You Only Love Once (12 page)

“This is not a good idea,” she said. “It is, in fact, a very poor idea.”

“Kiss me again, and then you can explain why.”

“Stop,” she said sharply, even though he hadn't done anything. The lace at the neckline of her gown fluttered with every breath she took. “I cannot—You cannot—”

Nate made no reply. She meant
she
should not, which might be true, given her employer, and that
he
should not, which he didn't believe at all. Shouldn't kiss a woman who dazzled and amazed him, who could mesmerize him with nothing more than a quirk of her lips, who drew him like a moth to the flame? Perhaps he
shouldn't
, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. He'd willingly risk incineration. “Then tell me you didn't like it,” he said instead. “Tell me it disgusted you, and I'll keep an honorable distance.”

Her rosy lips parted. Desire rose up, hot and sweet, inside him, and Nate realized too late he had just handed her a weapon to keep him at arm's length forever. She would say it disgusted her, even if they both knew it hadn't, and he would have to keep his word. “I should not even have to ask. Don't do it again.”

He wanted to growl in primitive satisfaction. She didn't want to say it—she didn't want to keep him away, at least not permanently. But at the same time she was afraid he'd kiss her again, and that her reaction would be even more revealing. Nate, on the other hand, knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't be able to hide how it affected him.
Even knowing how much it would leave him in her power, he didn't think he would be able to step away twice. “I won't,” he agreed, then added recklessly, “Unless we both need it.”

She went rigid for a split second, then raised her head to a regal angle. “Your needs, Mr. Avery, are your concern. And my needs…are mine. Only mine.”

She turned with a swish of her skirt and climbed the stairs. Nate stood and watched her go until she was swallowed by the Stygian darkness above. It was late and he had just been thoroughly rebuffed, but…Good God in heaven. She wasn't immune to him after all. A hot tingle of satisfaction rushed through his veins, even as he reminded himself not to be dazzled. Or at least not blinded. Or at the very, very least, not stupid about it.

T
he next night Angelique made plans to return to Vauxhall Gardens. Nate said nothing, just looked at her for a long moment before nodding. She kept her own feelings to herself. Their best link to Dixon was Davis Hurst; they knew he liked Vauxhall; and they had almost nothing else to go on. They visited more jewel shops that day, but learned nothing more. No matter that Barings could be at Vauxhall again, or that if he had recognized her, someone else might as well. She knew they had to go back, and go they would, but this time she would be ready for anything.

Anything, that was, except another kiss.

“Remember what we have planned,” she said in the hackney. “Do not take it on yourself to confront him.”

He shot her an unreadable glance in the dark carriage. “Of course not.”

“Even if someone should recognize either of us,” she said, as coldly and bluntly as she felt. It could be disaster if Barings were there again, but she reminded herself that it was her lapse, not Nate's.
If it happened again, she would deal with it more appropriately.

Just as she would deal with any other kisses more appropriately, should they occur.

He looked out the window for a while. “I don't think I proved myself useless here last night.”

He hadn't. She had thought her heart would explode in joy when he appeared beside her. “No, I did not say so,” she said gently. “But we agreed this was the best way to flush Hurst out, and nothing has changed that.”

“Nothing,” he echoed in a flat tone. She kept her expression neutral despite his probing gaze. It had been only a kiss, after all. “Clear enough.” He took a deep breath as the hackney drew to a halt, then turned to her with an urbane smile. “Are you ready, my dear?”

As long as you don't kiss me again.

She rolled her shoulders back and gave him a smile as false as the one he gave her. Her dagger was hard and reassuring against her thigh. “Of course.”

They separated almost immediately. Walking the grounds together last night hadn't helped, and tonight she wanted to operate alone, as usual. As planned, Nate headed for the largest group of people. He really could talk to anyone, anywhere, she thought, watching him strike up a conversation with one man, and within minutes become part of a circle of men. Affecting complete boredom, she wandered around, looking at the paintings, refusing a few murmured propositions, and finally ending across the pavilion from Nate. There she settled with a glass of wine, keeping the bored expression fixed on her face even as she let her eyes move around the room.

From this distance she could catch an occasional glimpse of Nate without being near enough to betray herself. Why oh why had he kissed her last night? She could almost hate him for it, except for the sheer beauty and breathless pleasure of it. She had lain awake last night, insisting to herself that she felt so shaken by it because of what had happened with Barings; it was relief and gratitude, she told herself, to say nothing of mere acknowledgment of his unexpected skill. Most men kissed as if they wished to eat a woman in big, sloppy bites. Nate kissed her like a man tasting a rare delicacy, as if he would savor every morsel she fed him instead of falling on her in a frenzy of hunger. She wondered what he would be like as a lover, in bed, and then reminded herself she had told him there would be no more kisses, let alone kisses in bed. Her needs were her own, she had said, not his. As long as she remembered that, perhaps she could escape this unscathed. The last thing she needed was to have her head turned by that man, with his pleasant laugh and his merry smile and his wicked, tempting mouth that kissed her so dangerously sweetly.

Thankfully, after a while she caught sight of a man who fit Hurst's description. It was a relief to focus her thoughts on her work again. Medium height, lean and dapper, he was a dandy, from the top of his graying hair to the polished toes of his shoes. She wandered through the crowd a bit more, passing directly by him at one point and managing to catch a glimpse of the carved wolf's head ring he wore on his little finger. It must be their man, she thought, and let her elbow brush his. He glanced
over his shoulder, but his irritation melted away when he saw her.

For a cagey man, he was shockingly easy to lure out. Within twenty minutes she had gotten him to introduce himself, offer his escort, and fetch her some more wine punch, and at the same time thoroughly convinced him she was looking for some adventure to escape her dull marriage to an American buffoon, whom she duly pointed out. That seemed to intrigue him the most, which worked well enough for her purposes.

“America is utterly savage, I've been told,” he said to her. She had managed to lead him on a meandering stroll through the pavilion toward a quieter area, all the better to give him the right impression of her intentions. “The politics are all corrupt, the country is brimming with barbarians, and even the best society wouldn't pass in a Cheapside pub.”

She laughed. “You have been well-informed—I would even say you had been there yourself.”

“No, no,” he said indulgently. “It is all learned from someone who lived there for some time before returning to England. I certainly never thought to venture in that direction.”

Dixon, Angelique thought. “The contrast is more pronounced when one has become accustomed to American ways.”

“No doubt. Americans are different, aren't they?” He turned to study Nate again, who was still talking with the men across the room. “Quite…savage, in some instances.”

Angelique followed his gaze, silently agreeing with his statement, although for very different rea
sons. Nate chanced to look up then and caught her eye. Politely he inclined his head in her direction, and she smiled back rather vacantly and took a sip of punch. The candlelight shone on his sun-bleached hair and darkened his skin to an almost olive hue. He did look like a savage here among the pale Englishmen, no matter how elegantly attired he was—but it was far from repulsive. And it was immensely reassuring to know that Nate was close at hand, with whatever hidden savagery he possessed, should she need him again. “Goodness, yes,” she said, pulling her mind back to Mr. Hurst. “I had almost forgotten how refined Europeans are in comparison.”

He turned back to her. His was the terrifyingly tender smile of a predator about to strike an unsuspecting victim. “I wonder that you have endured so long.”

She pasted the limpid smile back on her face and laughed lightly. “I have no choice now.” She gestured with her glass and leaned toward him until his gaze dipped to her cleavage. “At least he is rich!” She gave a tiny hiccup and pressed her fingers to her lips. When he looked at her again, she swayed on her feet and giggled. “Forgive me, I think the wine has overcome me …” She spun around and walked away, taking care to make her steps slow and too careful. Her glass dangled from her fingertips, and she headed for the punch table, conveniently next to the entrance to the Grand Walk. A dark part of the garden would do nicely, she thought, affecting a small stumble as she reached the table and set down her glass.

“Might I escort you?” Hurst asked, taking her arm.

Angelique blinked up at him, still playing tipsy,
and then laughed as if embarrassed. “Oh, please do. Some quiet would be most welcome. I feel flushed and…very unlike myself. That wine punch is stronger than it looks.”

He had already steered her out of the pavilion. “Your husband won't miss you?”

She waved one arm expansively. “Miss me? He won't notice I'm gone! When there is money to be made, I do not exist, sir.” She was slurring her words a little now, hanging on his arm.

Hurst chuckled, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her indecently tight against him. She could almost feel the excitement quivering inside him and had to steel herself against the urge to slide her dagger between his ribs. Lecherous scum; he deserved to be cut for leading—pulling, even—an apparently intoxicated woman out into the secluded garden. She knew very well what he planned, and it made her stomach knot in fury that if she were as she seemed, he would get away with raping her.

“A man who ignores a woman like you deserves to lose her,” he murmured in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. “Someone else will be tempted to sweep her away…”

Angelique giggled again and ducked her head. “Only if he is also rich! I should hate to be poor.”

He chuckled again. “So that's Mr. Avery's attraction? I wondered how he could have ensnared such a lovely dove as you.”

“Oh, he's Midas himself.” She shortened her breath and leaned more of her weight on him. As expected, he was leading her away from the pavilion and toward the darkest part of the garden.
“And always looking to make more. Do you know, he came here tonight to meet more investors?” She hiccupped again. “He's mad for some new”—she fluttered her hand in the air, trying to think of a plausible, yet enormous, figure—“some new scheme to make another million. As if one is not enough!” she finished with another tipsy laugh.

“So much?” Like a hungry fish, Hurst snapped up the bait. He stopped on the path, looking down at her with more calculating eyes. “A million dollars?”

She shook her head and made a face. “Pounds! He keeps most of his money in England, after the last crisis in America with the money. It was dreadful, we had to sell our second carriage…”

“Yes,” he murmured. “It must be a risky venture.”

“Lord, no.” She pulled out of his arm and staggered toward a bench a short distance ahead. It was deep in shadow under the trees and remarkably quiet; perfect. “He doesn't chance the risky ones now. Or maybe he does have a magical touch. I only know he makes money when everyone else is ruined. Why?” She turned to bat her eyelashes at him. “
You
don't want to invest in his madness, do you?”

He followed her more leisurely. “Perhaps.”

Angelique laughed. She swished her hips from side to side with each slow step. “Is that why you have lured me out here?”

“No,” he said, that rapacious smile on his face again. “But if one could combine pleasures …” He caught her arms and hauled her up against him, studying her face through shrewd eyes. “How do you know so much about your husband's investments?”

She heaved a sigh, letting her head roll back on her
shoulders. “He talks of nothing else. Can a man not think of anything to say to a woman in bed, except ‘this was profitable,' and ‘that will make a mint'?” She shook her head, stroking her fingers across the points of his shirt collar. Hurst wore his cravat fashionably high, and her fingers just trailed along the edge of his jaw. “But he would be very pleased if I told him someone else wanted to give him money,” she added. “If you do.”

He paused. She waited, still smiling blankly. Hurst was not a rich man, but he had rich tastes. Silently she willed him to say something, anything, that would give her the opportunity to ask about Dixon. He had already helped Dixon convert some jewels into funds; he must be thinking of the man now. He thought she was drunk; he wouldn't attach much weight to it, but she couldn't say the name herself…

“I might be able to bring him an investor,” he finally said. “A man I know is looking for rewarding places to invest an inheritance. Discreetly, of course.”

“My husband is very good with secrets,” she said. “I daresay he must be, given whose money he handles!”

His eyes glittered. “Whose?”

“Oh, I…” She lowered her eyes and laughed nervously. “I shouldn't say. I don't want him to be arrested…Not that
he
is a criminal—Oh dear!” She laughed again, covering her mouth with her fingertips.

“I see,” Hurst muttered. He was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps I shall call on him, to see if my friend might wish to invest.”

“He won't tell you anything, unless it is your money,” she said, thinking quickly. “Just bring your friend.”

He smiled thinly. “My friend is something of a recluse.”

“Mr. Avery would be willing to come to him.” She ran her fingers up and down the lapel of his evening jacket. “For his investors, he is always willing.” Another artful sigh. “For his wife, less so. Who is your friend? Have I met him?” She gave him a coy smile. “Is he as charming as you are?”

The avarice faded from his face. “You're a bored little strumpet, aren't you?” he said with amusement. “You're out here with me so I'll invest with your husband, and now you'll set your sights on Dixon, too.”

There it was. Angelique ignored the thrill of triumph, and gave him a delighted smile. “William Dixon? Why, I met him the other night! Such a gentleman…”

Hurst chuckled. “No, Jacob Dixon. You'll not have met him, I wager.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Why? Is he dull, like my husband? Spare me any more dull men.”

“He's a charming fellow,” Hurst said. “You'll like him. He just returned to England after a long absence—like you, my dear.”

Definitely their man. “He must be so pleased to be back in the civilized world.” She rolled her shoulders as if stretching, letting one tiny sleeve slip down her arm. This gown was tight and low in the bodice, and only the small, wispy sleeves held it up. “I certainly am.”

“I can see that.” He could see the edge of her
corset, too, judging from the way his gaze fixed on her bosom. Angelique was suddenly tired of dancing around him and his leering eyes. She didn't think he would tell her more about Dixon anyway. It was time to finish this conversation.

“Everything is better here…” She drifted toward the bench, her steps wobbling. “Especially the wine. It makes me a little”—she waved one hand in the air, letting it carry her off-balance—“dizzy! Oh!” She put one hand to her head. “Perhaps I should sit down,” she mumbled.

“Of course.” He guided her to the bench, and sat far too close to her.