” She pushed a plate burdened with half a dozen tiny sandwiches toward him.

Winterbourne must have felt the web tightening around him, but if he was smart he wouldn’t struggle. He’d be on his way to Grayson Park much more quickly that way. And there was always the remote possibility that her father’s arrival would save him.