The Countess Confessions (17 page)

“Ride you?” she whispered.

He glanced up, his eyes rueful. “Not yet. I have to remember that you are to be tenderly used our first few times in bed. I am long estranged from innocence. You make me forget that fact.”

“You make me forget a great deal myself.”

“I’m struggling,” he said, sliding his knee between her thighs, “to keep my depravity under control for as long as I can.”

“If what happened in bed is an example of what you consider self-control, I am in more trouble than I thought.” She went quiet for a few moments, working up her courage to whisper, “Damien? Have you done this many times before—ploughed other women?”

“If you use that word again, I will start to think of myself as an ox. I don’t know how many times, to be truthful. Not as many as you appear to think.”

“Tell me again how you became wealthy.”

He smiled. “I wanted fortune more than anything. I worked hard. I fought. I invested, until one day I realized I was nothing but a marauder with fine ancestry. I suppose I was as interested in plundering as well as ploughing at the time.”

“Isn’t that what most gentlemen are like?”

“Yes. But I grew tired of it. So did the woman I was going to marry.”

Emily’s eyes widened. In a neutral voice she asked, “You were engaged?”

“Until I lost everything. She married another man.”

“Oh. How very cruel of her.”

“It was kindness, in retrospect. It allowed me the freedom to do what mattered the most.”

Emily desperately longed to know everything about the woman who had first captured his heart. “Do you still love her?”

“Let me put it this way. I’d sooner kiss the innkeeper’s arse than kiss her again.”

She sighed. “Romantic sentiment just rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it?”

He stared down at her with a darkly unapologetic smile. “Do you want a poet or a protector?”

There, that was blunt. Well, at least she recognized it as honest. “I’ll take a protector for now. If we live to a good old age, then we can write poems to each other.” Emily knew he was tired, but he seemed to be in a mood that was receptive to her questions. “What did you do before I met you?”

“My past in foreign service is hard to explain to a young woman who has never left England,” he said. “Several years ago at the urging of my cousin, Heath, I was asked to find out once and for all the fate of Heath’s youngest brother Brandon, and Brandon’s friend Samuel. The family had been led to believe they’d been murdered in Nepal.”

“And they hadn’t?”

“I pursued false leads until at last, in prison, a guard’s daughter gave me reason to hope that they had survived. It was an Englishman, Samuel’s uncle, who had ordered their execution. Their bodies had never been recovered.”

Emily was silent.

“All I discovered was one mystery leading to another until ultimately the end of the search led me back to England. I thought I would put my financial affairs in order, meeting up with old friends and family, when I was asked to become involved in crushing the conspiracy, which meant assuming a false identity.”

“Of course you accepted.”

“Yes.”

“Are you one of those men who need action and purpose all the time?”

“Emily, go to sleep.”

•   •   •

She closed her eyes. But now Damien was awake and full of his own questions. Would his wife prove to be another mystery he’d spend the rest of his life trying to solve?

He looked down to see that she had drifted off to sleep in his arms.

Was it possible that a woman, like a flower, could physically blossom before one’s eyes with the right exposure? He was far from a poet. But he had to admit that Emily had either brought out his vulnerabilities or her hidden talents.

Now he had to wonder who had pulled the wool over whose eyes and who, when every last layer had been bared, they would become.

I
t was early morning when Emily finally woke and opened the bed curtains. A light breeze stole through the window Damien had cracked open. He was sitting at the table before a brace of pistols and a breakfast tray. Emily sat up, grateful for the food and the consideration he had shown by drawing the curtains around the bed before their breakfast had been delivered. How had she slept so soundly?

“Good morning,” she said, poking her head through the curtains. “I hope you don’t have an immediate reason for putting those pistols out on the table.”

He looked up, his hard face so handsome in the half-light that she sighed with longing. He had already shaved, she realized. His linen shirt and black pantaloons made her embarrassed that she had slept so deeply in her disheveled nudity.

“How do you feel?” he asked, as she swept her hair off her face.

Wicked. Wonderful. Uncertain.
“Well enough,” she said, blushing at her thoughts.

“No physical complaints?”

“Nothing that I care to discuss.” She bit her lip as he rose from the table and approached the bed. “Are we staying in this room all day?”

“I regret not.” He pushed aside the curtains and sat down on the bed beside her.

A moment later his hand swept down her back to her bare hip. She was in the same predicament as the night before, if only a little better prepared. He cradled her face in his other hand for a kiss that she hoped was a prelude of pleasures to come.

“I don’t think my heart can withstand this, Damien.”

“Neither can mine. But it’s a decent way to die.”

His tongue penetrated her mouth. She lifted herself to meet him, but he pushed her farther down onto the bed. Still kissing her, he cupped the fullness of her breast in his palm. The instant dampness she felt between her thighs disconcerted her. She had turned into a wanton in one night.

As if he sensed her readiness, he stroked his hand along her outer thigh and into the warmth between her legs. She turned her head, needing to catch her breath, needing him even more. Tremors ran through her not only at the intimacy of his touch, but also at her desire for it. She felt tender inside, and yet her body’s moisture eased the burn, the intrusion of his fingers to prepare her for their coupling. She started to hide her face in the pillow. She heard him unfasten the flap of his trousers. She wanted to plead for him to stop, or to move faster, or maybe to slow the rush of blood through her veins.

“Damien,” she said, daring a look at the starkly handsome face of her husband as he stood poised, his shaft in hand, ready to enter her. “Aren’t you even going to remove your boots?”

“Yes. No.” He threw back his head. “Will you forgive me if I don’t?”

“I think boots might leave marks on the bedding.”

“Emily, please. This is not something you’re supposed to think about. At least not when I’m ready to burst.” He inhaled. His eyes locked with hers. “Tell me if this is too soon. Tell me that I am causing you discomfort. But do not expect me to care that my boots might damage the blessed sheets. I can afford to replace them. Do you want me or not?”

She glanced down from his face to his flat stomach and full erection, and nodded before she closed her eyes. There was no point in denying with words what her carnal self had so unashamedly admitted.

“Thank you.” His raw voice quickened her pulse. The bed clothes slithered to the floor. “Place your legs around me, Emily.”

His sexual power pulled her from the mist that permeated her thoughts. She had unlocked her knees and lifted her legs to grip his buttocks when she felt his deep thrust inside her.

“Sweetness,” he whispered in a low voice, sheathing himself in her depths.

His untamed sexuality made her shiver, made her feel a little wild. She raised her bottom from the bed to take as much of him inside her as she could. He kissed her again, groaning into her mouth, and gave her more than she expected. She swallowed a cry. It hurt a little, but her body wanted more. Her body needed every inch of him.

“God,” he muttered, withdrawing only to surge back inside her.

Sensation took over. She put one hand over her face, certain he would pummel her through the mattress. She would beg him in silence for more and more until she broke into pieces.

“I’m going to fill you with come,” he said above her, his voice deep, distant.

She spiraled out of control. She grasped his wrist with her other hand, whether holding on to him or holding herself back, she was at a loss to know.

•   •   •

He was still buried inside her when Emily worked up the nerve to open her eyes. He offered her a smile that filled her with sweet humiliation, as though to say he knew he’d unhinged her and would do so whenever he pleased.

She met his stare. “You don’t have to gloat.”

“A gentleman doesn’t gloat.”

She laughed in reluctance. “But he does rob a lady of her reason?”

“Yes. Of course. It’s only fair when she has disarmed him of his wits. I’m sorry to tell you that now we must get dressed. I’ve lost track of time since yesterday afternoon.”

Emily sighed as he withdrew from her and refastened his trousers. How easy it was for a man to take his pleasure and return to the ordinary world. But had he implied that
she
had been responsible for their mutual loss of control? If he needed time to adjust to her innocence, then surely she could reciprocate and make accommodations for his impropriety.

She put on her robe and went to the washstand, grateful to see soap and fresh water for her toilet. Her hair needed brushing, and she was wishing for her maid when Damien cleared his throat.

“You might want to move a bit faster than usual,” he said. “I’ve invited your brother, your maid, and Winthrop to take luncheon with us before we set out on the road.”

A
n hour later Lord Shalcross and his wife sat down to an early luncheon with Michael, Iris, and Winthrop in Damien’s private room.

“I have decided upon a plan for the five of us during the night,” he said as soon as everyone was seated.

This announcement did not appear to surprise anyone at the table, with the exception of Emily. When and where had her husband devised this plan? He had been more than attentive to her in their bridal bed. She couldn’t have put two words together during the attention he paid to her. He must have been plotting over breakfast while she slept.

“It is a simple plan of action,” he began, “but its simplicity does not make it any less dangerous. We all know Michael is an experienced horseman. He also has an ability to live on his own resources if necessary.”

Emily glanced at her brother’s grinning face. “What are you asking him to do?”

“To ride to as many of the villages where revolts are to take place as he can and sound a warning.”

“He could get killed,” Emily exclaimed.

“It’s better than dying of boredom,” Michael replied.

“Why should anyone take a rascal’s word on a matter so grave?” she asked.

Damien glanced at Michael. “He’ll carry papers from the Home Office. By virtue of a signature and royal seal, he’ll be fed, his horse will be exchanged for another, and he’ll be praised for his intervention. It’s not as if he’s the only former soldier who is supporting England.”

Emily frowned. She had a feeling that this had been prearranged long before breakfast. “What about Iris and Winthrop?” she asked, noting Damien looked uncomfortable at the question.

“Iris and Winthrop have a different assignment.”

“Assignment?” Emily said, her voice rising. “Does Iris know about this?”

Iris paled. “This is the first I’ve heard of it, and I’m hoping I misunderstood what his lordship just said. You aren’t asking me to be a spy, are you? Because, honestly, I don’t even know how to use a pair of field glasses.”

“What do you expect her to do?” Emily demanded. It was one thing to have married Damien in the name of duty. She was not convinced that her timid maid needed to be sacrificed as well.

“Iris and Winthrop are to be employed as temporary servants at Viscount Deptford’s party,” Damien said. “They’ll hold positions beneath their current ones. As guests, you and I can only witness so much. They can be the eyes and ears inside the castle.”

“It won’t appear suspicious, the pair of them suddenly in service at the castle?” Emily said.

Damien shook his head. “It’s not uncommon to hire temporary help when one is hosting a large affair.”

Iris gave Emily a helpless look.

“I don’t know if I approve of this, my lord,” Emily said. “You’ll have to give us more details before we agree.”

•   •   •

To be involved in an espionage plot to protect her country was an honor to which, honestly, Iris Brookshire had never aspired. What lady’s maid had the time to indulge in political intrigue when her mistress had just become a countess? What sensible woman would choose the uncertainty of spying over the security of domestic service? Still, Iris understood the hierarchy of obligation. Never mind what happened in London; it was her primary obligation to help her mistress establish a house worthy of her title and wealth.

That the unremarkable Miss Rowland, despite her efforts, had not hooked Mr. Jackson as a husband but instead had landed an earl of infamous lineage was a coup that would be lauded in domestic gossip for years to come. Iris now worked for a countess who would start her own aristocratic dynasty. It was a privilege to serve as a lady’s maid in a prestigious house.

Iris, had not, however, envisioned herself becoming an espionage agent alongside a conceited-looking valet as a condition of her promotion. “I do not know the first thing about being a spy,” she protested again to Emily and the earl over her cake plate.

“You’re an expert at it,” Michael said as he poured her a splash of brandy. “Think of all the schemes you and Emily have enacted over the past five years.”

Iris made a face as her first sip of brandy went down. “All those schemes failed, by the way.”

“The last one didn’t,” Michael said pragmatically, popping a sliver of cake into his mouth. He swallowed before adding, “Emily has leg-shackled a husband.”

“Must you use that vulgar expression?” Emily said, frowning at him.

“Shalcross doesn’t mind,” Michael said.

Damien stared at his brandy. “Yes, I do. I prefer to think that she will be shackled to me, if there is any shackling to be done.”

“That is completely off the subject,” Emily murmured into her glass. “I don’t like the idea of my maid exposing herself to danger with only your valet to guard her. That is not to demean you, Winthrop.”

“I’m not keen on the idea myself,” Michael admitted, with a quick look at Iris.

She did not return his look. There was another benefit to Emily having married an aristocrat who’d live far from Hatherwood. Iris could hope she might find her own husband one day in the earl’s employment.

“Of all the plots we pulled off,” she said aloud, “I never imagined I’d be involved in treason. My French is barely passable.”

She noticed Winthrop put his hand to his mouth as if covering a smile.
Smug thing.
“We are not at war with France anymore, Miss Brookshire. You won’t be required to speak that language during our work together. Although, if it makes you feel more at ease, I can provide you with a list of common phrases to memorize.”

He had cunning eyes behind those spectacles, she realized, shrewd and an inscrutable shade of brown. He appeared to think so highly of himself that Iris decided she would not get along with him at all. Not a humble bone in either his or the earl’s lithesome bodies. “I’m sure I won’t need a list of common words, sir,” she said. “Simple phrases I know well enough.”

“You misunderstand me, miss.” he said, setting down his drink. “I have no doubt you are more than competent to pass as a chambermaid. After all, you serve in a higher role as lady’s maid and confidante.”

She glanced away, catching Michael’s eye. The big cad was grinning, as if he knew Winthrop was overstepping his bounds. She supposed, however, the valet had meant to mollify her by his last statement. It was a polite attempt to smooth her feathers. She would accept it for now, to show her manners, but she had a sense the pair of them would not see eye to eye on other issues.

At least it would separate her from Mr. Rowland. He’d be looking for a wife of his own soon enough, and Iris did not have the heart to witness that courtship. He would not have to go to outrageous lengths to attract a young lady. The village girls always knew when Michael had come home. His wandering challenged them.

“You shall have to travel as man and wife,” the earl said unexpectedly.

“Man and wife?” Iris and Winthrop said in horrified synchrony.

“Well, you do not remotely resemble each other. It would be difficult to deceive anyone into thinking you’re brother and sister,” the earl said, sipping his Madeira.

“This is going to be awkward,” Iris said, “living and travel arrangements, I mean.” Her voice quivered. “I do have standards to maintain.”

“You don’t have to worry about Winthrop,” the earl assured her. “He is a professional. He will find a way to convince everyone that you are living in connubial bliss together without taking the smallest liberty.”

Iris stared across the table. “I’m not sure I can do a believable job of this. It isn’t in me.”

“Oh, Iris,” Emily said. “You’ve done more unconventional things for me.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Emily asked with a faint smile.

“
You
were the one whose reputation was at risk. Now I shall be the lone agent.”

Winthrop stared at her. “I will be your partner, Miss Brookshire. You can trust me all the way.”

“I trust him,” Damien added in his valet’s defense.

Emily lifted her brow. “All the way?”

“Well, yes. You and I are trusting each other all the way, aren’t we?”

“That is not the same thing,” Michael observed. “You and Emily are actually married. Trust is implicit in a marriage. It is not in a deception.”

Winthrop rose from his chair. “I would like to speak with Miss Brookshire in private about our mission. It’s essential to show her the layout of the castle, the guest list, and to warn her of the dangers we might encounter. While the viscount’s demise might be the primary intention, the rebels will presumably not hesitate to eliminate any obstacle that threatens the plot. We need an agent who understands discretion. Miss Brookshire, I think you are ideal for the job.”