How I Married a Marquess (27 page)

His eyes met hers, sensuously holding her gaze as a languid smile played at his lips.

“Is this how spies spend their time?” she asked coyly. “Picking locks to steal information, then having their way with young ladies?”

“Just the very, very lucky ones,” he drawled. His smile blossomed into a full-out grin, and it shivered through her in a cascade of heat that joined the dull ache still throbbing between her legs.

Sweet heavens
.
She wondered, not for the first time, how long they had to wait before he could be hard and inside her again.

He slumped down into a chair in front of the small blaze glowing in the fireplace, his elbow resting on the chair arm and his head tilted against his hand. With his long legs stretched out before him, he was the perfect picture of a man utterly at ease. For a moment she wondered if he might just fall asleep right there.

“We've ruined my dress,” she sighed, trying her best to distract herself from how scrumptiously rumpled he looked before she launched herself onto his lap and begged to be taken. Again.

His gaze drifted lasciviously over her. She knew she looked a fright, with her hair tumbled in tangled curls over her shoulders and her dress ruined. He hadn't bothered to remove it, ripping the tear at her neckline even more to get to her breasts and bunching her skirts up around her waist before thrusting inside her. After the breathless way he'd taken her, she couldn't have cared less about the dress, yet she futilely attempted to smooth her skirt across her legs and adjust the battered sleeves into place on her shoulders.

He commented quietly, “And I've completely ruined
you
.”

There was no guilt in his voice, no regret or remorse. She didn't think she would have been able to tolerate sitting there, holding his gaze so resolutely, if she'd heard even a trace of any of that. “Thank you.”

His brow inched up. “That wasn't a compliment.”

“Then you shouldn't make ruination so much fun.”

And it
was
fun. More fun than she'd ever imagined being with a man could be, so much so that she now understood why fallen women let themselves, well,
fall
in the first place. Especially if they'd come across a man like Thomas Matteson, one who seemed tailor-made for both her body and her mind. How could any living, breathing female deny herself that?

And yet…She bit her lip, now studying him as curiously as his gaze did her. He was a marquess and heir to a duchy. How the thought had ever crossed his mind to put himself into danger for his country she simply couldn't fathom. But he'd not only been a spy, he wanted to be one again. If she would ever be able to go on breathing after he left her, she needed to know what had drawn him into that life. And why he insisted on leaving her to return to it.

She took a deep breath to summon her courage. “How did you become a spy?”

He said nothing for a moment, the only answer his silence as he returned her gaze. In that moment's hesitation, she knew he was considering how much he could trust her, how much of himself he was willing to share. She saw his eyes harden, his face set grim, and in that moment she knew she'd lost him. After all, now that she'd promised to stop the robberies, he could both assure Royston that his guests would never be held up again and receive the recommendation he'd been promised. He'd gotten exactly what he wanted from coming here.

Her cheeks heated shamefully as she glanced down at her ruined dress—and her ruined body beneath—and her heart panged hollowly in her chest. Oh, he'd gotten so much more than just that!

He nodded stiffly toward the armoire. “There's a greatcoat in there. You can take it with you when you leave,” he told her evenly. “I would suggest you tell anyone who sees you that you took a shortcut through the woods and ruined your dress, and Greaves gave you the coat when he learned of your distress.”

Her chest burned, and she could only return his stare as she waited for him to say more. But he didn't, and obviously didn't want to. The rejection stabbed into her heart. She'd overstepped the line where his confidentiality was concerned, and it was clear that he'd rather be rid of her than divulge any personal information about this part of his past. Even now, after all they'd shared, he still didn't completely trust her.

Turning her face away, not wanting him to see the agony inside her, she rose from the bed and crossed to the armoire. It was filled with his clothes and toiletries, and this glimpse into his everyday life made the ache inside her clench into a lead knot in her stomach.
This
was what she longed to have with him. A simple, ordinary, day-to-day existence in which they thought nothing of the familiarity of looking at each other's personal things, exemplified by a stack of folded cravats and the comfortable intimacy of shirts and waistcoats. Including the blue evening jacket hanging in the front, the same one on which she'd spilled punch nearly a sennight ago.

She pulled the coat from its hook and slipped into it, and in her sudden desperation to flee from the room—and from him, before he could see the disappointment on her face and the frustrated tears welling in her eyes—her mind barely registered that the coat hung over her like a tent. And that it smelled deliciously of him. Her fingers shook as they scrambled to button it closed and cover all traces of the ruined dress beneath.

Her eyes burned with fresh rejection. “You're right,” she whispered, unable to breathe. “I shouldn't be here. I was a fool to ever think—” The words choked in her tightening throat, and a hot pain burned inside her chest. When a tear slipped from her eye and trailed down her cheek, she swiped angrily at it with her fingers and turned her head away, furious at herself for letting him see her pain. “I'm sorry.”

As she hurried past his chair toward the door, his hand shot out and grabbed her arm. A groan of frustration rose from him as he capitulated. “Josie, stay.”

She shook her head. “You've got Royston's book and—”

“Stay,” he repeated, and she suspected from his bleak expression that relenting cost him a great deal.

“Let me go,” she begged in a breathless whisper as another tear fell from her eyes. Oh, she was a silly cake for crying in front of him! And a complete fool for losing her heart.

Instead of releasing her, he slipped his hand down her forearm, twisted his fingers through hers, and asked quietly, “Are you certain you want to know?” When she began to answer, he interrupted her. “You can never share it with anyone. People's lives would be put in danger. They could be killed, their families destroyed. Including me and mine.”

Josie saw a gravity in his expression that made her throat tighten, and she didn't doubt him. As a spy he must have seen and done things that would have earned him enemies across the Continent and beyond.

But she had to know the truth about him, as surely as she needed to keep breathing in order to live. “Yes,” she whispered.

A somber expression pulled at his brow then, an odd mix of determination and worry. He tugged her gently toward him, settling her onto his lap and bringing his eyes level with hers.

“I was back from the wars and done with the army, but I wanted to do more than spend my days gambling and whoring.” Absently he erased the tears on her cheek with a caress of his thumb. “The War Office had an ongoing mission hunting down foreign agents inside England. They wanted someone who could move within society without suspicion, and I fit perfectly into their scheme. So I agreed to join.”

“Just like that?” It all seemed too simple, too innocuous for something as dangerous as espionage. And far too sudden a decision for someone as careful as Thomas.

He blew out a long breath, the admission coming hard. “My mother was half-Indian.”

“Pardon?” She blinked, not understanding that unexpected piece of information.

“She was the daughter of a maharaja who met my father when he was stationed in India. They married and had me, then we lost her to fever. I was a year old. Father remarried to an Englishwoman when I was two, and we moved back to England.”

She searched his face closely. Despite his black hair, he had fair skin and sapphire-blue eyes. Nothing about him signaled that he was anything more than the result of a long line of British aristocracy, bred and born to be an English peer.

“I take after my father,” he explained, once again making her believe he could read minds. Or at least hers. This ability of his should have unsettled her. Instead it connected her to him in a way she'd never been to anyone else. “I have his height, his coloring, his eyes…I look English. If someone didn't know about my mother, they'd never suspect.”

She
certainly hadn't expected such an exotic background for him.

“Growing up, no one ever said anything directly to me, but I heard the rumblings, the accusations and gossip that I was a half-breed.”

“Thomas,” she whispered, appalled that anyone would dare say that.

He tenderly brushed his fingertips along her jaw, and she suspected he was attempting to soothe her rather than letting her comfort him. “That's why I joined the army, and later why I became a spy. I wanted to prove to everyone that I was just as English as every other blue blood strolling along St. James's Street.
More
, in fact. I would be more patriotic, more dedicated to my country than they would ever be because I was willing to kill and die for England, and the most any of them was willing to do was sit in the Lords.”

Willing to kill and die
.
He made the sacrifice sound so casual that she shuddered, and her fingers tightened their grip on his.

“I was forced to give up the army when Father inherited, but the fieldwork with the War Office gave me purpose and made my life important.”

“Your life
is
important without you having to risk yourself as a spy.”
You are important to me
.
She rested her palm against his cheek and felt the strength and warmth radiating from him. “Someday you'll be responsible for a duchy.”

“A duke is only a place-keeper.” A faint mocking tinged his voice. “A name in a list of names from two hundred years in the past. Two hundred more years into the future, and I'll be nothing but another forgotten name. Nothing more significant than that.” He grew solemn, and she sensed the change in him, having become so attuned to him that his every mood registered inside her. “I want more from my life. I want purpose. I want to know that I made a difference.”

“You have,” she whispered, and leaned forward to kiss him reassuringly. He'd changed her life in so many ways, the extent of which she could barely fathom. None of which she dare speak aloud. And he'd trusted her with this most private secret. Her heart somersaulted with hope. After all, if he was willing to share his past, then perhaps he might be willing to share his future.

“But there's always more to do.” He reached behind him and pulled out the black book that they'd taken from Royston's study. “Starting with this.”

He handed her the book, then placed his hands around her waist and lifted her from his lap to set her onto her feet.

“Go on,” he urged. “Read it.”

Trembling, she stared down at the small book. Her work for the past two years all came to this. The proof that would find Royston guilty of what he'd done to the orphans. And the proof that would rip away Thomas's last chance at returning to the War Office.

Suddenly unable to bear the enormity of it, she shoved the book back at him. “No, I can't! Thomas, you read it. Please.”

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he rose to his feet and gently closed his hands firmly around hers as they clutched the book. “It's yours, Jo.”

He cupped her face and tenderly touched his lips to hers. In that kiss she tasted grief, and it tore at her heart.

He dropped his hands away and stepped back. “Go on. Read it.”

As Thomas watched Josie's face, he saw a hundred different emotions register there. Uncertainty, dread, a touch of fear, trust…but most of all, there was love.

Suddenly everything was clear. The puzzle he'd found in her solved itself before his eyes, and he saw her, finally, without pretense or artifice. This woman standing barefoot in her ruined dress, his coat draped like a tent over her body, had tempted him since the moment he'd seen her across the crowded ballroom. Brilliant and quick, she possessed more character, kindness, and personal strength than all the women he'd ever met put together. She was warm and soft in his arms, and she made him laugh and smile in a way he hadn't done for months. If ever. And she had him longing for more than just fleeting moments of intimacy, contemplating instead how wonderful it would be to be able to pull her into his arms and fall asleep with her not just for a few hours but all night and every night, and to have her next to him in the morning when he woke.

But that dream was impossible. She deserved a lifetime of happiness, a real home, and children, and he couldn't give her that life. Not when he still needed to recapture his own, the one he was destined to have of meaning and purpose. And Josephine had no place in that life. He could never function as a spy if he was worried about her. The fight last night, when he'd been terrified that she'd be hurt, and the incident today in the study with Royston, both proved that to him. In those moments he hadn't been thinking like an agent. He'd been thinking only of her.

Someday he hoped he could tell her the truth, how he'd known at this moment that he was in love with her.

But that he'd been unable to do anything about it.

“Read it, Jo,” he insisted quietly, then stepped away from her before he yielded to the temptation to pull her into his arms and admit how he felt about her.

A ragged breath tore from him as he leaned back against the windowsill and watched her read through the book. Of all the things to happen when he was finally so close to having his life back—to meet
her
. He'd been with more women than he could remember, and his desire for all of them combined didn't equal the longing he carried for this one. One who drove him so completely mad she couldn't help but be…Well, she was the one he didn't want to give up. But if he went back to the life he'd known before he'd become an agent, the emptiness would kill him completely.