Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (7 page)

“You’ll not bully me into giving you the note,” she said, her voice not displaying the slightest tremor.

Nathan planted a hand on each wall, bracketing her in. “I’ve never had to bully a woman into giving me what I want, Lady Victoria.”

Her gaze flicked to his arms, positioned near her head, before returning to his face. “You’ll never find it.”

“I assure you I shall.”

“No. It’s hidden in a place where you will never locate it.”

Nathan hid his triumph at her inadvertent admission that the note was still intact and that she hadn’t destroyed it. He allowed his gaze to wander slowly down then up her form. When his gaze once again met hers, he said softly, “You’re wearing it. The question is, is it tucked into one of your garters, or…” He glanced down at the swell of creamy skin rising from her bronze bodice. “…or nestled between your breasts?”

Her startled expression, coupled with her furious blush, confirmed the accuracy of his guess.

“That was the most ungentlemanly scrutiny I have ever been subjected to,” she said, sounding as if she’d just darted up a flight of stairs.

He brushed a single fingertip slowly over her cheek
bone, memorizing the silky texture of her warm skin and the sound of her quick intake of breath. “If you think I’ll believe this crimson stain is the result of mere maidenly outrage, you underestimate me, Lady Victoria, and that would be a mistake.”

She swallowed, hard, then said, “Of course I am outraged. And since you clearly are not aware, a gentleman asks for permission before touching a lady.”

“I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman.” Because he couldn’t resist, he glided the pad of his thumb over that enticing blush once more before resettling his hand against the wall. “I prefer to ask for forgiveness afterward—if it’s necessary—than to request permission beforehand.”

“How convenient for your conscience—although I’d wager you do not possess one.”

“On the contrary, I do. In fact, right now it is instructing me to ask if you would have granted me permission to touch you.”

“Certainly not.”

“Ah, then you can see why my method is much more preferable.”

“Yes—for you.”

“Then I shall ask for your forgiveness.”

“Denied.”

Nathan blew out a long put-upon breath and shook his head. “It appears you are determined to deny me in all matters this evening.” He moved a step closer to her, then leaned down so his lips hovered just above her ear. The subtle scent of roses filled his head, and his hands fisted against the silk wall covering. “You’ll have to remove your clothes eventually, my lady. And now you’ve given me a great incentive to make certain that I’m present when you do.”

She sucked in a hissing breath. He leaned back, cursing the alluring scent of her now branded in his mind. “That will never happen, I assure you.”

“Never say never, Lady Victoria.”

G
ritty-eyed from a troubled night filled with much thinking, exhaustive pacing, and little sleep, Victoria requested a breakfast tray in her bedchamber. After a light repast of tea, toasted bread, and eggs—eggs she glared at wondering if they came from
his
hens—she rose. Wanting to be alone with her thoughts, she didn’t summon her maid, and dressed herself in her favorite forest-green riding habit. After ensuring that the much contested letter was safely concealed, she set off for the stables. A brisk
ride always helped clear her mind and improve her mood, and heavens knew she needed both.

And it was all
his
fault. That doctor posing as a spy posing as a doctor. No wonder he hadn’t given her or their encounter three years ago a second thought. He no doubt had women in every town, village, and hamlet. She’d provided nothing more than a momentary diversion to an accomplished scoundrel. Recalling how she’d flirted with him at their one meeting, she inwardly cringed. He’d no doubt been highly amused. Well, she had no intention of amusing him again.

After Dr. Oliver had departed her bedchamber last evening, she’d locked her door—and shoved a chair beneath the knob for good measure—then spent hours poring over the letter, trying to find some secret meaning, some hidden pattern of words or letters, but could find nothing. How could a letter that spoke of nothing but art, museums, and the weather translate into a tale of danger and jewels? She finally admitted defeat when the words swam before her eyes from fatigue. But she would make another attempt after she returned from her ride, renewed and refreshed.

Even more frustrating than her failure to decipher the note, however, was the unfamiliar disquiet she felt. She couldn’t recall a time when she’d been so bombarded with conflicting emotions. Indeed, until this journey where she’d discovered the note in her luggage and then Dr. Oliver in her bedchamber, her life had consisted of a pleasant but unbroken pattern of Seasons in Town, summers in the country, and yearly holidays in Bath. With the exception of that stolen kiss three years ago, nothing extraordinary had ever happened to her, and her life had progressed precisely on the course she’d set for herself.

But now it felt as if she were being buffeted on storm-
tossed waters, her emotions awash in turmoil. Worry for her father’s safety warred with a sense of confusion, disbelief, and betrayal at learning of his secret life. Thrown into the seething tempest of her emotions was her anger at Father for treating her like a child. Dozens of questions buzzed through her mind, and by God, she intended to demand answers from him the instant she returned to London. How long had he been involved with the Crown? Had Mother known? Most likely not. Victoria could only imagine that such a revelation would have been met with a case of the vapors that spanned months.

Yet underlying all that was the undeniable thrill and pride she felt at asserting herself and standing her ground with Dr. Oliver. The teachings she’d absorbed from the
Ladies’ Guide
had served her well, and although she had to alter her plans to accommodate the new turn of events, she’d managed to set up a challenge for Dr. Oliver while still affording herself the perfect opportunity to exact her revenge on him. Forcing him to accept her help in his mission would ensure they’d spend ample time together so she could entice him to kiss her again. Then she would return to London, marry one of her earls, and take her place in Society as she’d always planned. Only this time she’d make certain it was a kiss, an encounter, Dr. Oliver wouldn’t soon forget.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment last night she’d thought he meant to kiss her. The way he’d bracketed her against the wall…his arms so strong, his chest so wide and solid in front of her. That same sense of warm giddiness she hadn’t experienced since that night three years ago had raced through her. Her heart had pounded, not with fear, but with exhilaration at his nearness. The clean scent of him, linen and starch and something else she
couldn’t define but found heady and pleasing, had filled her head. His body had emanated an intoxicating heat that made her press her back more firmly against the wall to keep from moving closer to absorb his warmth. She’d felt utterly surrounded by him, his tensile strength. It was all that, and the compelling look in his eyes, that kept her captive far more than his arms.

And his touch…that gentle sweep of his finger over her flaming face had forced her to lock her knees so as not to slither to the floor. And his outrageous suggestion that she would ever remove her clothes in front of him…another wave of heat washed over her.
That will never happen, Dr. Oliver, although I intend to make certain that you want it to
.

Right now she had the upper hand in their dealings, like a chess game where she’d put his king in check. Next, she needed to outmaneuver him into checkmate before he could regroup and plan a defense. She needed information—about him and this failed mission. Her eyes had been opened wide last night, filling her with a determination she’d never before felt. No longer would she permit anyone to treat her like a child to be pacified with a pat on the head then sent on her way. Lady Victoria Wexhall was a Modern Woman and a force to be reckoned with.
Brace yourself, Dr. Oliver. Your citadel is about to be seized.

She exited the house through the rear terrace, surveying the grounds from her vantage point as she crossed the spacious flagstone patio. The gardens stretched to her left, an array of perfectly trimmed hedges and colorful blooms. They appeared to be at least as large as the gardens at Wexhall Manor—a pleasant surprise. Beyond the gardens rolled an expanse of verdant lawn, sparkling with a silver
dusting of morning dew. The lawn gave way to soaring trees that rose up to spear a sky still stained with fading mauve traces of dawn.

She paused for a moment before walking down the wide, curved terrace steps. A slight breeze teased the tendrils of hair surrounding her face, brushing welcoming, cool air over her skin. She lifted her face, closed her eyes, and drew in several deep breaths. The air smelled so different here…clean and fresh as country air was wont to smell, but with an intriguing underlying hint of salty tang from the sea. She’d make certain her morning’s ride included a view of the water.

Deciding she’d best be off before anyone else in the household awoke, she was about to start down the steps when a soft mewing sound arrested her. Victoria looked down and saw a tiny kitten rubbing against the hem of her skirt.

“Well, hello,” she crooned, crouching down to scratch the ball of fluff behind its minuscule ears. “What are you doing out here all alone? Where’s your mama?”

For an answer, the kitten let out the most pitiful sounding mewl Victoria had ever heard. “My my, that is indeed sad.” She scooped up the kitten and cradled it against her chest, where it set up an immediate purr.

“Aren’t you a charmer.” She smiled and tickled her fingers under the animal’s soft chin. The kitten was pure black, except for the tips of its four paws, which were snowy white.

“You look as if you were dunked in a bucket of paint,” Victoria said with a laugh. A delighted purr rattled in the kitty’s throat, and it stretched out a white-tipped forepaw to rest along her sleeve. “I wonder if you might be the little devil who was stuck in the tree.”

“Yes, she is,” came a deep, familiar voice from directly behind her.

Victoria turned swiftly. Dr. Oliver stood not six feet away, his arms casually crossed over his chest. Her heart lurched, surely just the result of his unexpected company, while her stomach jittered—no doubt due to the eggs. Her gaze traveled over him, noting his mussed dark hair, as if he’d combed his fingers through the shiny strands, leaving several locks drooping onto his forehead. Her gaze dipped lower and she was instantly riveted by his shirt, or rather by the way he wore the garment. No cravat graced his neck, affording her an unimpeded view of his tanned throat and a tantalizing glimpse of muscular chest before the white linen thwarted her view. He’d rolled back his sleeves, revealing strong forearms roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair. He looked nearly as devastating wearing a shirt as he had when she’d viewed him shirtless yesterday.

Camel-colored breeches hugged his long, muscular legs in a way that made her wish she could halt time for several moments just to give her the opportunity to study his fascinating limbs in minute detail. His black boots were clearly old favorites, as they looked as if he’d walked across England wearing them. How had he managed to cross the stone terrace without her hearing him? He must move like a ghost. An annoying, irritating, arrogant ghost. Still, no matter what else she might think of him, she could not deny that he was attractive. In an uncouth, ungentlemanly sort of way. With an effort, she pulled her gaze upward. The speculative look in his eyes indicated she’d been caught staring, and her face heated. Thank goodness spies couldn’t read minds.

He offered a bow that somehow managed to seem po
lite and mocking at the same time. “Good morning, Lady Victoria.”

She inclined her head in her most regal, prim fashion. “Dr. Oliver.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Marvelously.”

He cocked a brow. “Indeed? Based on the shadows beneath your eyes, I would have guessed you’d remained up all night, most likely attempting to decipher
my
letter.”

Victoria couldn’t decide what irked her more—his eerily accurate guess, or the fact that he’d intimated she looked tired. “Why, thank you. I’m certain I don’t know when I’ve been the recipient of such a flowery compliment.”

Instead of looking abashed, he smiled, his teeth flashing white. “You’re heading toward the stables?”

“Yes. I enjoy an early morning ride.”

“I’m on my way there as well. Shall we walk together? In spite of our meeting last evening, I’m certain we can make it to the stables without inciting an argument.”

“Yes—if we both remain silent.”

Another grin flashed, then he indicated the steps with a flourish of his arm. “Shall we?”

As this was a perfect, albeit unexpected, opportunity to learn more about him, Victoria said, “By all means.”

They descended the wide, curved stairs, then struck out across the immaculately manicured lawn. Instead of remaining silent, Dr. Oliver nodded toward the kitten who had drifted off into a purring sleep. “It seems you’ve found a friend. Look at her, sleeping like an angel.” He shook his head and laughed. “I nearly broke my neck rescuing that imp, and do you think she was the least bit grateful?”

“Of course not,” Victoria said, running her index finger
over the kitten’s warm fur. “You ruined all her fun. I’m certain she stuck her nose in the air and flounced away.”

A slow smile tilted one corner of his mouth, creasing an intriguing dimple in his cheek. “Typical female,” he murmured.

Choosing to ignore that lest an argument ensue, Victoria asked, “What is her name?”

“Boots.”

She couldn’t help but grin. “Boots…‘Puss in Boots.’
‘Le Chat Botte.’
A very apt name. And one of my favorite fairy tales.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes. “It is a favorite of mine as well.”

Victoria’s brows shot up. “Fairy tales? A fearsome spy like you?”

“Believe it or not, I once was a child. For my eighth birthday, I received a copy of Perrault’s
Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec des moralités: Contes de ma mère l’Oye
. It instantly became my favorite book. It is to this day.”

“
Stories or Tales from Times Past, with Morals: Tales of Mother Goose,”
Victoria translated. “Your French is perfect.”

“Thank you. A handy talent when one is employed spying on the French.”

“I have two later editions of the book, one French, one translated into English, which I treasure, but I would dearly love an original.”

“Mine is a first edition.”

Victoria turned to stare at him. “A 1697 first edition?”

“I don’t know of any other year a first edition would have been printed.”

“Oh, I am green with envy! I have wanted one for years,
but it is impossible to find.” She eyed him. “Would you consider selling yours?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What if I were to make you an outrageous offer?”

His eyes filled with an unreadable expression that she supposed had helped him enormously during his career as a spy, but which she found utterly vexing. “An outrageous offer meaning a large sum of money, Lady Victoria? Or outrageous in an altogether different way?”

Heat suffused her all the way up to her hairline. “Money, of course.”

He shook his head. “I’m not interested in selling it, for any sum. It was the last gift I received from my mother before she died. My attachment to the book has nothing to do with its monetary value.” His gaze raked her face. “That surprises you.”

“Actually, yes. I didn’t think men were so sentimental.”

“Men in general, or me in particular?”

Victoria shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”

Silence fell between them, and Victoria found herself undeniably curious about this man who, based on what his brother had said, could have used the money, yet wouldn’t consider selling a very valuable book because it had been a gift from his mother. Botheration, when she’d set out to find out more about him, she hadn’t anticipated discovering anything, well,
nice
.

“I’m intrigued that ‘Puss in Boots’ is your favorite tale from Perrault’s collection,” Dr. Oliver said. “I would have thought ‘Cinderella’ more to your liking.”

“Indeed? Why is that?”

“A handsome prince, a glittering ball…they seem like things most ladies would like.”

“Oh, I enjoyed the story, especially the magical aspect
of the fairy godmother and the romantic way the prince pursued the woman who had stolen his heart. But the fiendishly clever Puss in Boots enchanted me. His ingenuity made me wish he were real so I could match wits with him. I even attempted to fashion a pair of boots for my own cat.”

“Having recently seen an example of your sewing ability, I’m guessing that the boots were not a smashing success.”