Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (3 page)

“Now, Jane,” her aunt turned to her and whispered hurriedly, looking back at the door as she did so. Who
was
she expecting? “I want you to be polite.”

“I am always polite.”

“Yes, but sometimes you are polite in such a way as to actually be insulting. The person to whom you are speaking might not notice, but I do.” Her aunt’s large hazel eyes fastened on Jane’s face and held. Jane did not look away. Instead, she studied her aunt’s handsome features—her glossy auburn hair, her high forehead, her pointed nose, and her firm mouth. She was barely forty, several years younger than her husband, and she had obviously been a beauty in her day. She was still a beautiful woman, intelligent as well. Jane felt a little sorry for her, because like most women of her station, there was little for her to do but sip tea, gossip, and marry off her sons and daughters.

But Lord and Lady Melbourne had no sons or daughters. That was a shame, because her aunt would have been a wonderful mother. She had taken in the broken daughter of her husband’s brother and raised her with affection and kindness. And even though Jane had been young when she’d come to live with her aunt and uncle, she had never thought of them as mother and father. There was a distance between them, a formality.

Lady Melbourne peered at the door again, and Jane followed her gaze. “Who is it I am to meet?”

“A Mr. Dominic Griffyn. His mother is the Marchioness of Edgeberry.”

Edgeberry… Jane had an image of a passel of attractive young men, all with blond hair and brown eyes. They might have been her brothers for all the resemblance they shared.

“I see, and what makes Mr. Griffyn so…” She trailed off as a footman carrying a silver tray with champagne glasses approached.

“Champagne?” he inquired, smiling at her.

“Thank you,” Lady Melbourne said, taking a glass.

“Miss?” the footman asked, offering her the tray. Her aunt gave her a stern look, but Jane ignored her. She did not care for champagne, and if she was going to have to meet this Mr. Griffyn, she feared she needed fortification.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of ratafia?”

“Of course.” The footman nodded. “I would be more than happy to fetch you ratafia—or…or anything at all, miss.” He gave her a long, meaningful look, and Jane supposed the
anything
at
all
might include more than refreshment.

“Cherry, please.”

“My pleasure.” He began to walk away.

“Shaken, not stirred.”

“Certainly, miss. I’ll see to it personally.”

He moved swiftly to carry out the request, and Lady Melbourne hissed, “Can you not sip champagne?”

“I prefer ratafia.”

“You are too particular.”

“He did not seem to mind.”

“Because he could not stop staring at you. But enamored footmen aside, you are too particular.”

Oh, dear God. Jane hoped this would not be another discussion about marriage, and then she narrowed her eyes. “Aunt, what makes this Mr. Griffyn so
special
?”

Her aunt looked away, and Jane’s heart began to pound. “You do not intend for me to marry this man, do you? I have not even met him.”

“I had hoped to discuss this matter after you met him.”

Jane shook her head. Had the orchestra moved closer? All of a sudden, everything was once again too bright and too loud.

“What matter?”

“Jane…”

Jane grabbed her aunt’s gloved arm.
“What matter?”

Her aunt frowned. “Very well.” She lowered her voice so that none of the servants or guests passing by might hear. “Your uncle and I have decided. You and Mr. Griffyn will marry.”

Jane released her aunt as if she had been burned. “No.”

“The issue has been decided on both sides, Jane,” her aunt said with a stubborn lift of her chin.

“No.” Jane looked about. She would find her uncle. He could not have possibly agreed to this. “Lord Melbourne—”

“—agrees completely. In fact, Mr. Griffyn was his choice.”

But why? Jane did not understand. She was an agent, not a wife. Hadn’t her uncle always been pleased with her performance? Why would he want to marry her off and relegate her to a life of utter insignificance? She still had Foncé and the Maîtriser group to defeat. How could she do that if she had a husband demanding she be home to remove his slippers every evening?

“I won’t do it,” Jane said flatly. “I am sorry to disobey you and my uncle in anything, my lady, but I will not, under any circumstances, marry Mr. Griffyn.”

Her aunt’s eyes widened into enormous saucers, and there was a long silence. Too long. At some point, the orchestra had finished the reel they’d been playing. Finally, the sound of a man clearing his throat echoed in the quiet supper room. Jane whirled about.

“Shall I return at a more opportune time?” the man standing behind her drawled. Jane gaped at him as warmth unrelated to the stifling ballroom crept from her belly to her cheeks. He was tall, much taller than the average man, and at least a head taller than she. He had broad shoulders, not as broad as Baron’s, but broad enough that he filled out his dark green coat quite nicely. His hips were slim, his breeches snug, and his legs muscled.

She glanced back up and looked into his face. He was smiling, looking somewhat amused. She imagined her perusal of him was what caused the smile. She had completely forgotten herself, and now she was about to do so again. He had the most cocky, arrogant smile she had ever witnessed on the most sensual lips she had ever seen on a man. He had obviously not shaved, as he had a dark shadow of stubble on his strong jaw and sculpted cheeks. She knew many women who would have killed for his cheekbones. His eyes were impossibly dark, the eyes of a man one might expect to encounter in a Gypsy camp. His eyebrows were two dark slashes above thick eyelashes, and his hair, straight and windblown, fell carelessly over his forehead. The style was too long, brushing his shoulders, and not at all fashionable, but she could not help thinking it suited him perfectly. It made his already dark, sensual features look even more exotic.

“Mr. Griffyn!” her aunt all but screeched.

Jane shook her head. This could not be Mr. Griffyn. For if it was Mr. Griffyn, she had just completely embarrassed herself and her aunt.

But more importantly, if this was Mr. Griffyn, she was in trouble.

Three

“Lady Melbourne,” Dominic said through his clenched jaw. The poor woman was shaking with agitation. He turned his gaze to the girl. “You must be Miss Bonde.”

“I must apologize for my earlier statement. I meant no offense.”

“No offense taken. I have heard of you as well.”

She shook her head. “But—”

“And I must say, the accounts have been exaggerated.”

The lovely flush on her face darkened, and her clear blue eyes turned from expressive to stone. He’d wounded her, as was his intent, but he did not feel any triumph. He wished the accounts had been exaggerated, but if anything, his brother had been modest. The girl standing before him was absolutely breathtaking. She was classically beautiful, the English ideal with her blond hair, her blue eyes, and her porcelain skin.

He knew the type. He couldn’t count the times he’d seen derision in a pair of blue eyes. The beauties of the
ton
had shown him time and again that he was not worthy of them. This girl was no different.

Except this girl had something else, something more. There was a voluptuousness, a sensuality to this girl that tugged at him. He couldn’t look away from her. He couldn’t walk away from her. He wanted to rub his thumb over her full bottom lip, wanted to touch her skin to see if it was as soft as it looked, wanted to slide his palm over the full curve of her breast and test its weight.

He wanted her, and she had made it abundantly clear she did not want him. He could hardly blame her, but that did not mean he would forgive the slight.

“I suppose that is that then,” she said, turning. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“No!” Lady Melbourne looked panicked. “Mr. Griffyn, wait just one moment.” Her niece was already moving away, but the older woman moved swiftly to catch her. “Jane, do not walk away, or you will have your uncle to answer to.”

The girl stopped at that threat, and Dominic realized she was as trapped as he was. Her aunt and uncle had thrust him upon her, just as she’d been foisted upon him by his mother. But that did not mean he had to forgive her for the snub she’d given him. Why should he not make her suffer?

“You must at least dance with him,” Lady Melbourne hissed.

“Yes, Miss Bonde, you owe me a dance at the very least.”

She whipped her attention back to him, her mouth slightly agape. “You expect me—”

“Excellent notion, Mr. Griffyn,” Lady Melbourne said. “You have my consent to dance. Go ahead. I will return in one moment.” She glared at her niece. “I am going to fetch Lord Melbourne.” And she hurried back into the ballroom.

“That sounded like a threat,” Dominic drawled. He was surprised when she moved quickly to his side and gestured for him to follow her out of view of the ballroom.

“I do not know who you are or what sort of hold you have over my aunt and uncle, but I will find out, and I will take you down.”

She actually looked as though she meant it, and Dominic did not know why that should arouse him. Her face was inches from his, her gaze boring into him, and all he could think was he wanted to kiss those pursed lips. Strange thought. He did not kiss. Ever. “I take it you are not overly fond of dancing,” he drawled.

“No.”

“Good. Let’s walk.” He moved in the direction of the doors open to the lawns, but just as they reached the exit, a footman rushed through, almost knocking them down. The glass on his tray wavered and then toppled, the dark red contents aiming for Miss Bonde’s sapphire-blue gown. She moved rapidly, faster than he’d ever seen anyone move, and caught the glass without spilling a single drop. With her left hand, she steadied the tray and righted it. The footman began to apologize profusely, promising to fetch her another ratafia or a cake or anything she desired.

Miss Bonde sipped the drink and smiled. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

“I’ll fetch you another, miss. Ratafia. Shaken, not stirred, correct?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s my pleasure.” And he rushed away.

“Do all men react to you like that?” Dominic asked.

“What do you mean?”

“That is answer enough. Come.” He offered his arm. He would have preferred she not touch him, but in this situation he knew the protocol. Even so, she looked as though she might refuse, but then she narrowed her eyes at something she saw in the ballroom and laid her hand on his sleeve. He waited for the shudder of revulsion at her touch, but it never came.

He was still standing there, looking at her arm on his like an idiot, when she said, “Proceed, Mr. Griffyn. I think I would like a walk.”

He led her through the ballroom. A better man would not have noted how many heads turned and how many raised brows accompanied those turned heads. A better man would not have felt a rush of triumph at having the woman every man wanted on his arm.

Dominic was not that man.

They stepped through the doors and into a garden lit by torches and lanterns. The breeze caused the flames to twinkle and flicker, and he could smell the fragrance of summer flowers. The air was cool, but Miss Bonde did not seem to mind it as they made their way past the small crowd of men and women just outside the doors. She paused to sip her beverage once again before setting the glass on a short stone column. He led her down a gravel path, toward the edges of the glow from the ball. Dominic had thought to keep quiet and allow her to speak. In his experience, ladies rarely remained silent for long. But Miss Bonde surprised him, yet again, by keeping her own counsel. She surprised him further by not objecting when he turned down a long aisle enclosed by tall, manicured hedgerows. Most well-bred ladies would have objected, concerned for their virtue. But she seemed…distracted.

Was his company that tedious?

“I have been to far more events this Season than I like to admit,” she said. Dominic was relieved. He had actually been contemplating speaking first. “And I have not seen you before. Have you recently returned from abroad?”

“No.” He expected some show of annoyance from her for his brief answer, but she was peering up at the hedgerows and seemed not to mind. In fact, she seemed not to notice him. He actually peered at the hedgerows himself to see what intrigued her so.

“Do you live in London?” she asked, dragging his attention away.

“When obliged.”

She smiled at that. “You prefer the country?”

“Not necessarily.”

“My lord—” she began, looking up at those blasted hedgerows again.

“I’m no lord.”

“Of course not. I do believe we have satisfied the requirements of our respective guardians.”

“Hardly.”

She glanced at him then, giving him her full attention for the first time since they’d stepped outside. Her eyes, he now noted, were so blue as to be almost violet, and the effect of those stunning eyes focused solely on him was a bit unsettling, which must have accounted for why he wanted to kiss her. Again.