Unmasking the Spy (14 page)

Anti-library Louis.

She wondered how many men shared
his sentiments about female education. Alicia’s hands stilled then began the
song anew. Regardless of whether they carried a positive opinion of female
brains, many men were without libraries in their homes, and most who could
claim a reading room of some sort couldn’t boast a collection like her
father’s.

However, even if Louis were
representative of most men, she still didn’t want him. She had no desire to
marry most men. She wanted a man who loved her. And who was unconcerned with
scandal in her family’s past. She hoped for a sincere suitor, someone who
didn’t see her as a means to acquiring money or connections to a title.

 Thus far, however, the only such
man she’d stumbled across was Rogue. She could hardly marry
him
.
Besides, what made her think he would he even come back? Perhaps his pretty
apology was the last she’d see of him.

Alicia’s heavy hands fell on the
keys, and the discordant sound caused her to jerk her fingers into her lap.

Such a thought ought to make her
happy. The last thing she needed was Rogue, or even reckless romantic ideas of
him. They’d been alone and he hadn’t so much as kissed her. He could have, but
he didn’t. Even though she was alone, Alicia’s cheeks pinked. Perhaps he was a
true gentleman, in the polite sense if not in blood. Or perhaps he found her
unappealing. Perhaps without the trappings of an impressive dowry and an
inheritable title, she couldn’t garner interest.

No. Alicia stood, the bench
scraping the backs of her legs through her skirts.  She would find a fond
husband. She would find love. A fairytale prince. No matter what.

She stepped into the hall and
heard voices. Davis, the butler, asking if he could put wet cloaks by the fire.
Papa must be home. She walked down the corridor to greet him. 

“Evening, Papa.” Alicia forced a
smile. “Louis.”

Startled faces jerked in her
direction. Louis wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Papa nodded. “Alicia.”

“I think you allow her too much
freedom in your library, Chadwick,” Louis whined, still wearing his dripping
hat and clutching his cane to his chest. He must not be staying. Good.

Alicia bared her teeth at him
before turning to her father. “Papa,” she began.

He drummed his fingers against a
wrapped parcel. “I don’t want to hear it, Alicia. I will not rescind your
reading privileges while you remain under my roof. Once you live with Louis,
however, you must bestow upon him all the respect of a dutiful wife.”

Louis smirked, and tried to fluff
his sodden cravat.

Alicia crossed her arms. “I
should think a man secure in his superiority would love to have an intelligent
woman as his wife.”

“Love,” scoffed Louis.
“Irrelevant and unimportant. Love doesn’t last.”

Alicia’s fists went to her hips.
“For some it does. Great-aunt Beatrix has held onto her love for forty-odd
years.”

Louis tossed his head. “Emphasis
on ‘odd’. She’s completely batty. I shouldn’t listen to her if I were you,
cousin. I’m surprised Chadwick hasn’t sent her off somewhere.”

“He would never send her away!
She loves me.”

Louis rolled his eyes.

“Take her with you then, when you
marry,” her father said in bored tones. “And you will marry. Uniting the
branches of our family is best for everyone.” He stared at Alicia. “Now
goodnight, daughter. It’s late and we all need our rest. I’ll see you tomorrow,
Louis.”

“Until then,” Louis answered. He
waited until her father strode halfway down the hall before sneering at Alicia.
“I realize that as a woman, your intelligence is such that you may not grasp
even simple things, so please allow me to make myself clear.” He jabbed a pudgy
finger at her face. “Do not entertain a single thought about bringing that old
quiz to live with us. I won’t have it.”

Alicia shot a frantic glance
toward her father, who had already disappeared into his office. Before she
could respond, Louis pranced out the door. Alicia whirled on her heels and fled
to her room.

Ian clutched a rose with one hand
and tugged on his mask with the other, grateful that the steady drizzle had
tapered into sporadic sprinkles. He had no wish to ruin Chadwick’s painting in
the rain, but he had no intention of leaving it behind again.

He slipped into the house
undetected and ducked into the library. His free hand felt his pocket. Good.
The book was still dry. He headed to the shelf on which he’d found it and bent
to replace the hollow volume between the novel and the book of poetry. No one
would be the wiser.

Now he needed the frame.

Ian stood and looked for the
painting. There. He strode toward it, reaching out with both hands before he
remembered he still held the rose. He paused. Just in case the nocturnal Elizabeth did in fact make an appearance, he ought not to offer her yet another crumpled
flower. Besides, if he tried to lift a painting with a rose stalk across his
palm, the thorns would reward him with a row of bloody puncture wounds. Not
pretty.

With a frown, he shoved the
flower into the pocket previously occupied by the book. Half the stem
protruded. Ian watched in exasperation as the weight of the blossom tipped the
stalk at a precarious angle. Within seconds, the rose fell from his pocket to the
floor.

He had half a mind to leave it
there.

Although, if he did, he’d
probably step on it. Crumpled wildflowers were one thing. Explaining how he’d
ground rose petals into the carpet was quite another.

Ian’s hand swooped down and
snatched up the flower. He looked around the room. He straightened a row of
books and set the rose on the exposed shelf in front of them. No, if he left it
there, he might forget its existence entirely. He was wasting time.

He picked up the flower and
returned to the painting. He trapped the stem with his teeth and hefted the
frame from the wall. Ian prowled back down the hall to the window he’d used to
enter Chadwick House. He sat the canvas down long enough to slide open the
glass. No rain. He picked up the painting, lifted it through the window, and
leaned the frame against the side of the house.

Perfect. He’d pick it up on his
way out.

He closed the glass just as he
heard faint footsteps on the stairs. Should he go back out the window? Ian
cocked his head and listened. The padding of the soft footfalls sounded as
delicate as a woman’s. No doubt the omnipresent Elizabeth descended the steps
on one of her nighttime excursions.

Ian straightened and turned to
face her. His bonneted waif in white tiptoed barefoot down the stairs. As their
eyes met, he realized too late that the length of the rose still protruded from
his mouth. Marvelous.

*          *          *

Alicia stopped so suddenly she
almost pitched forward from the final step to land in a heap on the floor. Had
she really thought he wouldn’t return? No, she admitted, she’d suspected he
might. She’d done her face up with black velvet shapes just in case. She’d been
right about Rogue. Here was a man whose word could be trusted. He’d even
brought her a better flower, as he’d promised. Clutched in his teeth. What more
could she want?

Although, Alicia realized as she
stepped into the hallway, the flower did look a bit worse for the wear. No
matter. Beggars ought not to be choosy.

He walked toward her, away from
the dark window, the limp stem bouncing with each step. Alicia had the
suspicion he strode to meet her in the shadows of the hallway so she could not
determine the precise condition of the flower whose stem hung in angles from
his teeth.

When he stood an arm’s length
from her, she broke the silence.

“You brought me a flower?” she
whispered.

Rogue dropped to one knee and
removed the rose from his teeth. “Because your lips are as rosy as cherries.”

Alicia blinked. “Do you mean as
red as roses? This is a rose, not a cherry. Besides, you cannot even see my
lips.”

“Please, madam,” he answered with
faux sternness. “Do permit me to mangle my metaphors in any manner I choose.”

“My apologies, I’m sure,” she
replied with a stilted curtsy. He rose to his feet, holding the blossom in his
fingers.

“May I find it some water?” she
asked.

Rogue placed the rose in her
outstretched palm. Although the bloom looked beautiful, the stem felt wet and
somewhat, well, chewed.

As if he could read her mind,
Rogue muttered, “It may be soggy enough already.”

“It’s the thought that counts,”
Alicia assured him. “It’s terribly romantic.” She reached out to pat his arm
and her fingertips brushed against the naked skin of his wrist.

She froze.

Rogue’s free hand covered hers,
trapping her trembling palm against his hot skin. Alicia didn’t move. She
stared at him in breathless anticipation. His pulse throbbed beneath her
fingertips. Her own raced in response.

He took a step closer.

Mere inches now separated them,
their joined hands trapped between their bodies. Alicia swallowed. Exhilaration
pulsed in her blood. Rogue lifted the hand that covered hers. She didn’t move.
Rogue’s fingertips glided along the line of her hair and a delicious shiver
traveled her body. She bit her lip.

His fingers caressed the line of
her jaw and curled under her chin. With one knuckle, Rogue tilted her face
upward.

Alicia waited, excitement
quivering in her stomach.

He angled his face over hers and
brushed the tip of her nose lightly with his. Alicia’s eyelids fluttered
closed. His breath steamed against her bare cheek, his curved knuckle still
tucked under her chin.

His mouth brushed against hers
and increased its gentle pressure.

*          *          *

Ian felt her moist lips melt
against his.  Unbidden, his hands framed her face, holding her captive. Her
eyes were closed. He rubbed his mouth against hers. One of her hands crept up
his stomach and splayed across his chest. She slid the hand down the length of
his side, leaving a hypersensitive trail of heated skin in her wake.

He released her face from his
hands, gliding his palms down the sides of her neck and along the tops of her
shoulders before returning his arms to his sides.

She did not pull away.

Her lips returned the pressure.
His body struggled inside his too-tight pantaloons.  Ian stifled a groan. He
broke the kiss, his ragged breath betraying his arousal.

If he didn’t get out of there
soon, he was liable to make some very unwise decisions.

He traced the line of her jaw
with the knuckles of one hand. She opened her eyes and dipped her head so that
his knuckle grazed across her lower lip. Ian fought the urge to grab her and
give her a kiss she’d never forget.

“I must go,” he whispered.

He forced himself to turn away
and walk toward the window without looking back to meet her eyes. She did not
follow him. He opened the glass and paused. When he heard no movement from her,
he slid over the windowsill and dropped to the ground.

Ian allowed himself a brief
moment to ensure she was not staring through the window. What on earth
possessed him to kiss her? Well, besides a very healthy set of masculine urges.
He retrieved the painting and cut across the yard into the shadows. He was
going to need a long bath.

And ice cold water.

*          *          *

When the footmen cleared away the
last remnants of lunch, Ian stood and considered the painting on the floor, now
resting against one wall. He crossed the room to retrieve it and placed it in
the exact center of his dinner table. At least he’d accomplished
something
logical last night.

Ian collapsed into a chair. He
propped one elbow on the table, slumped forward until his forehead rested on
his fist, and stared at the painting. What on earth had he been thinking?

Well, first, he’d been thinking
about recovering the frame. That was good. That was his job. But then what
happened? He took one look at a barefoot
houri
and his brains were
replaced by his – well, in this case, his mouth. At least he’d stopped with a
kiss. A chaste kiss. The merest peck of a kiss. Ian rocked his head on his
hand. How he’d wanted more than that kiss!

And Elizabeth had not stopped
him. She had not pulled away, nor slapped him for his impudence. He was certain
from the innocence of her response that she had never before been kissed. She
had closed her eyes. Leaned forward. Kissed him back.

Ian snapped his head up. This
line of thought helped nothing. To be honest, he’d been surprised she had
indulged romance of any sort, as addled as he must have looked, crawling
through the window with a cockeyed rose hanging limply from his mouth.

Her transparent delight with the gesture suggested
she might never have had a suitor before. Ian reached out and straightened the
frame. Spinster or not, being cooped up indoors would starve anyone for some
excitement. Once he cleared Chadwick’s name, he’d have to think of some way to
get Elizabeth out into the world, so she could find her perfect someone. She’d
never find a husband roaming the halls of Chadwick House.