Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (37 page)

“From whom?”

“Baron—Lord Keating.”

“What does he say?”

“The gist of it is that he is now head of the Barbican group.”

Dominic blinked.

“You thought it would go to Wolf?” she asked, noting his surprise.

“I thought Melbourne would remain.”

She pushed her hair back from her face. “Then there would be no Barbican. The king would not force Melbourne out, but no agent would work for him. Foncé was one of his, trained by him personally. M failed in his role as a leader.”

“Is that what Baron said?”

“It is what my uncle said. Here.” She climbed to her knees and reached for her discarded gown. Rifling through it, she found a crumpled envelope. Dominic squinted in the dim light of the lamp but could not make out the words. “Never mind, I have it memorized. The part that matters says,
and
so
I
am
retiring. I take full responsibility for my failings. Baron has my support and loyalty, and I hope yours as well.

“He goes on like that for a page or so, and then he apologizes to me.”

“That does not sound like him.”

She shrugged. “He says,
I
always
loved
you, but I suppose I did not love you enough.
” Her voice broke on the last, and Dominic gathered her into his lap.

“I’m sorry.” He cradled her close, like one might a child. “I love you. It isn’t as much as you deserve—”

“It’s more than I deserve,” she interrupted. “It’s everything.” She snuggled into his chest, and he held her to him, savoring the feel of her. This was what he had been missing in his life. This closeness, this oneness.

“You once said you would laugh when I told you I loved you,” he reminded her.

“I do not feel so jovial at the moment, although there is cause to celebrate.”

“What is that?”

“Lady Keating included a note along with Baron’s letter. I read it first because I do tire of Baron’s directives.”

He smiled. “And what did it say?”

“That the Smythes’ son is doing very well indeed. She says he has a hearty appetite and a lusty yell, and Lord and Lady Smythe have called him their most difficult mission yet. Lord Keating has taken to trying to steal the weary Wallace away, or at least convince the butler to tutor the Keatings’ man.”

“So Baron is the type who kicks a man when he is down.”

She giggled. “For a chance at a butler like Wallace? I’d kick Wolf too, though I do not believe a mere babe will lay him low for long.”

“I, too, trust the Smythes will meet the challenge.”

“That’s not all.”

He stroked her hair. “What else, my love?”

“My love?”

He could hear the smile, the pleasure in her voice.

“Lady Keating writes she hopes to soon share in their joy. Can you imagine?”

He could not. “Are you saying she is breeding?”

“I forgot that I cannot be subtle with you. Yes, she is going to have another baby. Perhaps they will finally have an heir. Baron, the lout, did not mention it. Is that obvious enough?” She poked him.

“Oh, it’s subtlety you want, is it?” He pulled her down on the hay, settling his body over hers. “I can be subtle.” He nipped at her earlobe, tracing a warm path down the skin of her soft neck until she was moving beneath him, pushing to be closer, to melt her body into his. “Admit it, Jane,” he whispered, his hand trailing across her shoulder to caress her warm breast. “You don’t like subtle.”

“Oh, very well. Throw subtlety to the dogs. Ravish me.” She raked her fingers through his hair and closed her legs about his waist. “I want to know I’ve been ravished.”

He bent to take her nipple in his mouth, then paused and sat back. She raised a brow. “Is this more of your subtlety?”

“No. It occurred to me we are to marry in a fortnight, and I have not yet proposed to you.”

She rose on her elbows, allowing her chemise to fall off her shoulder. One breast was already visible in the lamplight. He need but tug on the material, and he could have both in his hands. He could have her in his arms.

“You proposed in my uncle’s offices at Barbican headquarters.”

“A proposal that you called the worst in history, or something to that effect.”

“Hmm.” She reached for his waistband and pulled him to her. “I don’t care about that any longer. Come here.”

He stood. “Not until I do this properly.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re no proper gentleman. If you’re going to propose, do it most improperly.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Oh, yes.” She tugged him closer, but he resisted, instead falling to one knee before her. She raised a brow.

“We are in a stable, half-naked, and about to make love. I cannot think of anything more improper. This is a story we will not tell the grandchildren.”

“Or perhaps we might tell them an edited version.”

“And it shall go something like this. Miss Bonde, from the moment I saw you, you stole my heart. I did not give it freely.”

“God knows that is the truth.”

He ignored her. “And you did not request it. You stole it away, and when I tried to reclaim it, I found I didn’t want it anymore. I wanted yours instead.”

Her eyes were shining with tears now. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

“Oh, Dominic.
You
are perfect.” She reached for him.

“I am not finished.”

She had the nerve to appear exasperated.

“And when you gave me your heart, I knew there was only one thing to do. Miss Bonde, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He was actually nervous saying the words. He hoped she had not heard his voice waver. She would say yes. Of course she would say yes. The banns had already been called twice.

“Dominic—I mean, Mr. Griffyn—I would like nothing more. Except”—she tugged him to her—“perhaps to be ravished.”

Dominic gladly obliged.

SHANA GALEN’S NEW REGENCY ROMANCE SERIES Covent Garden Cubs

WILL BE INTRODUCED IN EARLY 2015 WITH A NOVELLA
Viscount of Vice

READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK He was going to hell.
Shame
, Flynn thought, dangling from the third-floor window of a town house in exclusive Grosvenor Square. It was his birthday tomorrow, too. Actually, given the time of night, he’d already attained his twenty-seventh year.

His hand slipped, and he felt the moisture gathering on his fingers. He could not hold on much longer. Perhaps his death was for the best. It wasn’t as though anyone would mourn him. It wasn’t as though he had anything to live for.

Still, it seemed harsh even for one such as Beelzebub to claim him when he was hanging naked from the window of one of the most prestigious addresses in Mayfair.

“Flynn!” a woman’s voice hissed. His name was Henry Flynn, and he was the new Lord Chesham, but most everyone still called him Flynn—that was, when he wasn’t being called something far less complimentary.

“Still here,” he answered through teeth clenched with the effort of maintaining his hold.

A cloud of blond hair appeared above him, and he felt her hand on his. “Quick! Climb up before he returns.”

He
was her husband, a duke of enormous wealth and power. If
he
found Flynn in the duchess’s bedchamber, he’d ruin Flynn and the entire Chesham family. The danger of discovery hadn’t deterred Flynn from accepting the duchess’s invitation, though. In fact, the more risk, the better. He should simply let go of the ledge and get it over with. Then he could stop looking for death.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and hauled himself upward. His arms shook with the effort, but he managed to gain the leverage he needed, and the duchess made a show of hauling him the rest of the way inside.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked without preamble.

“You cannot think to leave now,” she protested. She was dressed in a frilly robe, cut low to display her generous cleavage. In truth, the duchess was beautiful, if a bit past her prime, but their close call had stolen away Flynn’s desire for the distraction provided by a dalliance.

“I
do
think to leave now, Your Grace.” He looked about for his clothing. It had been scattered about on the floor by her bed, but now it had vanished. He did not want to walk through the ball naked as the day he was born, but he would do so if it became necessary. Let the duchess explain that to her guests. Of course, the
ton
expected nothing less of the man they’d proclaimed the Viscount of Vice.

“But, my lord,” the duchess protested, extending a long finger to stroke his chest. “You have not yet fulfilled your promises. This was to be a night I would not soon forget.”

Any lingering desire he might have felt revolted at her touch. “It is a night
I
will not soon forget,” he replied. “And one your husband will not soon forget if I’m forced to exit dressed—or rather, undressed—like so.”

“That would be unwise, Flynn,” she said, raking her gaze over him. “One look at you and the female attendees would swoon. You are an excellent specimen of manhood.”

“Thank you. My clothing?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Certainly. As soon as you fulfill your promises.”

Flynn narrowed his eyes. She thought that sort of veiled threat would persuade him? Even if she’d been the queen herself, Flynn was not going to bed a woman he did not desire. He had not sunk that low. “Very well, Your Grace,” he said with a nod. She smiled and reached for the tie of her robe. Flynn walked right past her, ignoring her squeal of protest, and stopped to retrieve his beaver hat, which he’d spotted under a side table. From that angle, he spied his trousers under the bed, and one of his boots behind a curtain. Thus attired, Flynn stepped into the corridor outside her bedchamber.

A maid rushing by with an armful of linen shrieked and dropped her load. Flynn tipped his hat and continued on. He was halfway to the main staircase when the duchess appeared in her doorway. “Flynn,” she hissed. “Flynn!”

Without looking back, he descended the stairs. The footman stationed at the base of the enormous curving marble staircase looked up at him, blinked, and looked forward again, his expression stoic. The guests in the vestibule were not quite so well trained. Fortunately, there were only a dozen or so men and women in the entryway. Most of the guests were in the ballroom, but there were always guests leaving early or arriving late. Several women shrieked, a man or two cursed, and Flynn kept his head high despite the chuckles and murmurs of appreciation.

An old school chum, whose name Flynn didn’t remember, nodded at him. “Nice hat, Flynn.”

“Thank you.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” a woman yelled, pointing a finger at him. Her other hand was wrapped around a debutante’s head, shielding the girl’s eyes. He could see the girl blinking at him through the spaces between her mother’s fingers. Flynn winked and kept walking. Finally, he was at the doorway.

“Your carriage, my lord?” the butler asked.

“Yes.”

“Shall I have your greatcoat fetched, my lord?”

Flynn glanced at the man and nodded. “Please. I find the breeze a bit nippy this evening.”

“Yes, my lord.”

And so it was that the Viscount of Vice had to return to his town house for a change of wardrobe before he was able to travel to his club. Of course, by the time he arrived at Brooks, the news had already spread, and he encountered every reaction from slaps on the shoulder to cold stares.

He headed for the Great Subscription Room, intent on gambling and drinking his way into oblivion, but he was stopped at the wide double doors. A bleary-eyed man with disheveled gray hair and a bulbous red nose stepped in front of him.

“Excuse me, my lord.”

The man was the earl or marquess of something, but Flynn would be damned if he could remember. He did remember he’d won a great deal from the lord the last time he’d gambled here. Apparently, the man held a grudge.

“You choused me out of three hundred pounds the last time we met.”

Flynn raised a brow and observed several heads turned in their direction. The Great Subscription Room had a concave ceiling, which ensured sound carried. “I did not chouse you,” Flynn said. “I won fairly.”

The lord stumbled forward and pointed a lily-white finger in his face. “You’ve never lived an honest day in your life. Get out before I have you thrown out.”

Several men, presumably the lord’s friends, stepped forward in a menacing show of support for the man. Flynn sighed. This was not his night. Hell, it had not been his year or even his decade. He sure as the devil was not going to retreat, which meant he was going to be thrown out, probably quite unceremoniously. At least this time he’d be fully dressed. Flynn stepped forward, mirroring the actions of the men facing him. “I’d like to see you try to throw me out.”

“Gentlemen,” a genial voice said from behind him. Flynn turned to the Great Subscription Room and watched as the Duke of Ravenscroft ambled toward them. “We are still gentlemen, are we not?” the duke asked, spreading his hands. “I came here to escape the squalls of the new infant in my home, and instead of peace, I find quite the opposite.”