You Only Love Once (11 page)

“No,” gasped the viscount, his face turning purple. Nate nodded, still smiling, and released him. The viscount staggered back, looking as though he would be sick all over the grass.

“Very good. Are you ready to go home, darling?” Nate offered his arm.

She let him draw her close, tucking her hand securely into the crook of his elbow. “Yes.”

“An old friend of yours, I presume,” he said when they were several yards away, walking as briskly as they dared toward the exit. Neither one looked back, although it seemed to Angelique she could still hear the viscount's heaving breath.

“Not quite.”

“He seemed interested in renewing whatever the acquaintance was.”

She hated to tell him, after all she had said and implied about his abilities and preparation for this job. “He recognized me. From another assignment.”

He didn't say anything for a few minutes. They walked past the orchestra and the supper boxes, back toward the street where they could hail a hackney. “Should I go back and kill him?” he finally asked. “I'd rather do it now, if it must be done, before he has a chance to ruin things.”

“No,” she said on a sigh. She could feel the blood pounding through her veins, now in relief but still hard enough to make her hands tremble. “But we must be more careful. He is a disgusting
bête
who
likes to abuse women, to feel he is master and owner of them.” Again she felt old and tired of her job. She must be slipping, if the viscount had recognized her so easily and she had done such a poor job of eluding him. She was normally quite careful to change her appearance on each assignment; only on this one had she gone more or less as herself, because she was tired of the wigs and cosmetics and padded clothing. Now her own face had betrayed her.

Nate stopped. They had almost reached the entrance of the gardens, and she looked toward it with yearning. Even without the cursed viscount's presence, they had no reason to linger. There was no sign of Hurst, and it was too late to reasonably expect him to arrive; they would stand out if they stayed and kept circling the gardens all night. At the moment, nothing sounded more appealing than leaving Vauxhall and going home to a hot cup of tea. How she wished it were Melanie's lemon and mint tea, but Lisette's English tea with a spike of brandy would do almost as well. She looked at her companion with a trace of impatience.

“What did he do to you?” There was no inflection of any kind in his voice. She had never heard him sound so utterly chilling, and perversely it annoyed her.

“Nothing,” she snapped. His face didn't change. “He stared at me, touched my arm, nothing more. If he had tried anything else, I would have gutted him already and he would not have troubled us. Now, shall we go? I have had my fill of Vauxhall, and do not think we will find Hurst tonight.”

“How did he know you?”

She hesitated. “Let us go home. I will tell you there.”

He pulled her into the shadows nearby, enfolding her in a loose embrace. He brushed a lock of hair back from her temple, and murmured in her ear, “I am not letting that man walk out of this damned pleasure garden and unmask you to the world. Tell me how he knew you, and what he might do that could endanger either of us.”

Angelique sighed. She was so tired of this. She let him draw her to him, resting her hands on his chest. It would reinforce the appearance that they were lovers stealing a kiss in the darkness. That it also felt comforting and right to lean on him was just a figment of her imagination, a trick of her fancy—nothing more. It was just part of the job. The fact that he was warm and solid under her hands and so very male meant nothing. “I was a private nurse to a marquis who fancied himself afflicted with every trifling illness known to man. That man, back there, was a friend of his. They are arrogant, rich men, who think women exist for their pleasure, no matter how twisted their pleasures are. They both preferred young girls, whether bought and paid for or unwillingly taken. I believe they routinely abused each other's servants.” She couldn't hide her disgust. “The day after I arrived in the marquis's home, a laundry maid, barely fifteen, was dismissed, cast out of the house into the street with nothing but her clothes. She was small and thin, and simply sat weeping on the pavement until the marquis had a footman chase her off. Later the governess told me the marquis had used
her—forced himself on her—until she became with child. That was when he turned her out.”

Nate said nothing, but his arms closed tighter around her. Angelique laid her cheek against his shoulder. He might not make the most imposing figure, but he was the perfect height for her. She felt oddly at peace here in his embrace, not to mention safe.

She raised her head after a moment. “Let us go. I do not want to see him again.”

“What's his name?” he asked.

“I don't remember, nor do I care to.”

“If he sees either of us again, he'll remember.”

“Grabbing his ballocks did nothing to erase the memory.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I squeezed them hard enough that he'll remember what I said.” She gave a reluctant little snort of laughter. Men like Barings deserved to have their ballocks torn off; it was more fitting than a quick and painless pistol shot to the head.

But it didn't change the truth of what Nate said: the man would remember them both, with crystal clarity this time. She sighed, fighting the urge to rest against him again. “Barings,” she murmured. “Lord Barings is his name. I just remembered it.”

“We'd better keep an eye on him.” He turned toward the gates again and began leading her there, more sedately than before. “But not tonight.”

She made herself disengage his arm even though it felt warm and comforting around her waist. It would not do, to become too accustomed to leaning on him. Nate gave her a quick glance, but let her go, keeping only her hand on his arm, his fingers rest
ing lightly on top of hers. She kept her head down, more mindful than ever of the dangers of her profession and current situation. She had never been recognized before; people were usually fooled by a wig, some cosmetics, and most of all by different clothing. She could be one woman sauntering along in a tight scarlet gown, her head thrown back and her eyes boldly raised, and another one entirely in a bedraggled gray dress with her eyes downcast and her cheeks padded out.

But when she was a woman tucked safely in Nathaniel Avery's arm, she didn't even recognize herself. He had upended too much already in her carefully controlled life. She would do well to remember that this was an adventure for him. Once they found his man, he would sail back to his life in America, and she would begin creating her new life here. She still had no idea what that life would look like, and tonight only added to her worries. She couldn't go to Mellie if there was a risk she would be recognized again. She would never forgive herself if she introduced filth like Barings into Mellie's life. She had done most of her work in London; perhaps Whitton was too near to chance it. Perhaps she should look farther afield…to some lonely corner of England where she would be a complete stranger to everyone. It didn't sound very appealing, even to someone who wished to remain unknown.

In the street Nate hailed a hackney and handed her into it, with more care than usual. She didn't like that. Or rather, she liked it too much for her own comfort. Their goal tonight had been compromised because of her, and he hadn't said a word of blame. Perhaps she should have thought more care
fully before leaving her wigs behind. She couldn't be dressed more differently tonight than she had dressed at Bethwell's home, but it hadn't been enough, and the fault was hers.

By now Nate had told the driver where to go and taken the seat beside her. Still he said nothing, just took her hand. She turned her eyes to the window and looked blindly out, conscious of the strength in his fingers around hers. If their positions had been reversed, and he had been responsible for some near-disaster like this, she didn't know how she would have responded. If he were another agent of Stafford's, she would have flayed him alive and turned him off the assignment. Both he and Stafford would have expected no less. If he had been another of Stafford's men, though, he would be blistering her ears right now. Instead his hand was warm and heavy and comforting on hers.

Curse Stafford, she thought in despair. She was starting to like Nathaniel Avery in spite of herself.

When they reached the house, he jumped down from the hackney and helped her out before she could energize herself. Somehow his tender care had made her sluggish, as if she needed his arm to walk up the steps. That was wrong, of course, but she didn't shake him off. She still didn't need him, but tonight she was glad he was with her just the same.

Inside the narrow hall, he took her cloak and hung it up. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

She had been about to start up the stairs, her hand already on the newel post. At his command she paused and turned back. Nate modulated his tone.
“Please,” he said, then stopped. What did he expect her to do? Tell him more about how Barings and that marquis might have imposed on her? Break down and weep over the terrible things she must have seen in her work? “Are you well?” he settled for asking.

Her chin went up. “Well enough.” She paused, too; it seemed neither of them knew what to say. “Thank you for your assistance tonight.”

“Assistance,” he repeated. It was dark in the hall; the maid had left a small lamp burning, but there was no other light. The house was quiet, save for the occasional rattle of a carriage passing in the street outside. But even in the dim light he could see Angelique's expression stiffen.

“Yes. Assistance.” She raised an eyebrow. “What else should I call it?”

He crossed the hall to stand in front of her. “I don't give a damn what you call it,” he said. In the lamplight her skin was like pale gold, her eyes as dark as onyx. She looked delicate and beautiful and strangely vulnerable, despite the somewhat scornful arch of her brow. “We are in this together. I expect you would have done the same for me.”

“Of course,” she said evenly. “I am responsible for your safety.”

“That's not what I meant,” Nate said, incredulous. “Responsible?”

“
Oui
. If anything were to happen to you, I should have to explain myself to a wide variety of people.”

“And those same people wouldn't care if you were the one injured or assaulted.”

She gave a very Gallic shrug. “Not much. They would be annoyed that they must find someone else to do my work, perhaps.”

And Nate knew she was right, even if it made him want to punch someone. No doubt Stafford cared for her much the way he would a horse—no matter how valuable or well trained or useful, it was still just a horse. Perhaps that's the way the man had to think, to be able to send her out posing as a servant among men who routinely abused their servants, knowing what those men would do to her if they discovered her true intent. Nate would never ask one of his sailors to do what he was unwilling to risk himself, and the thought of a man like Stafford expecting Angelique to risk her slender neck to save
Nate
, should he be endangered…

As he stood there mastering his outrage, she turned to the stairs again. “Good night, Mr. Avery.”

“Nate,” he said shortly. “And should you wish to know, I had no thought of responsibility or inconvenience when I acted. Whatever else you may think of me, rest assured I do not view you as nothing more than a useful tool to achieve my purpose.”

She stopped. Her shoulders, nearly bared by her gown, hunched a little, almost defensively. Again she turned back. “I know,” she said softly. Hesitantly she reached out and laid her fingers along his jaw, so lightly he barely felt the contact. “Thank you, Nate.”

He caught her wrist when she would have retreated. The softness in her face abruptly vanished, but she didn't tense or pull away. He would have let go of her at once if she had. Instead he tugged her forward until he could cup his free hand around the smooth, warm nape of her neck. He hadn't intended to kiss her tonight, but he'd certainly thought about kissing her, even before she looked at him with
those shadowed eyes and touched his face. So he kissed her.

He felt her sharp inhale of breath against his cheek, and her fist where it landed against his chest. But he held her anyway, pressing his momentary advantage of surprise. A tremor shook her body. And then, blissfully, she surrendered. The fingers fisted against him loosened, then dug into his jacket to hold him to her. Nate released her wrist to wind his arm around her waist, and she threw that arm around his neck, clinging as if she would never let go. Her lips parted beneath his, and Nate felt the earth shift beneath his feet. She kissed him back with hunger and more than a little passion. Her mouth tasted of wine, and indeed he felt half drunk, upended and swept away. This wasn't what he had expected; it was something far more dangerous…

He pulled himself back from the brink and lifted his head. In the split second before her eyes opened, he caught a fleeting glimpse of wonder on her face, as if something had taken her by surprise, but happily. Her lips were soft and slightly parted, her eyelashes long on her smooth cheek, and entrancing color stained her cheeks. He could only think he must look as awestruck as she did, and maybe even more so.

She recoiled at once, and touched one finger to her lower lip. “Why did you do that?” she asked in a low voice.

She might be able to freeze a man with one look or cutting word, but she kissed like a temptress, like a woman who craved him as much as he craved her. “You know why,” he murmured, and reached for her again.

This time she braced her hands against his chest. Nate stopped trying to pull her back to him, but he didn't release her.