Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) (15 page)

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“We’ve been under their scrutiny all day. Don’t you want a moment away from your sister to breathe?”

Hesitation crossed her face and burdened her footsteps.

His hand slipped on hers. He hadn’t worn gloves this evening, hoping to better feel the heat of her skin. She wore gloves, dainty little things that felt like sliding into a cool pond on a hot summer’s day. Her hand tightened on his, keeping him from moving away.

Was his plan successful? Had he seduced her onto his side? The only way to be sure would be to take her back to his room.

No. He couldn’t do that. She was an innocent. He’d done many things he’d later regretted in the name of spying, but he’d never defiled a virgin. As much as Freddie tempted him, his conscience wouldn’t let him start now. There were other ways to test whether or not she had fallen for his charm.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather subject yourself to Lucy and your sister.”

She made a face. “You have a point.”

Triumph surged through him, at least until he glanced past her and spotted his sister bounding toward them. From her determined expression, she fully intended to take him to task—or worse. Adjusting his grip on Freddie’s hand, he intercepted the path of Mr. Catterson.

“Catt!” Tristan greeted him with a grin.

The young man narrowed his eyes as he peeked past Tristan toward Freddie.

“Just the man I was talking about earlier with Lucy.”

If anything, that made him even more suspicious. His eyebrows, so pale they were difficult to discern in the light cast by the chandelier, knit together.

“You and Lucy were talking about me.”

“Yes, and Rocky, too. In fact, Lucy was telling me how much she admires Rocky.”

Catt’s expression darkened. “Indeed?”

Tristan pretended not to notice the change in his demeanor. “Oh, yes. She told me how Rocky is able to cultivate so much more with so little to work with, unlike you and Gideon.”

The young man scowled. His reddish-blond hair flopped into his eyes as he twisted to scan the throng. “She’d best not be repeating that to anyone else.” Darkly, he stormed off toward Lucy.

Tristan bit his tongue to hide a laugh. He towed Freddie through the door and into the cooler corridor. The servants had set out candles during dinner and the corridor twinkled as if imbued with starlight.

“Who is Rocky?” she asked.

“Our gardener,” he said over his shoulder. “She and Catt are always arguing about botany.”

The glance over his shoulder was just enough to espy the glimmer of a smile chasing across her lips. “You employ a female gardener?”

“We do. She’s the best. Perhaps even better than Gideon—but don’t tell him I said that.”

The low tinkle of her laughter swirled around him. A happy, innocent sound. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Something dark and mischievous lit her voice. He didn’t dwell on it, but quickly guided her down another corridor. “With Catt and Gideon occupied, the orangery should be free.” Within moments, they stepped through the door leading to the wide corridor. The sun hid below the horizon, casting a purple-orange glow along the horizon line, with the deeper canopy of stars opening overhead. The corridor was unlit, though a light from the orangery drew him onward.

The moment he opened the door, the steam curled around him like a warm, wet blanket. He pulled Freddie inside and shut the door. The floral aroma made him a bit lightheaded. It reminded him of Freddie’s scent, though hers was a muted version.

A half-shuttered lantern on the work table illuminated the space. The light blotted out the stars through the glass overhead and cast long shadows over the various leafy plants gathered. Most had furled their petals for the night, but a few lifted their heads to the sliver of moon overhead, their petals washed golden in the orange light.

Tristan sighed, happy to be alone at last. Freddie’s hand shifted in his and he recalled that he wasn’t alone. He was with the enemy.

At that moment, with shadows swathing them and sheltering them from the censorship of others, she didn’t feel like an enemy. In fact, he felt as comfortable with her as he did when he was alone.

The lamplight glinted off her irises. It cast a golden glow on her cheeks, hiding her freckles. He found himself wishing to see them. Although Society disparaged freckles as a sign of homeliness, on Freddie he found them charming.

Her lips parted. “Tristan, what are we doing?”

He couldn’t look away from her mouth. “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re about to do something horribly wrong, but you can’t bring yourself to stop?”

She stiffened. She tried to tug her hand away, but he tightened his hold.

He swallowed hard. His voice went hoarse. “Because that’s the way I feel right now.”

Unable to resist any longer, he dipped his head to capture her lips. They slackened beneath his for a moment with shock. Panic overwhelmed him. Did she not feel the same about him? He started to pull away.

Freddie twined her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair as she kissed him back. He took full advantage, sliding his hand down to the small of her back and pressing her luscious curves against him. His head spun, that enticing feeling of falling while he still had both feet firmly planted on the ground. He clutched her tightly as he surrendered himself to the moment. Her hands drifted down his torso in a slow slide toward his waist. He burned in the wake of her touch.

A man cleared his throat. Tristan broke the kiss to swivel his face toward the door. Gideon stood there, his eyebrows raised in disapproval.

Tristan met Freddie’s gaze—except she wouldn’t look at him. She removed her hands from his jacket, her gaze averted. The expression fell over him like a dip in icy water.

She’d removed her hands from over his jacket pockets. Where she’d been searching his clothing for the code book. He thought she’d been falling under his spell as much as he had under hers. He’d been wrong. The only person enthralled was him.

He stared at Freddie, at his brother, and then stormed from the room. He was a damn, bloody fool to ever think she saw him as anything other than an enemy.

T
he condemnation
in Tristan’s eyes chased Freddie all the way to the east wing of the house. She couldn’t bring herself to step into the sitting room and face her sister and Lucy’s interrogation. Perhaps, once she gathered herself, she would be able to go down. If Tristan was there…

I did what I had to.
Even if she’d lost herself to Tristan’s wit and charm this afternoon, finding herself beneath Harker’s livid stare at dinner reminded Freddie why she was here at this party. They would never have garnered the invitation without Harker. She had to find that book. If it wasn’t in Tristan’s room or in the library, the next logical conclusion had been that he carried it on his person.

She’d felt no lumps in his pockets of the telltale shape of a book. Worse, now that he’d caught her searching for it, she’d caused a rift between them.

That isn’t worse. It’s what must be.
He was a very good spy, because he had her doubting whether or not she should continue with this mission. She had to, even if Tristan was the enemy against whom Harker had pitted her. Her family’s future was at stake. As someone who loved his family so well, Tristan would understand that.

Even if she could never tell him. He was the enemy. He was working for the French. She still hadn’t reconciled why a man like him would resort to such treachery. She didn’t dare ask. For all that she had enjoyed herself in his company this afternoon, their time together would soon end. They weren’t companions, they weren’t friends. They were enemies.

Her steps slowed as she turned the corner into the guest wing. The bedchamber she shared with Charlie resided near the end. Candles rested on pedestals along the long corridor, reflecting off round mirrors. It looked nothing like home.

Home didn’t conjure thoughts of Harker’s townhouse in London, but rather of the tidy little home in which Freddie had grown up. Less lofty than that of the peerage, the little two-story townhouse had been squished next to their neighbors. From the outside, it had looked a little lopsided, as though leaning for support against the house next to it. Memories surged, of her and Charlie running through the house in a game, shrieking and laughing. Of Mama’s gentle gaze as she did needlework in the evenings. Of Papa’s ready grin as he concocted mad, fantastical stories and acted them out during the telling.

Tears clung to Freddie’s eyelashes. She’d hardened herself for so long to Papa, clinging to his misdeeds as a means of holding the pain at bay. Anger was easier to weather. These days, she often forgot that she loved him. When she remembered, like now, the wound in her chest ripped open, once again raw.

“Freddie, darling?”

Freddie thrust her shoulders back and wiped at her eyes. She forced a smile as she turned. “Hello, Mama.”

Her mother looked worried. The glow from the candles cast shadows across Mama’s face, making her look older. She stepped closer, as serene and poised as Freddie often tried to be. She reached out to clasp Freddie’s hand.

“Why aren’t you down at the party?”

“I don’t feel well,” Freddie lied. “I thought I might lie down for a spell.”

“Oh?” Mama squeezed her hand. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself earlier. You’ve caught the attention of one of the Graylocke brothers. That’s something worth encouraging.”

Freddie glanced sidelong at her mother. Mama’s voice was gentle, but filled with earnestness. She truly believed that Freddie catching Tristan’s interest was a good thing. Maybe, if Harker hadn’t pitted them against one another, it might have been. But Tristan was a French spy. If Mama had known, she wouldn’t have been so encouraging.

“I’m afraid that’s his sister’s doing. She and Charlie have been playing the matchmaker this afternoon.”

Did Mama look disappointed? If she did, the expression soon smoothed from her face. “I see. Are you sure there isn’t something more between you?”

“I’m sure.” Freddie was proud of the strength in her voice. Even now, far away from the orangery, she could feel the pressure of Tristan’s lips against hers, of his body nestled against her. Had his reaction been feigned? She hadn’t been able to hide hers, not even when she’d recalled herself enough to search his pockets.

Mama tugged at her hand, drawing her down the hall. “Come. Why don’t we sit for a moment and have a chat?”

Freddie hadn’t found more than a few minutes to speak with her mother since arriving at Tenwick Abbey. She tightened her hold on Mama’s hand and followed, grateful to be spared the need to be alone. If she was alone, her thoughts would return to Tristan, and she couldn’t have that.

Mama led her into her chamber. Like the one Freddie and Charlie shared, it was richly decorated, in emerald green to their royal blue. She tugged Freddie toward a narrow settee at the foot of the large bed. They sat side by side, their hips touching.

Freddie stared at the vanity on the wall directly across from her. Even that piece of furniture, nestled against the white and green toile wallpaper, screamed of luxury. When they’d been a family, Mama had kept a worn writing desk in the corner of her room that she had also used as a vanity.

“Do you ever miss Papa?” Freddie’s voice was so weak, she barely heard herself speak.

Mama tightened her hand. “Every day.” Her voice was soft, but vehement.

Freddie’s lips parted. “Even after he—”

Ruined us.

Left us.

Died.

Canting her face away, Mama brushed at her eyes. “Your father wasn’t perfect, Freddie. Nobody is. I love and miss him more every day.” Her voice lowered to the barest whisper. “Maybe someday soon we’ll be together again.”

Her voice was filled with such longing that for a moment, Freddie wasn’t able to speak. Was Mama talking about dying? She clutched her mother’s hand, a reflexive reaction. “You’re young yet, Mama. You’ll be with us a long time.”

Mama didn’t say a word. She didn’t look at Freddie, either. The silence drew on between them, strained and painful. Freddie swallowed around the lump building in her throat.

“If you love Papa so well, why do you let Harker—” She couldn’t finish that sentence. She couldn’t even think it.

“I do what I must for those I love.”

She’d never heard Mama speak so fiercely. When she glanced at Mama, her pale hair hid her face. Freddie tightened her hand.

“You don’t have to. At least, not for much longer. Charlie will marry and…”

Freddie didn’t dare speak another word. If she did, she might confess about her arrangement with Harker. Mama would only try to complete the task for her. Freddie had already exposed herself to the Graylocke brothers as Harker’s agent. She didn’t want her mother to be put in the same danger.

So she didn’t speak a word. Instead, she laid her head on Mama’s shoulder. “Everything will be better soon,” she murmured.

It had to be. Somehow, even though she hadn’t found the book in the last four days of residence, she had to find it soon. What would she—and Harker—do if she failed?

She couldn’t afford to find out.

* * *

T
ristan paced the library
. He’d rejoined the guests for an hour after leaving Freddie, but his surly mood had soon soured the evening to the point that Mother had made a thinly veiled suggestion that he should retire for the evening.

He couldn’t sleep. Not with the feel and taste of Freddie’s body still fresh in his mind—or the memory of her betrayal. He’d thought…

He should have known better than to think she saw him as anything other than an obstacle. He clenched his fists.

A fire roared in the grate, lighting up the vacuous room. His muffled footsteps on the rug were the only sounds aside from the chuckling fire. Tension coiled in his shoulders, his instincts clamoring that he couldn’t wait for Morgan any longer. Freddie was the enemy and he had to do something about her. Anything.

Even if she was an innocent, even if she didn’t deserve to get caught up in this. She had made her choice.

The memory of her sobbing into his shirt in the abandoned chapel as she confessed to Harker’s coercion rose unbidden to his mind. His knuckles cracked as he flexed his fists. The person he truly wanted to punish wasn’t Freddie. It was Harker.

Not for the first time, Tristan cursed the command he’d received not to touch the known enemy spy. Tristan wanted blood, and tonight he was destined to be denied.

When the door to the library opened, he whirled to face the intruder. Morgan stepped through the door, his expression tight and a bit weary. He shut the door behind him.

“Good, you’re still here.”

Tristan opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to report. He had spent the day with Freddie, he’d done his best to woo her and he hadn’t made a dent in her resolve to oppose them. The knowledge brought bile to the back of his throat. He couldn’t confess to Morgan that he’d failed, that Morgan had been right all along.

Fortunately, Morgan didn’t seem to be waiting for a report. He ran his hand through his hair as he stepped forward, a habit that he indulged in only when he was at his wit’s end. It wasn’t something that Tristan saw from him very often.

Tristan stiffened. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Morgan stopped abreast of his brother. His eyes were as piercing as cold steel. He confessed, “The moment the Vales arrived at Tenwick Abbey with Harker, I franked an inquiry to our contacts in London about their father.”

Their father? Tristan should have thought of that. He should have asked Freddie about him. Why were the Vales in Harker’s company? Tristan would have preferred to keep company with a snake.

But…what good would it have done to learn about a dead man?

“Did you hear back?”

“I did. Today.”

Tristan braced himself. For what, he didn’t know, but Morgan’s expression and his tone of voice didn’t bode well.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Morgan raised his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I thought it might be worthwhile to know what sort of man their father was. What traits he might have passed on.”

Reluctantly, Tristan nodded. “And? What did our contacts have to say?”

Gravity befell Morgan’s features. He stood straighter. A muscle in his jaw twitched, a sign of frustration. “I’ve been ordered to stop looking into the matter.”

Tristan frowned. “What do you mean?”

Morgan’s mouth thinned. “I can’t know for sure because no one will say so outright, but…I think he was a spy. Tristan, I think he was on our side.”

Tristan’s mouth dropped open. He tried to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Could it be true?

No. Impossible. Freddie was working for the enemy now. The apple couldn’t possibly have fallen so far from the tree.