Unmasking the Spy (19 page)

A pistol.

Ian pulled the gun from the
drawer and squinted at it in the darkness. This was the alleged proof of guilt?
He made an exasperated face. What gentleman didn’t own guns? None of the thefts
had been at gunpoint. None of the victims had even seen the thief. Whether or
not Chadwick owned a gun had little or nothing to do with the missing jewels.

No doubt, he kept the gun hidden
in a secret drawer simply because he had no wish for his staff to bother with
it or his daughter to become alarmed by it. Where was the man supposed to keep
it, on the dining room table next to the salt? Ian shook his head and replaced
both the gun and the drawer’s contents.

Worthless. The informant’s
alleged proof only proved there was nothing to find but a normal man living a
normal life. Ian stood and crossed to the window. The rain had abated, and now
fell in a light drizzle.

He doubted there was a vase
filled with incriminating evidence anywhere in Chadwick House, but if the
library’s occupant had gone to bed, he’d glance around just to be able to say
he’d looked everywhere he could.

Ian cracked open the office door
and listened. Silence. He stepped into the hallway. There was no way to tell
from this distance whether or not the light in the library still burned. He
headed down the hall, crossed the foot of the stairs, and stepped into the
other end of the corridor.

The crack under the door still
glowed.

Unbelievable. He’d been in the
office for almost two hours, examining every antiquity and piece of pottery and
inspecting every drawer. Who in the world would still be up?

Ian turned to exit somewhere far
from the library when he had a thought. In short, careful steps, he made his
way to the door and knelt to peer through the keyhole.

Elizabeth
.

The barefoot beauty was curled in
a chair, her head propped in her hand and a book open on her lap. She looked
pretty. Peaceful. Lost in her imagination. Ian stood. He should go. There was
no need to interrupt her. He should leave while still unnoticed.

Somehow, despite his better
judgment, Ian found his hand twisting the handle and his traitorous body
slipping into the library.

He closed the door behind him and
stood, watching her from across the room. Elizabeth didn’t look up until she
reached into her lap to turn the page. When she saw him, a slow smile spread
across her face.

“You’ve got tough competition
tonight, Rogue,” she said in a throaty whisper.

Ian blinked. “I do?”

She held up her book.

He shook his head. “I can’t see
it. What is it?”

“A romance,” she answered with a
saucy grin. “Can you possibly improve upon the romantic nature of the heroes
I’ve just been reading?”

Well, no, probably not. Ian
wished he’d bought her something after all. He’d had no idea she was going to
put him on the spot like this. He opened his mouth to tell her that he had
nothing for her and did not plan to make a romantic gesture of any sort, when
he caught sight of her expectant expression. He hated to disappoint her.

Instead of words intended to cool
the fire between them, what came from his mouth surprised them both.

“I… wrote you a poem.”

The novel tumbled from Elizabeth’s lap. “You did?”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to show anyone
at all his sad attempt at poetry.

Ian felt himself blushing under
his mask. He was glad it was dark enough that she could not see the color
staining his cheeks. He’d just stay over there by the door, far from the single
candle.

“It’s very short,” he muttered,
hoping she wouldn’t ask to hear it.

Elizabeth
gave a little bounce in her chair and clasped her
hands together. “Oh, won’t you please tell it to me? Is it memorized?”

Embarrassed, Ian shook his head.
“Er, not exactly. It’s written.”

She beamed at him. “Then won’t
you please read it to me?”

Ian gulped. He’d gotten himself
into this mess by opening his big mouth. He should never have peeked through
that keyhole, and he definitely should not have come inside and started
blathering on about his misbegotten attempt at poetry.

He reached in his pocket and
pulled out the paper. If she was surprised to see him carrying around parchment
crumpled into a tiny ball, she made no comment. Ian cleared his throat and felt
his face flame hotter. He unwrapped the paper and tried his best to smooth it
against his leg before shaking it out and holding it up about a foot in front
of his chest.

“Elizabeth,” he said and
swallowed hard. He coughed into his hand and tried again. “Elizabeth. You are
like a rose.” He paused and peeked at her over the top of the paper.

She leaned forward in her chair
and nodded encouragingly.

“Elizabeth,” he began again after
clearing his throat one more time. “You are like a rose. My regard for you just
grows and grows.”

He risked another glance over the
top of the wrinkled paper. She gave him a reassuring smile.

“Er, that’s all,” Ian mumbled and
looked away. “It’s very short.”

He re-crumpled the paper in his
fist and stuffed it back into his pocket. He’d never felt more foolish in his
life. He stood there, fighting against the urge to flee out the window, away
from the horrible insecurity of waiting for her to speak. The poem was stupid.
He was stupid. Why wasn’t she saying anything? He didn’t dare to look at her.
He should’ve burned the damn thing when he had the chance.

Ian heard a puff of breath and
the candle went out. Darkness was complete. He stood there, unsure of what to
do. He knew the poem was bad, but was it so terrible that she planned to ambush
him in the dark? He probably deserved it. By Jove, he’d never write one again.
He’d-

A pair of slender arms suddenly
wrapped around his chest. Startled, Ian looked down, forgetting he couldn’t see
her. His chin rubbed against the softness of her bonnet and her soft, flowery
scent wafted to his nose.

“It was wonderful, Rogue. I loved
it,” came a soft, choked whisper.

Was she
crying
? Good Lord,
the trauma of his poetry had driven her to tears. Ian’s hands found the sides
of her face and tilted her head upwards. He plastered his lips to hers, telling
her without words all the feelings he couldn’t verbalize in his poem.

Her arms encircled his neck. Ian
curved one hand around the back of her head and ran the other down her neck,
along her shoulder, and down her back. He pressed her body against his even
more tightly.

He peppered her face with little
kisses, the velvet patches not marring the silky softness of her skin. Her
eager mouth found his again and the heat of her breath mixed with his as they
stood, clutched together and devouring each other with hungry kisses.

Ian slid his hand further down
her back until he cupped the curve of her rear in his hand. God, she was
irresistible. If he kept her pressed against him much longer, she was not going
to have any doubt as to how fetching his body found hers.

He slid his hand to her waist,
intending to push her away and break the spell. Somehow, his hand found itself
coasting up the thin cloth covering her flat stomach and enveloping one perfect
breast. Her tongue paused briefly in his mouth, but she did not pull away.

With a slow, gentle movement, Ian
rubbed his fingers over the thin material covering her breast and gloried in
the feel of her nipple springing to life against his palm. Her breath caught in
her throat, but she leaned into him and twined her fingers in his hair, as if
afraid he’d stop at any moment.

Ian was afraid he’d never stop.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood
there, teasing her breasts through her nightdress and reveling in the sweetness
and ardency of her kisses. When his mind turned to the undesirability of
clothing, a tiny sliver of reality began to intrude on his thoughts. Was he
seriously considering seducing her in the middle of the library? He had to get
a hold of himself and reign in his demons before the situation got too hot for
either of them to handle.

With more than a little
reluctance, Ian forced his hand from her bodice, cupped her face, and rubbed
the tip of his nose gently against hers.

“You do not know how you tempt
me, woman,” he whispered. “I must go now, while I’m still strong enough to
leave.”

Elizabeth
’s ragged breath answered for her. She sagged
against his chest and he enveloped her in a long hug.

“I’ll be back,” Ian promised, and
gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Whether I should or not.” He nuzzled the
top of her head. “Two days hence? About this time?”

She pulled away as if about to
speak, but he silenced her with a short, sweet kiss and slipped out the door.

*          *          *

The next afternoon, Alicia sat
with her aunt in the sewing room. She wanted a chance to think, and the library
now held far too many recent memories to allow for any logical thinking. She’d
shown little rational thought last night, to be sure. Alicia slunk a sidelong
glance toward Beatrix, who was lost in her own thoughts.

Alicia wished she had someone to
confide in. Oh, she supposed she could tell Aunt Beatrix anything she wanted
without fear of recrimination. Her aunt offered no less than unconditional
love. However, her aunt was also the sort who would think it great sport to tag
along and meet Rogue herself. Considering the shenanigans they got up to last
night, having her great-aunt in the room would be a bit inappropriate, to say
the least.

And the poem! Sure, it was
dreadful. She could tell he felt awful reading it, like a boy afraid of being
rejected. His embarrassment made the gesture all the sweeter. Alicia gave
herself a little hug. She’d never driven a man to poetry before. It was quite a
heady feeling.

Of course, what happened
afterward… Well, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit she could only blame
herself for instigating the passionate embrace. After all, she’d gone
downstairs for no other reason than on the hope he’d come to call. She was the
one who snuffed the candle and launched herself in his arms when he sounded
like he was hoping for the floor to open up and swallow him. What a sweetheart.

The corners of Alicia’s mouth
twitched. Sweet had turned smoldering the second she’d touched him. And the
liberties she’d let him take… Alicia’s face flamed with remembrance and she
fidgeted in her seat. She wouldn’t be worried about marriage at all if she
found a man who made her feel like
that
. Too bad she couldn’t marry
Rogue.

Once again, Alicia thought of Ian
Morrissey, her one eligible option. He was no rogue, of course, but he was far
better than Louis. The thought of kissing her cousin sickened her, but the idea
of kissing Mr. Morrissey was far more palatable.

Footsteps sounded from the
hallway and Alicia looked up as her father walked by.

“Papa,” she called.

After a moment, Chadwick appeared
in the doorway. His gaze crossed to Beatrix, who plopped her embroidery on her
head and looked away. Jaw clenched, he turned toward Alicia. “Yes, daughter?”

“Papa,” she began hesitantly. “You
know that I have little interest in marrying Louis.”

Chadwick crossed his arms and
leaned against the doorjamb. His foot began to tap impatiently.

“What if there was someone else
who would marry me?”

“No one but Louis,” answered her
father in a soft voice, “has made any hint of an offer.”

Alicia felt her cheeks pinken
again.

Chadwick began to drum his
fingers on his arms. “I gave you two weeks to prepare yourself to the idea of
marrying Louis. Four days remain. I advise you to stop procrastinating and
start preparing. I will not extend any more time before giving him my
permission.”

“But, Papa, if I did have another
offer, what then?” Alicia repeated, her frazzled mind trying to think how to
bring Mr. Morrissey to suit in such short time.

Her father’s posture betrayed his
irritation. “If you had an offer, daughter, then we would talk. But you do not.
Today is Tuesday. On Saturday, I will give Louis the permission he requires,
and he will go procure a license. At that time, I expect you to begin planning
your wedding.”

“Papa, I don’t want–”

“Alicia,” thundered Chadwick. “If
I hear you say anything this weekend except ‘Yes, Papa, I’ll be pleased to
marry Louis’ then so help me your dowry will be a thing of the past and you’ll
be hard pressed to marry anyone. I cannot comprehend why you’re fighting Louis.
Even with a dowry, he’s the only suitor you’ve had.”

“I don’t care about my dowry,”
Alicia cried, leaping to her feet. “I’d be just as happy unwed, living here
with Great-aunt Beatrix!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,
daughter. You won’t have that situation at all.”

“What does that mean? You’re
going to lock me in my room like your father locked up Aunt Beatrix?” Alicia
demanded. She stole a glance at her aunt in time to see the embroidery cloth
slide down her face and into her lap as she, too, stared at Chadwick in sudden
concentration.