Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) (19 page)

“I want to see you,” he whispered. She barely heard him over the merry chuckle of the fire. “All of you.”

He pressed another kiss to the inside of her leg, moving upward. By the time he reached the inside of her thighs, his tongue teased her skin with each kiss. And then he pressed his lips to her sex. Heat flooded her chest, but passion won out and she soon found herself lifting her hips to better meet him.

His kisses turned frantic. Her breath came fast and quick. He worshipped her with hands and mouth until she unraveled in his arms.

But he wasn’t finished. He nuzzled his way up her body until he took her mouth in a deep, conquering kiss. He tasted tangy with her arousal. As he fitted himself between her legs once more, the bulge in his breeches was bigger than ever. Kneading her breast with one hand and using the other to hold her heady steady for his kiss, he gyrated against her with increasing urgency. Soon, she matched his fervor. The pleasure built, higher and higher until she shattered. This time he followed, shuddering against her as he held her close.

When he rolled to the side, he slipped his arms beneath her and pulled her with him to cradle her against his chest. His heart thundered beneath her cheek. His shirt was damp with sweat.

“That was…”

“Yes.” Her voice was breathy. She didn’t know what else to say.

Instead, she burrowed her face farther into his chest as she fought to catch her breath.
I love you. Don’t let go.
She bit her lip, keeping the words walled away inside her.

As much as she’d like to fool herself into believing he cared for her just as deeply, she couldn’t. When morning dawned, they would be enemies again.

T
ristan seemed so much more
innocent in sleep. His eyelashes formed a crescent on his cheeks. The stubble was just starting to darken his chin. Freddie was nestled beside him, his arm slung around her waist as he fitted her against him. She didn’t want to leave.

She had to.

With a light touch, she traced the curve of his cheek. Making a sleepy noise, he leaned into her touch, as if he craved more of her. An ache ripped open in her chest like a chasm. Gently, she eased his arm from around her waist. As she left the bed, he rolled over onto his stomach.

The fire had dimmed as it ran out of fuel. It cast a soft glow, barely enough for her to see the silhouette of objects. It took her some moments before she untangled her clothes and donned them. Although she bent her elbows at an uncomfortable angle, she couldn’t properly reach behind her to lace up her stays. At some point in the night, her hair had fallen free of its pins. She couldn’t begin to rectify her appearance. The river of her hair flowing down her back should cover the hastily-secured buttons.

Before long, she tiptoed across the room to the door. She stumbled, catching herself before she introduced her face to the wall. Behind her, Tristan stirred. He softly started to snore. She laid her hand on the latch.

She couldn’t leave without saying goodbye, but she didn’t want to wake him. Instead, she fished a handkerchief with her initials out of her reticule. More careful this time, she traversed the room to lay it on the pillow next to him.

There. At least this way, she didn’t feel like a thief trying to steal out of the room.

Although she wanted nothing more than to slip back into bed and lose herself in his embrace, she turned and marched out the door. The abbey was quiet. With luck, all the guests had gone to bed and she wouldn’t have to explain her ravished appearance.

She turned away from the door and came face to face with the duke. Although the candles had burned down, shedding only enough light to make out his profile and the glint of his eyes, it could be no other. Her heart jumped into her throat, throbbing painfully. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. What could she say?

My virtue is intact. I won’t make him marry me.

Even if Tristan asked, she couldn’t possibly say yes, could she? They were on opposite sides. Unless one of them bent, they had no future. For her family’s sake, if nothing else, she couldn’t back down. And for some unknown reason, Tristan had allied himself with the French. He had likely done that for family, too.

She didn’t have any guarantee that he would want a future with her, regardless.

The duke’s piercing stare paralyzed her. Her mouth dried and her palms grew sweaty. She couldn’t look away. Would he take her to task for seducing his brother?

Or worse, tell someone else? If word got out that Freddie had been seen coming out of Tristan’s room, her reputation would be ruined. And so would Charlie’s, for her relation to someone with a less than pristine standing in the
ton.
Freddie’s chest burned as she stopped breathing.

Abruptly, the duke stepped past her. He strode to his room without a word. Without looking behind, he opened the door and slipped inside.

The vise around Freddie’s chest loosened. What was that? Her mind awhirl, she crept back to the guest wing across the abbey. She knocked over two candlesticks in the process, but managed to slip into her room without setting anything on fire. Or, better yet, waking Charlie.

But she still couldn’t get her mind off the forbidding look on the duke’s face.

* * *

F
reddie tossed
and turned to such a degree that at one point, even though she slept in a bed across the room, Charlie grumpily complained of Freddie’s movements and left to sleep with their mother in the room next door. Even then, Freddie spent so much time studying the ceiling that she could probably paint it in blacks and grays.

With bags under her eyes and exhaustion weakening her limbs, she finally gave up on sleep and dressed for the day. Lisane hadn’t yet entered to help, so Freddie left off her stays and dressed herself in a modest lavender day dress. The abbey bustled with servants, but no other guests stirred as she made her way down the corridor.

Only one man was awake and down to breakfast when she entered, and it was one she didn’t think to see, given his late night.

As he noticed her falter in the doorway, the Duke of Tenwick fisted the letter he was reading. He was dressed for a morning ride in a high-necked burgundy riding coat and kid gloves. A plate of steaming eggs, kippers, and bacon was heaped on his plate and he nursed a mug. He thrust it onto the table so forcibly that the creamy brown liquid sloshed over the side, wetting the short graphite pencil beside his dish.

“G-good morning, your grace.” Her voice was thin and fragile.

The duke’s gaze sharpened like steel. He stuffed the paper into his pocket, thrust himself to his feet, and stormed toward her without a word. Freddie jumped to the side, vacating the doorway. The air stirred with the force of his passing.

The livery-clad footman by the sideboard followed after him. Even the servants disdained her.

Her knees weakened. Her stomach shriveled and her appetite fled. She approached the sideboard with shaky legs and poured a cup of tea.

As she carried it past the duke’s half-eaten breakfast, a wadded piece of paper caught her eye. It must have fallen from his pocket! Gingerly, she set down her tea before she spilled it and bent to retrieve the paper.

A quick glance toward the door confirmed that she was still alone in the room. Kneeling on the ground to obscure her actions if someone walked in, she smoothed out the page.

It looked to be written in code. It might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics, for all she understood the inked message. Someone—likely the duke—had added marks in pencil to certain words. Beneath, he had decoded the message.

Freddie’s breath caught as she read and re-read the translation. This was a spy message! It detailed the time and location—tonight, while the guests were at supper, at the towering oak tree—for a rendezvous to pass along the coded book. It also detailed the signal the spy was to give the duke to ensure his authenticity.

Her head spun with this information. This was exactly what she needed to retrieve the book. If she reached the point early and gave the signal to the duke herself…

She would be betraying Tristan. An ache rooted painfully in her chest. She blinked away the sting of tears.

“He’s on the wrong side,” she whispered. She would be helping Britain by completing this task.

More than that, she would be helping her family. She couldn’t let her feelings for Tristan get in the way of that. Even if she was sure she was about to make the worst mistake of her life.

She didn’t see any other way.

* * *

M
iss Vale
, Tristan had been told, had gone out for a walk by the time he reached the breakfast room. By luncheon, he concluded that she was either avoiding him or avoiding the guests, because she didn’t soon return. Spending time around the guests—and especially his sister, with her pointed looks and questions—irked Tristan as well. He couldn’t smile, contribute to conversation, or act the carefree rake while he combatted the strange burn in his chest.

He’d known that he and Freddie could indulge in only one night, but that hadn’t meant he’d wanted to wake without her at his side. Instead, the only sign of her presence was a monogrammed handkerchief on his pillow. FV. Even that felt wrong. ‘FG’ would look better. He’d thrust the thought aside as he’d stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. It smelled soft and delicate, like her lavender perfume. Every time he tucked his hand into his pocket, he found himself fingering those embroidered initials and the thought arose anew.

He couldn’t ask her to marry him. Every time he told that to himself, a small part of him asked,
Why not?
He hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer, he just knew it was so. If nothing else, his brother wouldn’t approve.

And when have you ever given a fig’s end for Morgan’s approval?

He hadn’t, especially not in recent years, but Morgan was the head of the duchy. His word held weight even with Tristan. Especially with their mother. Tristan couldn’t go against his family’s wishes to pursue love, could he?

It was a moot point. Even if he asked, he doubted Freddie would accept. If she’d wanted to spend time with him, she would have this morning. They could have escaped the guests together.

In a foul mood, he shut himself away in Morgan’s study, the one place of solitude in the abbey overrun by guests and family members. The room was dark and cool, devoid of a fire or signs of occupancy. As he shut the door, he rested his forehead against the wood.

Being alone only left him with his troubled heart.

“I’ve handled our problem with Harker’s spy.”

Tristan jumped at his brother’s voice. He rounded, searching the room for the telltale shape. The daylight drifting from beneath the shut drapes lingered on a figure Tristan had inwardly dismissed as part of the furniture. Not so, considering that it moved.

“What are you doing in here alone without so much as a candle?”

Morgan gave a low chuckle. The leather armchair squeaked as he stood. The carpet muffled his footsteps as he crossed to pull open the drapes. The cloudy day didn’t allow for much sun, but a gray light fell into the room, illuminating it and the stacks of papers on Morgan’s desk. Nestled between them was a tumbler of brandy, still full.

When Morgan turned around, his eyebrows raised, he said in that calm, even tone, “I imagine I’m here for the same reason you are. I’m damn and bloody sick of Mother’s matchmaking attempts.”

A thorn pierced Tristan’s side, just beneath his ribcage. Mother hadn’t tried to throw any young debutantes his way. Did she not think he was good enough for them?

Was he not good enough for Freddie?

Wait—his brother’s initial statement registered. “What do you mean you’ve handled Harker’s spy?”

What had Morgan done to Freddie? Was he the reason she hadn’t been in the abbey all morning? Something hot and sinister unfurled in Tristan’s chest. He didn’t move for fear of what he might do to his brother.

Oblivious to the line he treaded, Morgan dropped into his desk chair again. He fingered the rim of his glass, but made no move to drink its contents.

“I left false information for Miss Vale.” He shrugged. “I’m sending my assistant out on a fake rendezvous. When she speaks the code word, impersonating an agent of the Crown, we’ll arrest her. That’s a hanging offense, you know.”

Tristan trembled. He felt as though a shadow was eating away at his gut. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to compose himself before he spoke. It didn’t help.

“You can’t do that!”

Morgan never responded well to direct confrontation. His ebony eyebrows hooked together in outrage as he pushed to his feet. His face was livid.

“Can’t I? You’ve gotten too close, Tristan. I had to do something. She was deceiving you.”

No, she wasn’t.
They’d known exactly what temporary insanity it was to indulge in passion last night. Heaven help him, but Tristan wanted more.

Lud, but his chest ached. It felt as though it would rip open at any second. He rubbed at it, trying to quell the pain.

“You’re wrong.” He tempered the anger in his voice this time.

Morgan clenched his fists. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Are you going to tell me that she loves you, then?”

How can I when I don’t know the answer to that question?
Tristan ground his teeth. “No. She never deceived me in that fashion.”

“Then it was just coincidence that I found her sneaking out of your room late last night?”

Tristan burned with a protective instinct he couldn’t name. He stepped closer. One step at first, then another and another until only the desk separated him from Morgan. He didn’t break eye contact.

In a low, lethal voice, he said, “Tell me you have repeated that to no one.”