Beauty and the Spy (17 page)

Susannah rubbed her sticky hands against her already ruined skirt and took another look back at the little filly, trapped and twisted only moments before in her mother's womb, now thirstily taking her first meal. She smiled, felt her heart squeeze sweetly. She would sketch the mother and baby, tomorrow perhaps.

"What will you name her?" she asked.

"I was
thinkin
g 'Susannah.'"

That had certainly been quick out of his mouth. His eyes glinted devilishly.

Susannah tipped her head to the side, pretending to mull this. "Perfect," she pronounced finally. "It's the perfect name for such a beautiful creature."

And men she spun prettily, casting a saucy look at him through her lashes over her shoulder, and headed up the path for home.

And as she walked, she cherished the last expression she'd seen on his face. It hadn't been amusement, for a change. Or indifference. Or impatience.

It had been something else entirely.

And a strange, sweet hope bucked inside her.

Sleep that night was a deep, endless black well, and Susannah didn't so much fall as plummet into it. It felt natural to wake with the light now, to birdsong and the first sense of the day's weather filling the room. She felt rested to the depths of her soul, a different kind of rest than she'd ever before felt.

Warm again today. What a streak of weather they were having. Susannah lifted herself out of bed, startled to find her arms and back so stiff, and then remembered why: the little filly.
Susannah
. She smiled. She might not have much of a family, but there was now a new little filly named for her. She supposed it was something.

Today… today she'd wear the buttercup-colored muslin, the one that found the gold in her eyes, made them glow almost amber. She knew the viscount would notice. Oh, he'd never
say
anything quite so frivolous. But she knew… she knew he would notice.

He'd liked her hat The green one. Goodness knows what other remarks were lurking in his full and enigmatic mind, if
that
was the one that slipped out when a horse fell upon him.

Her heart gave a sharp, sweet, peculiar leap.

She slipped the dress on; tightening the laces was a little more difficult this morning, with her stiff limbs, but she got it done. She put the miniature of her mother into an apron pocket; thinking she might show it to Kit He'd asked, after all; for some reason she wanted him to see it.

She'd just begun her descent when her aunt's voice sang up the stairs.

"Susannah… I have a
surprise
for you…"

Oh, no
. She wanted her tea and fried bread as well as something heartier this morning, and she knew they had sausages because the viscount's money had allowed them into the budget. She didn't think she'd ever be able to look at a picnic basket again without flinching. And after the revelation about her father a few nights ago…

No more surprises, please, Aunt Frances.

So she slowed her pace. As she rounded the bed of the stairs, she froze. Her heart clogged her throat.

"Douglas."

She was suddenly very glad she was wearing the buttercup-colored muslin.

"Hello, Susannah." His face was aglow with the sight of her. "You look…" His eyes took her in like a man starved.

"… wonderful," he concluded softly.

At first, she couldn't speak at all. Her heart was kicking like a parade drum. "Thank you, Douglas," she said finally. "You look very… fine, as well."

Oh, and he did. She'd nearly forgotten how handsome Douglas was—could it really have been only a few weeks since she'd seen him?—with his dark hair and fine features, those clear gray eyes that she knew as well as her own.

There could only be one reason he was here. A frisson of anticipation made her breath catch.

Aunt Frances stood next to Douglas, her hands clasped in front of her, her delighted, curious gaze darting from Susannah to Douglas and back again.

They stared at each other for a moment longer before Susannah considered she should probably descend the remaining steps. It
was
lovely to see him, but a bit jarring, too, like… finding a teapot in the bathtub. He didn't seem to belong here, in this small house, in the country.

"He doesn't want
tea
," her aunt said meaningfully. "He wants to go for a
walk
."

Meaning: He wants to be alone with you. Rather urgently.

There was now little doubt in Susannah's mind what Douglas had come for.

For days now she'd felt as though she'd been stretching to reach something up on a high, high shelf, something she couldn't quite see, something she couldn't even identify, something she suspected might have great value, if only she could reach it.

But if Douglas took her away from Barnstable, she could stop stretching. And oddly, at mat thought, relief and regret seemed of a piece.

"Leave your coat here, Douglas," she said softly. "My aunt won't mind, and it's already very warm. We'll go for a stroll."

Aunt Frances took Douglas's coat, and her eyes widened and rolled exaggeratedly at the fineness of it, which made Susannah bite back a smile. And then Aunt Frances winked, which thankfully Douglas either didn't notice, or graciously pretended not to notice.

Susannah took Douglas past the roses, and out the front gate, and through the path in the woods, and the silence between them was almost comical in its awkwardness. It had been quite some time since they'd walked together, and then, they'd usually done it arm in arm. They walked side by side, instead; the distance of inches between them felt like miles.

Douglas cleared his throat. "So this is where you live, now?"

"No, I live in a barn, Douglas."

"You live in a
barn
?" And then he saw her expression. "Oh! Ha-ha!" he laughed nervously. "Sorry. I suppose that question
did
sound a bit barmy."

"I'm sorry, too. I should not have made a joke."

How clumsy they were with each other. How nervous and polite. And here Susannah had almost begun to suspect she'd forgotten how to be polite in the way one was polite in the
ton
.

"And how do you find life in Barnstable, Susannah?" Douglas tried again. Very politely.

She considered this question. "Lively." Also very politely.

"Is it?" Douglas looked dubious. They were quiet a while longer, and Susannah heard around them the sounds that had become so familiar: the rush of leaves and rattle of twigs above her as squirrels and birds leaped from branch to branch.

And then suddenly Douglas stopped and whirled on her, and Susannah jumped.

"Oh, enough politeness. Susannah, I miss you terribly."

"Do you?" The words emerged a little breathily. His sudden stop and his words had her heart bumping hard.

"Oh, yes. Nothing is the same, you see." His voice was rushed and ardent. "I haven't laughed quite so much since you've gone. No one
dances
quite the way you do. And no one"—he gathered her hands in his and pulled her into his chest—"looks at me quite the way you do… with those… those eyes of yours…"

He trailed off into silence. And then Douglas dropped his gaze to her mouth; it hovered there.

Douglas was going to kiss her.

She was going to let him.

And when his mouth touched hers, it was that same, just-slightly-more-than-chaste kiss she remembered, the kiss that had so intrigued her before with its hint of
more
.

But then, well… it
became
a little more.

His tongue crept out to touch her bottom Up, and he pushed himself closer to her. Through his snug trousers, through her fine dress, she could feel part of him stirring against her in an unmistakable, very masculine way.

Hmmm. Douglas was most definitely taking a
liberty
.

She opened her lips a little, partly out of curiosity, partly because it seemed… well, the
polite
thing to do. But she couldn't seem to lose herself in the moment; perhaps his mind had been filled with her since he'd jilted her, but her life had become filled with other things. Viscounts and voles and foals. Art and talent and bravery. Things that imposed a distance Douglas would have to cross before she felt comfortable kissing him again, let alone being pressed up against his significant arousal.

Confused, she turned her head abruptly away from his with a shaky little laugh.

Douglas took a deep bracing breath, collecting himself. But he didn't apologize, and he refused to relinquish her hands, even when she gave a little tug.

"Susannah… you must know the reason I came."

"I think I have an inkling, but I'd like to hear it from you." She smiled up at him, teasing.

"Well, it's this," his tone was eager, "I thought perhaps I'd buy a home in London for you to live in—"

So it
was
happening. Again, relief and a peculiar regret mingled. How strange it would be to slip back into her old life once more. How odd to treat Barnstable like a dream.

"For
us
to live in, you mean?" she smiled up at him.

Douglas smiled indulgently and lifted her hands, one men the other, to his lips, and then at last released them. "Well, I suppose on occasion I will stay there with you. But I'll of course be expected to live with my wife most of the time."

She stared at him, puzzled.

And then suspicion seeped in and leeched all sensation from her limbs.

"
But
you'll be expected to live with your wife?" she repeated on a nervous laugh.

"Well, yes, of course," Douglas continued, sounding conciliatory. "Amelia. Amelia Henfrey. We're to be married in a month's time, and I'll be expected to live with
her
, naturally. But you do know, of course… Susannah, I would much rather be with you, and I
will
be with you as often as possible."

He smiled down at her winningly, bent to kiss her again.

Susannah jerked her head sideways.

And even over the roaring starting up in her ears, and the hideous rush of pain that gathered around her heart, somehow she got the words out, all in the right order.

"Just to be very clear, Douglas: Are you asking me to be your mistress?"

His brows dipped in genuine confusion. "Well, yes, of course. You know I can't be expected to marry a penni—"

Susannah's hand sailed upward, hard.

And then they stood utterly still, while Susannah watched in awe as the angry red outline of her fingers rose on Douglas's cheek. She looked down at her own numb and stinging palm as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

An unbearable silence skulked by.

"Susannah," he said quietly. "Please lis—"

She couldn't stop the words; they bubbled out like lava. "Who do you think you
are
, Douglas? Do you have
any idea
what I've been through? My arm was up to here"�she thrust out her arm and pointed to her elbow—"
here
, inside a
mare
yesterday—"

"A m-mare?" Douglas flinched backward defensively.

"A
mare
, you
ninny
," she repeated ferociously. "I've dodged danger, I've had everything I've ever known taken from me… and do you have any idea what that's
like
Douglas? But I've a sense of myself now. I'm strong, I'm resourceful. I'm
talented
. It seems"—she took in a deep breath, and managed, with a little dignity—"I also have a temper. And I suspect that
I
am more
man
than you will
ever be
."

"Susannah—"

"I want you to go. Go
now
. I never want to see you again."

"But—"

And oh, despite herself—and later she would despise herself for it—she waited, for hope, bloody hope, clung more tenaciously to life than a cockroach. "But
what
, Douglas?"
Say something to make it better, Douglas. Change everything it back to the way it was
.

"But—my coat—"

And of all the things he could have possibly said then, perhaps this was the very best, for he had never sounded more hapless and contemptible, and contempt went a long way toward balming her pride, which was so swollen and throbbing it threatened to strangle her.

And yet, even as she stared contempt into his once-beloved gray eyes, now clouded with genuine hurt and bewilderment, she knew it would have been impossible to change things back to the way they were. And it was her fault:
She
had already changed irrevocably.

"Have your
wife
buy you a new coat, Douglas. Give my regards to Amelia."

She'd heard of blind rage before. Until today, she hadn't been convinced it existed. Her hands went up to her face in horror, reliving the last few minutes: Douglas's last memory of her would be of her shrieking like a fishwife, her face contorted with fury.

Susannah bent down, scooped up a small stone and hurled it as hard as she could at nothing in particular.

A moment later she heard a dull mud followed by an indignant: "
Ow!" Oh, dear God
.

She squeezed her eyes closed.
Please, no
.

When she opened them again, Kit Whitelaw was standing before her, rubbing his chest and frowning darkly.

What had she come to—
battering
men? She put her hands up to her cheeks. "I'm so sorry—are you—did I—"

She stopped abruptly when a grin slowly spread across his face. "Your arm is good, but your aim needs work, Miss Makepeace. You missed. Care to try again?" He hefted her missile in his hand, then held it out to her invitingly.

She spun on her heel and stormed roughly in the direction of her aunt's house. A moment later, she heard the hurried crunch of footsteps behind her.

"Before you do yourself or anyone else an injury, Miss Makepeace, perhaps you'd like to tell me what's troubling you."

She whirled on him. "If you
must
know, my fianc��
Douglas—
"

Kit's expression went from teasing to opaque in a blinding instant. "Lovers' quarrel, Miss Makepeace?"