The Smuggler Wore Silk (17 page)

Julian turned back to Sir Richard and his new hunter, but he barely heard the man’s enthusiastic description. Sir Richard had a cousin in the government. Although he appeared unfamiliar and uncaring about his cousin’s position it could easily be a pretense. Undersecretary of what? With a few well-placed questions he could easily find out.

His thoughts were interrupted as another group of guests congratulated them on their marriage. Sir Richard and Lady Elliott moved away a few minutes later, then the new group was replaced by yet more guests. Then they, too, moved on and Julian found himself momentarily alone with his new bride. Once more treason would overlay their relationship.

“Grace?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He looked down, placed his hand over the long feminine fingers that lay on his sleeve. He gave those fingers an apologetic caress.

Silver eyes locked on his. Resignation filled their depths, as did comprehension. “What do you need?”

“Fair lady, you are the most understanding of wives.” He lifted her fingers, pressed them against his lips. His other hand slid around her waist and pulled her close to his side. He let his fingers linger, let them stroke just at the edge of her belly. He heard her breath catch, and smiled in satisfaction.

“I need more interaction with Lord Paget and Michael Wargell while I have the opportunity. Then, when our guests leave”—he placed his mouth by her ear and whispered—“it will be just you and me, Grace.”

Her quiver sent lust spearing through him. He knew what she felt like, had touched that delicate skin. And knew that beneath the cool exterior lay a deep well of passion. He wanted it. Fiercely.

“I intend to hold you to that promise.” She scanned the room, then nodded toward a corner of the salon. “Clotilde Wargell is on the settee wearing the bright gold gown.”

The crowd parted and Julian glimpsed a woman with auburn hair, her head tilted toward a female companion to give the appearance of listening. But the bored and superior expression on the woman’s exquisite features told Julian she didn’t care what her companion was saying. She was one of a group of seated women chattering to each other while their male counterparts stood slightly apart, conversing on some heavy topic.

“Michael is standing near the fireplace, holding the brandy glass.”

Julian looked down at Grace. Her voice was flat, her face devoid of expression. He hated to hurt her, but it had to be done.

Julian studied Grace’s former betrothed. Handsome, his dark hair just beginning to gray, and as bored as his wife. He hadn’t paid close attention the first time they’d met as he’d only known Wargell as the man who’d jilted and compromised Grace. Not a gentlemanly act, of course, but no reason to suspect him of treason.

“Yes, I remember them,” he said. “Do they have any political or diplomatic connections that you are aware of?”

“No, but Clotilde Wargell and I are not close acquaintances. As for Michael—I couldn’t say. He never mentioned it.”

Which made Julian wonder exactly what they
had
talked about. Then he thought of his night with Grace, of their lovemaking. He knew what they
hadn’t
talked about—or done. Possessiveness swept through him. For all the gossip about her reputation, he knew the truth. She was his, and his alone.

He caught her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Let’s act as a proper bride and groom and greet our guests.”

He escorted her toward the group of seated women, exchanged brief greetings and then joined the men near the fireplace. Julian focused his attention on Michael Wargell.

“Congratulations on your marriage to Grace, Langford,” Wargell said smoothly.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head, holding Wargell’s cold eyes with his own. Not by even a flicker did Wargell convey any awkwardness about his relationship with Grace.

“Will you be returning to London now that the nuptials are complete?” Wargell glanced at Grace, just one quick, searching look.

It set Julian’s teeth on edge.

“I can’t imagine you’ll be able to persuade Grace to travel to London.” Wargell returned his gaze to Julian’s. “She’s too entrenched here in Beer.”

“Is that why you cried off? Because she wouldn’t travel to London?” Julian kept his voice low. Control seemed a dangerously tenuous thing at that moment.

The men around them fell silent. He could sense their eyes on him, could feel the tension thick in the air.

Wargell said nothing for a moment. He stood there, the brandy glass clutched in his hand, his face devoid of any expression. “We wouldn’t have suited,” he said sharply. “She’s not what she seems.”

“No.” He narrowed his eyes. “She’s more than she seems. But then, a gentleman would know that.”

Wargell’s mouth opened. Closed. He tossed back the brandy. “Clotilde and I—”

“You look like two bulls fighting over a cow.” Lord Stuart Paget slid between them and punctuated his words by the loud crack of a cane on the floor. “Don’t make a scene. It’s bad enough you hosted this wedding breakfast to flaunt your mistakes, Langford.”

Julian’s fist clenched, and he barely restrained himself from plowing it into Lord Paget’s gaunt face. He swallowed the fury and waited until the roaring in his ears subsided.

“I would suggest you refrain from calling my marriage a mistake on my wedding day.” Forcing his fist to relax, Julian smiled at Paget. Or at least he tried to. He was certain it appeared more as a snarl than a smile. “That would be the height of impropriety.”

“I’m telling you what I see. Half the guests are trying to hear what the two of you are saying. Keep it polite.” He leaned on the cane, narrowed eyes flicking back and forth between them.

Julian looked at Grace. She was watching him, her silver gaze enigmatic, though she was far enough away she couldn’t hear what was being said. But her hands were gripped together, their fingers bone white. He became once more conscious of the nervously silent men around him. Good. Let them be nervous.

He turned back to Wargell. “I think we know where we stand,” he said softly. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would we? Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Grace still stood near the settee, listening to Clotilde Wargell. He stalked toward them, temper still pushing at him.

It spiked when he heard Mrs. Wargell’s sly tone. “Of course, we all know the earl compromised you,
my lady
. If he hadn’t you would still be just Miss Gracie, wouldn’t you?”

He reached out, snagged Grace’s fingers and brought them to his lips. He kept his eyes on hers, let the desire he felt for her burn from them and saw her cheeks turn pink.

“Fair lady,” he murmured over her fingertips. “My world had grown dim without your shining beauty by my side.”

Her blush deepened. “My lord, you remember Mrs. Clotilde Wargell?”

Julian gave the beautiful woman a perfunctory nod. “My apologies, Mrs. Wargell. I find myself blinded by my bride.”

He wrapped an arm around Grace’s waist and drew her to his side.

“Of course.” Mrs. Wargell’s eyes glittered. “Any man would be.”

“Not so.” He could feel Grace trying to pull away from him and used the advantage of superior strength to draw her closer. “I find the men here to be remarkably shortsighted.” He raised Grace’s hand and kissed her fingers once more, this time lingering over them. Then he turned and stared straight into Clotilde Wargell’s eyes.

“I’ve been to the Continent, Mrs. Wargell. And if other men in this area spent more time there, they would have recognized my bride for the jewel she is instead of settling for something . . . less.” He sent a pointed look at an oblivious Michael Wargell.

A titter sounded behind him and he knew his set-down had been overheard. Temper assuaged, he pulled Grace away without even a polite good-bye.

T
HE MEAL WAS
over, the guests departing. As Julian stood on the gravel drive beyond the front door saying farewell to their final guests, Grace found herself alone in the entrance of Thistledown. She crossed her arms, gripped her elbows and stared blankly around the entryway.

She was mistress of Thistledown, she supposed. A countess. What did a countess do? For that matter, what did a wife do? She turned her head, watched through the front windows as Julian’s lean form crossed to the stables. She didn’t know what he expected from her. Perhaps he expected her to go straight to the bedroom so he could claim his marital rights.

Her pulse leapt. She could accommodate that demand. She had already, after all, and discovered a range of delights. The feel of skin against skin was so unexpectedly delicious, the taste of him so utterly male. Something fluttered in her belly as she watched her husband walk up the gravel drive toward the manor. He moved with such fluidity, limbs loose and graceful, yet full of purpose as well. The sun played over his features, gilding them, and the autumn wind ruffled his hair. He was so handsome, so strong.

And all hers.

Desire coursed through her, sending a warm tingling low in her belly.

On this day, Julian Travers was hers for the taking.

When he entered the front hall again, windblown and cheerful, she was ready for him. Reaching out a hand, Grace sent him a provocative smile. “My lord? Shall we retire?”

Instantly, his eyes went dark with desire. He returned her smile, though his was full of knowing amusement. “So early, my lady? It’s barely three o’clock in the afternoon.”

Heat rushed her face. Was she supposed to wait until the evening? “I believe I mentioned this once before, Julian, but a smuggler is going to make a dreadful countess.”

He took her hand, raising it to his lips. His eyes held hers as his lips pressed hot against her fingers. The heat shot up her arm and straight down to her belly. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat because now she knew exactly how those lips would feel on her most sensitive skin.

“Fair lady,” he said, drawing her toward the massive staircase that led to the second floor. “At the moment, I find myself grateful for a smuggling wife. My enthusiasm to retire knows no bounds.”

Something within her clutched, then released, and she laughed as he drew her up the front stairs and toward their chambers. He stopped before a pair of doors and pushed them open. Bright sunshine warmed the room and gleamed over Julian’s hair.

“Julian, the windows! How—?” They were everywhere. It was as though the walls had disappeared and all she could see were trees and lawn and sky.

No, that wasn’t true, she corrected as Julian closed the door behind her. There were certainly more windows than there should have been. And between them, around them, were dozens of paintings of the sea, the tropics, lush gardens, and fields that sprawled forever.

She whirled to face him. He must have seen the question in her eyes.

“It was dark in here.” He shrugged. “I had the stonemason and glassmakers put in new windows and bought some paintings while I was in London. But it doesn’t signify.” His brows drew together and he stepped forward. “Unless you hate it?”

“I love it. It’s beautiful, and so—” She didn’t know. Liberating wasn’t right. Open, perhaps. Spacious.

“Good.”

“Does the countess’s suite have so many windows? Oh—the bed!” How had she missed that mountain of white and blue and gold? Anticipation flooded her, sharp and sweet.

“Ah yes. The bed. My favorite piece.” He drew her to him, his hand coming behind her to rest at the small of her back. “What’s your favorite painting, fair lady?”

“There are so many, and each of them a different setting.” She looked around, studying the paintings. His hand began caressing small, light circles against her back. Just the lightest touch and yet her breath caught, then released on a sigh. “That one,” she breathed, nodding her head.

He spun them around and through beams of sunshine toward the painting until she stood before it.

“An island in the ocean.” His voice purred in her ear. He was just behind her, pressed against her back, his cravat tickling her bare neck. His arm came around her, his hand resting on her stomach. His fingers splayed out, hot arrows against her belly. “Not the green shores of England?”

“No.” She ran her thumb along the shoreline in the painting, just at the line of beautiful turquoise water and luminous white sand. “It’s so exotic. So different from what I know. The palm trees, the greenery, the bright tropical flowers—it all seems so lush and vibrant.”

“Perhaps the smuggling captain should take his consort there.”

She smiled at the memory of their first kiss, and the smuggling captain he’d claimed to be.

Lips touched her shoulder, pressing against that sensitive flesh where shoulder curved to neck. And now she was breathless, her body taut with anticipation. Aware of his every breath, she tipped her head. Those clever, clever lips drifted up until they were pressed just below her jaw.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, “she’s ready to be swept away.”

“To an island in the southern seas then, where the sand is white and hot and the ocean is blue as a bluebell.”

She turned to face him, pressing herself against him. Her lips tipped up of their own accord as she looked up into his lean features. And his eyes. Oh, how she loved those eyes.

“I would say the ocean is the brilliant blue of the sky in midsummer,” she murmured.

He looked puzzled for a moment. Then the expression faded as she rose on her toes and kissed him.

Hungrily. She was hungry for him, for his body, for his laughter. For the light. Pouring herself into the kiss, she ran her fingers across his broad shoulders. Even as she touched the smooth cloth of his coat, even as she tasted him, she could feel his nimble fingers fluttering over the buttons at her back. The gown loosened, the bodice slipping and sliding from her breasts. If she shrugged, even a little, the gown would simply slither to the floor.

His gaze flicked down, lingering on the round swells of her breasts. She saw his lips curve, ever so slightly, in pleasure. She went hot. Her skin, her blood, her body. And so she shrugged, letting the gown fall away. Fingers worked at her stays, until those too fell away and she was standing in only her thin cotton chemise.

She could hear his breathing turn ragged as he gazed at her, as his eyes went dark with desire.

“What would they do on that tropical island?” she demanded softly. “Show me.”

“He would sweep her away, as promised.”

He scooped her up, so quickly she gasped and gripped his arms. He was carrying her, she thought in wonderment. It made her feel foolish to revel in the strength and fluidity of his lean muscles.

“He would lay her down in the waves, just at the place where the warm, salty ocean kisses the shore.”

Gently, he settled her on the bed among the plush pillows and silk coverlet. Beneath her, the soft mattress gave way, cradling her body as she watched him disrobe. His clothes fell to the floor, coat then shirt then breeches.

She smiled in invitation. “He would join her there in the ocean, and let the waves lap against both of them,” she murmured as she reached out to draw him to her.

“So he would.” Then he was there beside her, propped against the pillows and looking down at her. With the tip of one finger crooked under the edge of her chemise, he pulled at the light fabric. “He would bare her skin to the hot sunshine, inch by tantalizing inch, and would kiss that smooth and creamy skin.”

His head tipped forward and when his lips touched the skin of her collarbone she sighed. Her breathing quickened as the chemise slipped down her arms and bared her breasts to him. Though she could hear a fire crackling somewhere in the room, the air felt cool on her heated flesh.

Her nipples stood erect, exquisitely sensitive to the air. It was torture when his thumb brushed across the point, then again when his mouth closed over it. Needing something to ground her, she threaded her fingers through his thick hair.

He raised his head, brushed his lips against hers.

“The water would lap at his woman’s toes,” he said. “Then her calves, then her thighs.”

Fingers tickled her toes, then slid slowly up her calf. His touch was so gentle, yet she felt every ridge of the calluses on his palm. He grazed the back of her knee, then moved up under her chemise to skim along her thigh. Her muscles quivered under his touch.

She wanted to writhe, to move against him. She wanted
something
. Spreading her fingers across his chest, she tugged gently at the sprinkling of hair there. Beneath his smooth skin and lean muscle, she felt his heart pounding hard. The quick beat matched her own frantic pulse.

“Can you hear the rhythm of the ocean?” she whispered. Taking his hand, she pressed it against her breasts. Against her frenzied heartbeat. “Can you feel the beat of it?”

“Grace,” he groaned.

His lips swooped down to hers, demanding and greedy. A moment later he drew off her chemise. When he ranged himself over her, his gaze locked on hers. Held, even as he kissed her. Mouth to mouth, skin to skin.

Heart to heart.

As he loved her, as their bodies joined, something powerful rushed through her. It filled her heart so that the essence of her seemed saturated with it. The wonder of that sensation, the sheer enormity of it, left her breathless.

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him with all the tenderness she possessed. Wrapping herself around him, she met him thrust for thrust, beat for beat, until it seemed they were flooded by the thrum and pulse of the ocean.

__________

C
URLED AGAINST HIM
and warmed by the heat of his skin, Grace woke in darkness.

She’d been wanton—the first time and the second time. And the third time, after their cold supper in his room. Now she lay quiet, exploring the sensation of Julian’s skin against hers, his chest against her back. His breath fluttered in her ear, his heart beat slow and steady.

How strange, she thought. Flesh to flesh. So close, so intimate.

The fire had faded to only the faintest glowing of embers in the hearth. Yet cocooned by the silk coverlet and Julian’s arms, she barely felt the cool night air. Instead, she felt limber and loose. And oddly foolish.

It seemed as though their hearts had beat as one. But surely that was impossible. Yet in that moment she’d never felt so close to another person.

It was thrilling and terrifying and wonderful.

Julian’s arm slid around her belly and tightened, pulling her closer. “Are you well?” The words were thick with sleep and barely understandable.

“Yes.” She stroked the arm that held her close.

“Good,” he whispered. She felt his lips brush against her bare shoulder, the lightest of kisses.

Content, she sighed and settled herself against him. She’d just drifted to the edges of sleep when she heard the sounds.

A rough scrape, then a thud.

Julian’s muscles hardened, his body stiffened, and she knew that he, too, had heard it. He shifted and his lips touched her ear. “Stay here. Stay quiet.”

He pushed back the coverlet and moved away from her, leaving nothing but cool night air behind him. She rolled over to watch him slip soundlessly from the bed. Naked, he stalked across the room to the pile of clothing that had fallen to the floor hours before. His movements quick and silent, Julian drew on his breeches. He bent again, paused, drew something from beneath the remaining pile of fabric.

Moonlight flashed on a short, thin blade.

Her eyes widened. Where had that knife been hiding? Had he carried it during the wedding ceremony?

Then she couldn’t think at all. He turned to look at her, the color of his eyes indistinguishable in the moonlight, but the intensity in his gaze mesmerized her. Sharp, cunning, hard. Not the gentle eyes of the man she’d married that morning or the man she’d made love to.

These were the eyes of a spy.

He melted into the deep shadows across the room. She heard no sound, not even his breath, and it was as though she were alone in the room. Muscles tensed and poised to leap, she waited. Endless minutes passed where there was no sound beyond the bump of her own heart and the rushing in her ears.

Her breath caught when he stepped to the windowed door leading to the narrow balcony outside their room. His shape stood out in relief against the night sky as he opened the door and slipped through. A quiet click sounded as the latch caught and it closed again. Julian merged with the shadows on the other side of the glass and he was gone.

Stay here
, he’d said. She understood the intent behind his command was to keep her safe. But she refused to stay in the bed, naked and vulnerable, waiting.

She slid from the bed and crossed the room, trying to be as quiet as Julian had been. In the silent night it seemed she could hear the loud drumming of her own heart. Drawing on her cotton dressing gown, she crept to a window. Inching the drape aside, she peered through the glass at the dark night beyond.

The white limestone balcony gleamed in the moonlight, its shape a sharp contrast against the soft landscape beyond. Lawn and trees were only outlines, black shapes against the night sky. Stars winked from behind gray clouds, and a low-hanging sliver of moon brushed the treetops on the horizon.

She searched the darkness for Julian. Though the balcony was nearly ten feet long, it was only a few feet wide. He could not have gone far.

It wasn’t long before she saw the black figure climb over the railing and slip onto the balcony, but it wasn’t Julian. It dropped to a crouch, the figure’s head moving side to side as though scanning the terrace. She didn’t dare move the curtain, didn’t dare breathe. She waited, wondering where her trunks were. Her pistol was in the bottom of the smallest trunk, wrapped in a shawl.

Another figure appeared, momentarily silhouetted against the sky. Grace recognized the second figure as Julian. Yet he seemed like nothing but smoke, dark and lean and lithe, a sinuous shadow that hovered above the white limestone and moved with fluid grace.