Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (7 page)

Resisting the temptation to glance at her shadow, she took two steps back, broke into a run, and leaped onto the low wall. Her hands caught the top, and she was pulling her leg over, when she felt his hands on her bottom. With a jerk of shock—and perhaps something more—she released her hold on the wall. Too late the folly of that impulse registered, and she fell backward.

He caught her, of course. Dashed man. She would have preferred to land on the cold, hard ground. She would have preferred to smash her bones against a pile of unforgiving rocks. She would have preferred…she closed her eyes. She was not even convincing herself. His arms were solid and his chest warm. He smelled of soap and horse and leather. Her body heated and tingled, remembering their kiss the previous night. It was a purely animalistic instinct. She knew this, and yet it was forceful enough that she wanted to give into it. She wanted to turn toward him, press her breasts against his hard chest, wrap her arms around his neck, and press her lips to his sensual mouth.

But she was not so green as to be confused by the conflicting desires at war within her. Her mind wanted to escape him. Her body wanted to ravish him. Her mind would win.

She hoped.

She pushed out of his arms, knowing she’d lingered too long for her protests now to make sense. She would make them anyway. He did not expect her to be logical; men never expected as much from a woman. “Let me go.”

He released her as though she were a hot poker. “I was merely attempting to assist you.”

“I do not need your assistance,” she said through clenched teeth. She’d made the mistake of looking at him, and all that inky hair and those black eyes made her stomach clench in such a way she almost pressed her hand to it to ward off the spirals of heat coursing through her body. “I came in that way, and I can leave that way as well.”

He raised a brow. “And you claim I’m no gentleman.”

Oh, now this was too much. She had no time for it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Are you implying I am not a lady?” She took a menacing step toward him, and though he did not retreat, she thought she saw a flicker of concern in his eyes. “A piece of advice, Mr. Griffyn. A gentleman never even hints that a woman is not a lady, no matter what insult she has given you.”

His brow arched. “I believe we’ve already established I am no gentleman.”

Yes, yes they had. And why did that make her belly flutter? Ridiculous body! She would not be at the mercy of her desires. She stomped away from him and headed for the garden gate. She told herself her change of direction was due to the fact that her pursuer—if, indeed, it was not Griffyn himself—might be lying in wait by the garden wall. It was not because she could not risk Griffyn touching her again.

He followed, which she expected, but he did not attempt to play the gentleman and open this gate for her. He let her struggle until she’d broken the lock and then watched as she jerked at its heavy weight until the rusty rails cleared the overgrown weeds that had grown up around it. She finally passed through and would have slammed it on him, but it caught on yet another creeping weed. Instead, she gave him a potent glare.

And he said she wasn’t a lady.

She made her way through a dark uneven street. She moved gingerly through the mud and the muck, attempting to keep the hem of her skirts clean. She righted her cape, which had twisted about her shoulders, and pulled the hood over her hair and down to conceal her forehead. Griffyn was right behind her, but as soon as she was out in the open, she would leave him behind. No one followed her if she did not want to be followed.

But he must have anticipated her, because right before they stepped out onto the busy thoroughfare, clogged with carriages and the
ton
’s town coaches, he took her arm and tucked it into his. She tried to jerk away, subtly, so as not to draw attention, but he held tightly. “Which direction?” he asked.

“Release me.”

“We have had this conversation already.”

She stared at him. She could threaten to scream, but that was patently ridiculous, even as a threat. He knew she would not do it. She’d rather deal with him than a swarm of well-meaning rescuers who would gossip about Miss Bonde’s scandalous appearance on—she glanced around—Chesterfield Hill late at night.

He met her gaze, and she knew he understood her dilemma. She saw the triumph in his eyes. It made her want to scream just to spite him. And that was the sort of unprofessional behavior she always loathed. “This way,” she said sweetly, pointing toward Charles Street. This was not over. He might think he had won, but she would be the victor in the end. She never lost.

They strolled, arm in arm, as though they were a couple walking home after a night’s entertainment. He skillfully steered her away from the less desirable men and women they passed, made certain she did not step in so much as a puddle—even when it meant he could not avoid soaking his boots—and kept her safely on the sidewalk, while he walked along the curb where carriages rolled by, splashing mud onto his trousers. She kept her head angled down so the hood concealed her features and ignored the way her cheeks heated at his closeness and how her heart wanted to melt at his chivalry.

Just because he could act the gentleman did not mean he was one.

Just because she had never particularly cared for gentlemen, at any rate, did not mean she had to push this one up against a wall and take his mouth with hers in a kiss she knew would leave them both breathless. Clearly, his thoughts were not along the same lines. A moment later he asked the perfectly logical and reasonable question, “Are we going to Charles Street?”

“As you see.” She sounded petulant. She was far too old for petulance.

“Meeting your lover at The Running Footman?”

She let out a short laugh. “Hardly. I assure you I am going to a respectable home.” At least she assumed it appeared so on the outside. “You may leave me there without qualm.”

He made no reply, and she could only hope he did not intend to actually see her inside. She could not exactly discuss Foncé or the Maîtriser group with Wolf if Griffyn insisted on chaining himself to her side. It would be humiliating enough to make an appearance with Griffyn beside her. She was supposed to be a spy. She should be able to evade an unwanted tail. Of course, she’d never had to escape the man picked to be her husband. If she could not escape him now, it did not bode well for the marriage.

Not that there would be a marriage. She had not agreed yet. She would find a way out of this conundrum.

She glanced at Griffyn. Surely he did not want to wed her. Perhaps he had thought of an alternative. Perhaps there was some other woman he could marry instead. “You know they expect us to marry.” She didn’t think it necessary to mention whom
they
comprised. He knew.

“So I have been told.” He steered her around a small group of men watching a bootblack shine a gentleman’s shoes. It was probably prime entertainment for the night.

“And?”

He frowned at her. “I’m not going to bend down on one knee, if that’s what you want.”

She shuddered. “No! Please
do
not
even entertain the idea.”

“I assure you I am not. I cannot promise not to entertain
any
ideas, however.”

She supposed he was trying to shock her, but she could hardly find his statements shocking when she herself had pondered the odd fantasy or three involving him. “What I meant was what will you do about it?”

He shrugged. “That is the benefit of being a man. I don’t have to do anything. If I do not act, we do not wed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you truly so naive?”

He stopped walking, forcing several people to circumvent him, and turned to face her. “I believe that is my line.”

“I am not naive, and I know my aunt and uncle. They will have their way if steps are not taken to prevent it. I could act alone, but they know most of my stratagems.”

His lips curved into a dubious smile. “You have stratagems?”

“It might be better if you acted.”

“Better for whom?” His gaze was intent but bemused, and she could not discern whether he was angry or on the verge of laughing at her.

“For both of us, obviously.”

He merely looked at her. She had to curb the urge to dig the toe of her boot into the sidewalk. “I thought…” But she hadn’t thought this through very well. Perhaps she should wait to discuss it with him. Unfortunately, their next discussion might be at the altar.

“You thought?” he prompted.

“Perhaps you might marry someone else. Then you and I could not marry.”

He didn’t speak for the length of seven heartbeats. “You are serious?” he said finally.

“Of course. You simply need to choose a woman to marry. Unless there is a woman you have in mind already. Is there?”

“Are you asking if I have a mistress?”

“Shh!” She glanced around, forgetting for the moment she wore her cape. Still, if they continued talking of topics like one’s
mistress
, curious passersby would surely look more closely. “Need you be so blunt?”

“
I
am being blunt?”

Vexing man. Why must he be so difficult? No wonder he did not have a mistress. “Fine. I will be blunt.”

“This I have to hear,” he muttered.

She ignored him. “There must be women who would have you.”

“Because of my relationship with the marquess?”

“No, because…” She gestured to him.

“Pray, madam, do continue.”

She waved her hand. “Because…look at you.” She felt her face flame. He really could not be such a complete dolt. “Do not play games with me, Mr. Griffyn. Surely you realize you are an attractive male specimen.”

“An attractive male specimen! Bloody hell. Next you’ll want to dissect me.”

Her face was red by now. She did not need a mirror to tell her she was blushing. This night was turning into a complete failure. Was she to be completely humiliated? “I am simply saying—”

“I know what you are saying, and the answer is no.”

“No?”

“I will not marry to avoid marriage. In fact, were the situation to reach such dire straits, I find I would vastly prefer you.”

***

Her blue eyes widened, looking like enormous sapphires glittering against the velvet night of the cape. She intrigued him, this woman who was full of contradictions. One moment she was bold and audacious. The next moment she blushed like a schoolgirl. Who was the real Jane Bonde?

Whoever she was, she did not want anything to do with him. She’d made that, if nothing else, clear enough. Suddenly, he was eager to finish this duty and be done with her. He should have left her back in the cemetery. It wasn’t chivalry that persuaded him to escort her; it was curiosity. What was she doing in that cemetery? Why had she been breathing heavily as though she’d been pursued? He’d heard her breathing before anything else. She was light on her feet, but she couldn’t stop her breath from dragging in and out. Most likely her stays were laced tightly and constricted breathing.

And the image of her in only her stays was not one he ought to dwell on at the moment.

So what or whom was she running from? One moment all had been quiet and peaceful. He’d been alone with his thoughts and, if he’d been a praying man, his prayers. The next she had raced past him and dove into the shadows of the old Norman church. For a moment, he’d actually thought he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. He did not know her final destination, but wherever it was, she did not want him to accompany her.

All the more reason to insist on accompanying her.

“Miss Bonde, the hour grows late. Shall we continue?” He offered his arm and found he was actually somewhat offended when she did not take it. She muttered something about not needing his assistance and stomped away. Several men parted to allow her to pass, and he had to hurry to catch her. They did indeed pass The Running Footman, but she barely gave the tavern a glance. She finally stopped in front of an unassuming town house. Several lights still burned in the windows, but it did not appear the owner hosted any sort of social event. Did she intend to make a social call this late?

“This is it,” she said. “You may go now.”

He might have considered departing, but he certainly wasn’t going to be ordered to do so. Not to mention, he was still curious. Whom was she meeting? What was so important that she needed to rush out, on her own, at night? A lover? A blackmailer? Exactly what was Miss Bonde trying to hide?

When he didn’t take his leave, she scowled and climbed the steps to the front door. She peered over her shoulder before knocking, seeming resigned to the fact that he was not quite so easy to dismiss. She rapped on the knocker three times and waited. Dominic ascended the steps quietly and stood beside her. He heard faint footsteps, and then the black door opened. A distinguished-looking butler with black hair that had silvered at the temples looked down at her. His face was expressionless granite.

“Good evening.” His voice betrayed nothing of what he must be thinking; namely, that it was too late for a social call. The butler did not appear to recognize Miss Bonde, and she hesitated, glancing back at Dominic, then frowning in annoyance when she saw he was beside her.

“Good evening. I am Miss Jane Bonde. I have come to call on Mister…”