Page 14 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Fourteen

S ofia paced along the perimeter of the leaded glass walls, her soft slippers noiseless upon the slate tiles. Her thoughts, however, were a babel of curses and consternation.

Bloody hell. Deverill Osborne was coming way too close for comfort. But the question was, what she was going to do about it?

During the ride back to her townhouse, she had reviewed her options—none of which offered an easy way out.

She stared at the fogged panes, the blur reflecting her own misgivings. Osborne was not only courageous, but also clever. He would not be fobbed off with tarradiddles.

Heaving a sigh, she pressed a hand to her breast. How much did he really know about the Merlins? And how much was just wild rumor or speculation that he had overheard?

The latch clicked and a sudden swirl of night air stirred the moist warmth of the conservatory. Sofia turned to see Osborne slip in and shake the rain from his caped overcoat.

“I wondered whether you would keep your word.”He stomped the water from his boots. “At least it is a step in the right direction. But we still have a long way to go, contessa.”

“You don’t trust me?” she asked.

“Should I?”

Rather than answer, Sofia moved closer and feathered a hand against his cheek. His skin was still chilled from the night air, but the throbbing pulse at the base of his jaw sent a tingle of heat through her fingertips. Fire and ice. Both could be dangerous.

“You are hurt,” she whispered, the scrapes rough against her palm. “There’s a cut on your chin.”

“It’s naught but a scratch.” Osborne touched the corner of her mouth. “There’s blood on your lip.’

“It’s naught but a drop.”

“This time, yes. But what of the next?” His thumb gently traced the curve of her lip. “Sofia, enough of secrets and lies. Why are you taking such terrible risks? Explain this devilish mystery that surrounds you, and what?—”

She stopped his halting questions with a long and lush kiss.

Her Academy training had taught that sex was the most powerful weapon she could wield against a man. An act of desperation? Perhaps. But duty demanded she use every means at her disposal to avoid discovery. Deception, distraction. She told herself that she had no choice but to use her body to seduce him from asking further questions.

Easing the coat from his shoulders, Sofia let it fall away. Osborne started to pull back, but she tugged open the fastenings of his shirt and slipped her hand beneath the sweat dampened fabric. “You are also cut here, cara .” The chiseled contours of his chest were solid, sculpted planes of whipcord muscle. The finespun curls of hair, glimmering gold in the starlight, tickled against her palm. “And here.”

He stood still as a statue as she continued to explore his body.

A groan—or was it a growl—slipped from his lips.

Emboldened, Sofia flicked her tongue over the pulse point just below his jaw. He tasted of salt and some mysterious male essence. The effect was . . . intoxicating.

“God help me.” His voice was hardly more than a stirring of air. In contrast, the stiffening of his arousal was hard against her thigh.

She licked again.

“Did you save me from the footpads just to slay me with your own hand?” he rasped.

“There is a question as to who saved whom.” Sofia teased a trail of nipping kisses to the base of his throat. “I haven’t yet properly thanked you for risking your neck.”

“It is not my neck that is in danger, it’s my sanity.” His eyes fell half-closed, but through the fringe of lashes, she caught a glimmer of naked desire. “Keep going—you are becoming more eloquent by the moment.”

Duty. Did that explain the tingling heat in her hands as she pulled the torn linen up over his head?

The shirt slithered down to join the coat on the slate floor, leaving him bare to the waist.

Osborne leaned down anddrew aside the tattered remnants of her bodice. He kissed the hollow of her throat. Then his lips strayed lower, covering the tiny tattoo.

Heat flared deep within her. Breathing in, she felt herself enveloped in the musky, masculine scent of bay rum, brandy and an earthier tone that was all his own.

“Osborne.”

In answer, his mouth moved to breast

Sofia moaned, hardly recognizing the husky pitch of her voice.

It seemed inevitable that she would give up her virginity somewhere along in this mission. Suddenly she wanted her first experience at lovemaking to be with Osborne, rather than any other man.

He had risked his life for her, showing courage and honor, despite the shabby treatment he received from her. From the first, she had sensed there were hidden depths to his character. Lord Sunshine was far more than a fair weather friend. He was a man worthy of respect, worthy of?—

No, she could not afford to let herself think in those terms. He was a useful ally, that was all. One who must, at this moment, be distracted from her true mission.

“Sofia?” The word feathered against her cheek, leaving the rest of the question unspoken.

In answer she found the top button of his trousers. One by one, the fastenings slipped from their slots. Her fingers tugged at his drawers.

What a beautiful man he was, she marveled. Like a classical deity, a pale, perfect form of masculine grace.

Slowly, silently, they stripped each other naked.

Kicking open the folds of his fallen coat, Osborne took her in his arms.

Dizzy with desire, Sofia was hardly aware of him lowering her to the floor. Then her hips lay hard against the unyielding stone and the press of his body was atop her. She gave a keening cry as his hands ran a little roughly up her thighs and coaxed her legs apart. The intimate awareness of her own feminine heat was overpowering as he deepened his touch.

Pleasure pulsed through her with each slow, circling stroke. She felt as if every bone in her body were melting into a pool of warm honey.

The sensations were so strange, so seductive. So wildly, wildly wonderful.

Sex was, of course, a part of the Academy curriculum. The Spanish courtesan had matter of factly described primal passion, and how it could be used as a potent weapon. But words did not begin to describe the raw sensuality of flesh against flesh. Of limbs entwined, hands caressing, tongues tasting the smoky sweetness of intimate kisses.

Suckling her lower lip between his teeth, Osborne bit down as he quickened his his caresses between her thighs. Sofia cried out against his mouth. A searing, spiraling fire was taking control of her body. The heat was almost unbearable.

“Deverill,” she pleaded, uncertain just what it was she wanted.

He seemed to have no doubts.

“Lift your hips, sweeting,” Osborne slid his strong, capable hands beneath her. “ Tesoro , you are a vision of beauty.” A sound rumbled deep in his. “Lethal, lethal beauty.”

Sofia meant to reply but the words seemed to die in her throat. Coherent speech yielded to a whispery sigh as he pressed closer and positioned himself at the entrance to her passage. He moved with a fluid grace, gentle, yet urgent. Demanding.

“Open yourself to me.” His voice was rough with need as he pushed her legs apart.

She shifted in response, an instinctive arch that drove him deep inside her.

A soft yelp slipped from her lips.

The sound was echoed by his fuzzed oath. She felt his whole body tense, his muscles knotting as he braced his arms and wrenched his weight upward.

“Bloody hell.” As he fell to one side, the soft sheen of light caught the look of shock and surprise on his face. “You—you are a virgin.”

“Not anymore.” She tried to smile.

“But how . . . that is, you were married for several years,” he stammered.

“My husband was . . . incapable of consummating our marriage.” That was not a total lie, she told herself. She did not like deceiving Osborne any more than was necessary.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded angry.

“I don’t know,” answered Sofia. “It didn’t seem . . . important.”

“Important?” he repeated. “My honor—and yours—is not something I take lightly, Sofia.” The fringed shadows of the potted palms did not soften the rigid line of his jaw. “I am not in the habit of deflowering innocents.”

It was not only anger she heard, but regret. She felt her insides clench, Deverill Osborne’s dismay was sincere—she saw the fine lines of self-loathing etched around his eyes and in the pinch of his mouth. She liked him even more for his vulnerability to pain, to recrimination.

“I am sorry. Forgive me for being selfish.” Clasping his hand, she pressed it to her cheek. “But I—I wanted it to be you.”

“And I—I am vain enough and weak enough to take you at your word.” His fingers slid up and twined in her tangled hair. “Though at heart, I suspect that your sweet whispers are naught but another bewitching brew of half-truths and lies.”

Rain pattered against the glass, and the rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo the warning thud of her own racing heart. Dangerous . A physical coupling with this man would be more than a fleeting joining of flesh. Did she dare let him that close?

There was still time to pull back.

A flash of lightning illuminated the curve of his cheek, the fringe of his flame-gold lashes. The sliver of space between them crackled with sparks. Then Sofia leaned across the divide. Up close, his stubbling of whiskers looked like a thousand points of fire.

“I have been less than honest with you about some things, Deverill.” It was the first time she had spoken his given name, and she saw an odd flicker light in his eyes. “But not about this. I swear it.”

“Damn me for a fool, but I’ll believe you,” he rasped. His skin was rough yet warm to the touch as he slanted a kiss over her upturned lips. “At least for the moment.”

As he touched her breast, she ran a caress over the ridges of his ribs, reveling in the masculine lines of his body, the flat belly, the jutting hipbones, the finespun curls, lustrous as burnished bronze in the lamplight . . .

“Make love to me, Deverill,” whispered Sofia. “Here. Now.”

Love. Osborne had no illusions that her plea was based on any emotional need. Why she was offering herself to him was a mystery. But not one he was going to puzzle out any time soon. His rational mind wasn’t working too clearly at the moment. As for other parts of his anatomy . . .

There was nothing virginal about her caresses. Nothing innocent about her kisses. No maidenly blushes, no tremulous tears—it was almost as if she had been schooled in the art of pleasuring a man.

What an addlepated notion, of course. She was a well-born lady Or was she? The tattoo seemed to say otherwise. Its winged shape, stark black against the creamy coloring of her flesh, was a vivid reminder of how little he knew about her, save for a name. And even that was suspect.

The Contessa of Conundrums.

She was a puzzle, a provocation. A penance for his past sins? If she wasn’t a real lady, the alternative was even more shocking. The more he tried to make sense of it, the more he felt lost. All he knew was that he wanted her passionately, no matter who or what she was.

“Deverill?” Her smile was sweetly tentative. Seductive. “Am I doing this right?”

He gave a hoarse laugh. “You are an expert in swordplay, sweeting, Indeed, you handle a blade with consummate skill.”

She looked away quickly, the silky strands of her hair falling to obscure her expression. “Please, let us not talk about what happened earlier.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’ve no intention of engaging a verbal duel with you, Sofia. Your thrusts and parries have kept me at arm’s length for too long. Tonight let us declare a truce of sorts.”

“Lay aside our weapons?”

Her cheeks turned a beguiling shade of pink. “I fear there are certain maneuvers in which I may prove clumsy. As you discovered, I have no experience inlovemaking.”

“You appear to be a quick study, sweeting.” Rolling on his back he pulled her atop him. “Riding astride allows you to start out slowly, and set your own pace. Osborne eased her legs apart until she was straddling his hips. Her thighs were warm and wet, the scent of her essence swirling up to meld with the humid perfume of the potted flowers. The effect was earthy, erotic.

“I—”

“Relax, I won’t let you fall, Sofia.” His fingers found her warmth, and stroked gently through her feminine folds. He watched as her eyes widened and turned a luminous, liquid green.

“Hold me, Deverill.” Sofia arched and cried out softly. “Don’t stop.”

“Not if the Devil himself demanded I do so.” Osborne willed his body to match her rhythm. He felt her breasts grow aroused, the tips like points of fire against his fevered hands. She cried out again as he teased them with slow, circling caresses. How perfectly she fit in his palms, as made for him.

It was all he could do to keep from coming completely undone. There was a sinuous, sensuous beauty to the sleek stretch of rippling muscle, the hint of callus on her fingertips. A Goddess of War, leaving a trail of sparks in the misted moonlight.

Osborne shivered, awash in her liquid heat. He had experienced a good many sexual trysts, but nothing quite like this. The connection seemed more than fleshly, the need more than casual lust. Something about her strength, her spirit touched him in a place he had always kept private.

As the tempo increased, their bodies seemed innately in tune. He was acutely aware of her wonder—and his own—at what was happening between them. A poet might describe it in a lilting ode to love.

That word again .

Closing his eyes, Osborne willed himself not to think of such things. Friendship he gave freely to his lovers—it was, he knew, a part of his charm. Up until now, he had never felt the need for anything more. Need was rather frightening.

For an instant, a wild, desperate laugh rumbled deep in his throat. He used laughter to guard against the unknown. To give himself completely seemed daunting. Perhaps because it required him to look deeply into his own soul, and he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Everyone else did, because they saw the surface, the good humor, the bon mots .

He had never shared the darker side, the doubts.

“Deverill!”Sofia’s smoky plea roused him from his mordant reveries. Her voice sounded stretched to the breaking point.

Time enough later for introspection. A truce. With his own demons, his own doubts. For now, he would surrender himself wholeheartedly to the strange alchemy that Fate had forged between them.

Perhaps it was only fool’s gold. But for the moment it was exquisitely real.

She clutched at his shoulders, her hair falling over his chest like a shower of silky soft midnight rain. His hips surged up from the stone, meeting her need with his own. She was riding him hard and fast now. Whipped to a frenzy, his heart was pounding at a furious pace.

A last rise and fall, and Osborne felt the tension within her crescendo into a shuddering release. He heard her wordless wonder, and his own voice joining in hoarse exultation.

Somehow, a small vestige of reason remained, allowing him to pull her off of him in the nick of time. He rolled on his side, his body spent, his lungs heaving.

“ Cara .” Sofia was touching him, stroking his shoulders, his neck, the length of his spine.

Osborne turned back and kissed her lightly on the forehead before gathering her into his arms. Moonlight danced over their sweat-sheened limbs. Closing his eyes, he was suddenly aware that he hadn’t ever felt such profound peace in his life.

It was exhilarating—and frightening.

Her whisper, a teasing, tantalizing mix of English and Italian, tickled against his ear.

Truth and lies. Who was she, this lady who was stealing not only expensive jewelry but also his heart?

So many questions. But mystery could wait until morning. For the moment he would savor the quicksilver magic of these midnight hours.