His Sinful Secret (29 page)

“Well?” His gaze skimmed over her scandalous half attire with lazy, salacious interest.

But the sudden tension in his body belied that casual pose.

“May I come in?” she asked, her voice carefully modulated.

“It depends, my love, on your motivation.” He lounged against the doorjamb, imposing and large, thick lashes lowered over his eyes.

“Your new scruples—”

“Annoy you?” he supplied, smiling with ironic amusement. “I think we established earlier this evening that is not difficult to do. Why are you here, Antonia?”

“Lawrence.” She attempted her best throaty voice. “Why do you think?”

“That’s an answer that cheats us both.”

This wasn’t much of a seduction. More like an interrogation. “Guess.”

“No. You tell me.”

“Because I want you.” It took something to say it.

“Just . . . want?” He didn’t move out of the doorway, his sultry gaze roving over her scantily draped body. “Surely, Lady Taylor, since you have come this far, you can improve on that sentiment.”

He wished more from her, and if she were honest, he deserved it.

Honesty was for those who could afford it. Antonia summoned her most wicked, enticing smile. She moved into the room, brushing past him, with a gentle, provocative sway of her hips. She’d never been in there before; he’d always come to her room. To her surprise, she saw a collection of nautical maps framed on the wall, a miniature of a ship on the mantel, and a small tarnished brass compass in a glass case sitting on an unusual table made from some dark, exotic wood. It made her pause, desire tempered now by curiosity. She knew so little about him. Not even his full name.

“You were a sailor?” The closest print was a diagram of the South Seas, dotted with islands and trade routes.

“In a manner of speaking.” He hadn’t moved except to turn around to watch her, his eyes wary.

“Ship’s captain.” It wasn’t hard to deduce and explained quite a lot. His deference to anyone, not just her, was always tinged with a hint of ironic amusement, as if he granted it rather than felt compelled by his position in society. It made sense now. He was used to complete command.

Why had she never guessed?

“In another life.”

An interesting answer. She doubted he was even thirty yet. Antonia moved to another map. This one was of the Americas, lines drawn along the vast coast, along with arrows giving the direction of the currents. “Do you miss the sea?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “I’ve salt water in my blood.”

She swung around. “What happened?”

“I am sure you didn’t come here to discuss my past.” He crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Just what you
did
come here for you have yet to divulge.”

It was odd—and somewhat disconcerting—to realize she was so obsessed with her own past, her own pain, that she hadn’t been concerned with his. Maybe it was the war, where strange fellowships were formed, like hers and Lord Longhaven’s. Though they were both aristocrats, with ancient lineages that entitled them to privilege, they were disparate personalities, certainly. She was the blazing Spanish sun and Michael was a cold English winter.

Well, maybe not as cold as he seemed. Besides, it didn’t matter what Michael might or might not be any longer. He wasn’t her mystery to unravel. Lawrence, on the other hand . . .

“That particular expression on your face never fails to give me pause.” He straightened, his features portraying mock alarm. “I suppose I am safe enough because I can tell quite clearly you are not armed. May I offer my compliments on whoever designed your current attire? Though I am not sure just what it might be. It looks like a dressing gown, but certainly doesn’t function as one.”

The intensity of his bold stare made her breasts tighten and warmth pool between her legs.

Oh, yes, he wanted her.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said softly. “Can I interest you in removing it?”

“When you tell me precisely what you came for, my love.”

The implacable request was frustrating. She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “What is it you want from me?”

“More than what I sense you are offering. Your delectable body is delightful, do not mistake me, but I am arrogant enough to ask for some measure of your feelings. If all you wish is a stiff cock, I am sure you’d have men lining up for the opportunity to bed the sultry Lady Taylor, and you know that. Explain to me why you want to lie with
me
.”

Confounded and intractable, she considered leaving. “Stop being so difficult,” she muttered.

“Stop being so stubborn.” He finally took a step toward her. “You know you can trust me. Say so.”

“I trust no one.” She lifted her chin defiantly.

“Not even Longhaven?”

“It depends on the venue in question. I trust his instincts, his intuition, his sense of honor, his ability to think on his feet, his courage, his intelligence . . . all of those things I trust.”

“Yes, the man is a veritable paragon, I know. But what don’t you trust?” He took another step. She could smell the slight tang of his cologne.

“He married another,” she explained, which was ridiculous, because Lawrence already knew this. “But he didn’t love her. In doing so, he betrayed me.”

“He didn’t love you either.” Lawrence reached out and touched her chin, tilting her face up so she had to meet his eyes. “Come, now, Antonia. We’ve discussed this. It wasn’t a betrayal. There was no understanding to betray.”

“He was my lover.”

“But it was long over. Give me a better argument.” His fingers, warm and caressing, moved to trace the line of her jaw and skim her mouth.

“This isn’t about him,” she said almost desperately, involuntarily turning her face into the cup of his palm, like a child seeking solace. “This is about us.”

“At last we are getting somewhere. Go on.”

“I don’t believe in love.”

“Yet you think you love Longhaven. So I think it is more accurate to say you don’t believe love is wise. Am I correct?”

Was he right? She didn’t know. All she could concentrate on was how near he was, how the dark hair curled crisply against his neck, how if he would just cooperate and take her in his arms she would feel safe and cherished.

“Love me,” she whispered, though it cost her. “I am here because I want you to love me.”

“That,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her, “is what I wanted to hear.”

She leaned in, relishing the possession of his mouth, nothing subtle in the thrust of his tongue, in the way he hauled her suddenly up against his hardened body. And when he stripped off her lacy robe, the filmy material ripped but she didn’t care, glorying in how he picked her up and practically tossed her on the bed before he stripped off his breeches. They came together in a tangle of limbs and heated flesh, and when he entered her she gasped and called his name, moving hungrily into each thrust until the imminent rise of her orgasm clenched her inner muscles and she dug her nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood.

The glorious physical burst came and ebbed, and when he pressed into her again, peaked once more. He tensed and let the wave sweep him away with her, the hot flood of his seed accompanied by a low, telling groan.

When there was breath in her lungs again, Antonia whispered in a complacent purr, her body still pulsing, “
That
was what I came for.”

Lawrence lifted his head and held her gaze, a small smile on his mouth. “I agree it was a moving experience. But let’s keep in mind, my sweet, the game has changed, shall we?”

“How so?” She lazily traced a finger down his chest.

He caught her hand and took it to his mouth. “Because you finally admitted you
want
me to love you.”

H
e just might be losing his touch. Michael had been so anxious to get back to Julianne he hadn’t noticed anyone watching him the day before. Careless. . . . careless.

Never good for a spy.

Except he didn’t feel so much like one any longer. It was like he’d gravitated slowly toward the sun after embracing the shadows for so long. Warmth instead of darkness. Light instead of gloom . . . and surprisingly, he didn’t object to the change.

Because of his wife.

“Why would you bother to still have me followed? I thought Johnson understood I had spotted him weeks ago.”

But not lately, he had to admit. Either the young man had set out to prove a point and was quite a bit more careful, or Michael had been preoccupied with his personal life.

Probably a combination of both,
he told himself in rueful honesty.

“We care,” Antonia said calmly, walking forward, her gaze taking in the ducal library where he’d decided to receive them. “Or I do. I can’t speak for Lawrence, but you must admit his surveillance was fortuitous.”

“Yes, Longhaven, feel free to admit it.” The other man’s smile was insolent. “And as we are discussing the subject, I do care to keep you alive, but my motives are somewhat different than Lady Taylor’s.”

Michael was sure Lawrence cared only as it suited his purposes, at least to the extent that it mattered to Antonia. He could hardly blame him.

She was worth fighting for, and had it all been different . . .

But it wasn’t. As close as their tie was, he and Antonia hadn’t ever shared what was needed between a man and a woman. Julianne was his main concern. Not to mention the child, Chloe. He still had a difficult time assigning a name to a niece he never knew he had. “What is so important you chose to call at ten o’clock in the morning?” He moved into the room and quietly closed the door. The civilized surroundings of book-lined walls and sedate furniture were echoed in the quiet garden view from the tall windows.

“Your special friend who shot at you yesterday was hired by a woman.” Antonia moved closer, alluring and, for whatever reason, looking younger and less haunted. She was dressed in striped muslin with a lace overskirt, her shining dark hair drawn into a neat chignon. “He was less than adequate . . . not a proper assassin,
Miguel
.”

“He still grazed me,” he commented dryly. “His aim wasn’t that poor.”

“Years ago
I
shot you.” She smiled with no humor.

“I know. I still have the scar. But you have always sworn it was an accident.”

“And you will never know the truth. My point is there is no particular honor in it.”

Someday she would come to terms with her jealousy . . . she would have to, and it would be best for both of them. Deep down, he understood she wasn’t holding on to him as much as she was that wounded woman sitting in the courtyard of her family’s villa. The feelings she had were based on an illusion, not the real man. He knew it now more than ever since he’d married. Julianne looked at him differently. There was no fierce, glittering possession in his wife’s eyes, but rather a glorious softness and something else . . . something he couldn’t quite define.

Love, perhaps?

It astonished him that he’d pushed her the other evening to admit it.

Michael laughed shortly. “I agree. I will go so far as to say I’d appreciate it if people stopped trying to do me bodily harm. Tell me more about this man your agent trailed and found.”

“He said the woman who hired him had bright red hair.”

It meant nothing to him, which was interesting. Even more interesting, he supposed, was that all those years in Spain left him unsurprised that someone he didn’t even know was trying to kill him. Michael gestured at an intimate gathering of chairs. “Please, sit down. Was there more of a description?”

Both he and Lawrence stood politely until Antonia chose a brocade-covered chair and settled in a flutter of long skirts. Lawrence remained standing, moving behind her chair to rest his hand on the back in a gesture of male possession Michael didn’t fail to notice.

So be it. He’d be happy for them both, and if there was a budding romance buried beneath the sexual tension, he wasn’t exactly the person to judge what the outcome might be. His own life was in flux. He sat down on a dark blue velvet sofa, crossed his booted legs at the ankle, and broodingly pondered this new information.

“No more to it,” Lawrence said. “And trust me, he would have told us. There was nothing professional about him. He was petrified when we found him.”

The rain had cleared off, leaving the day soft and gray.

Thinking hard, Michael shifted his gaze to the French doors, still closed against the inclement weather of the previous day. “I can’t imagine who it would be. Roget, I suppose, could have an associate. He usually has many, but London isn’t Spain and his allies have dwindled.
Usual
no longer applies.”

“Perhaps it has nothing to do with Roget. What if it is a spurned lover?” Antonia suggested, her eyes direct and more than a little accusing.

“I’m partial to brunettes.” His smile was noncommittal. “Besides, I cannot think of anyone who would be so devastated when we went our separate ways they would resort to murder.”

“No? Think harder.” Antonia’s voice was brittle.

“Ah, but you would kill me yourself.”

“I considered it,” she said silkily.

He didn’t entirely disbelieve her. However, from the amused look on Lawrence’s face at the moment, he might just be able to handle such a volatile creature. Michael said dryly, “I appreciate your mercy, but someone else out there is apparently not so compassionate.”

“Your inept killer met her at the Hare and the Bottle in Camden Town.” Lawrence produced a slip of vellum from his pocket and extended it with two fingers. “I take it you won’t mind if Johnson continues to trail after you.”

Michael supposed the other man was entitled to the hint of smugness in his tone. “I’m unclear why you bestirred yourself to the trouble and expense of assigning me a shadow, but as my objections would make no difference in what you decide to do anyway, the point is moot. Tell him I am grateful he had the insight to chase after my assailant.”