Page 7 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Seven

O sborne added another splash of brandy to his glass. Yet neither the warmth of the spirits nor the banked fire in his bedchamber hearth had eased the tautness of his temper.

“Absurd,” he growled aloud, smoothing the silk of his dressing gown against his bare skin. He had returned home over an hour ago, and yet here he was, acting like an adolescent schoolboy, mooning over a lady who could barely tolerate his presence. Was it the challenge that had him too restless to seek sleep? Her disdain was tantamount to a taunt.

And he was vain enough to believe that his charm could disarm any female.

Yet so far, Sofia Constanzia Bingham de Silveri had parried his pleasantries with ruthless ripostes. Cold as steel.

Damn . The recollection of her kissing the Italian sent a frisson of fire through his limbs.

Shrugging off the silk, Osborne stalked to the window and pressed his brow and palms to the leaded panes. The patter of a passing rain seeped through the glass, cool against his naked flesh and tensed muscles. If only it could drown the devils in his head.

“I’m a bloody, bloody fool,” he cursed, hoping to counter the seductive demon-whispers concerning the arch of her neck, the curve of her breasts.

If anything the voices grew louder.

He swore again, his breath misting the glass. Air—he suddenly needed to escape the stifling confines of his room, of his own overheated imagination. Dressing quickly, he grabbed up his boots and hurried for the back stairs.

It was barely light as he eased open the doors of the mews and rode out toward the Cumberland Gate of Hyde Park. The snorts of his stallion formed puffs of vapor with every step, ghostly white against the rain-grey dawn. Fog hung heavy over the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of the waking city. He passed a drowsy scullery maid struggling with a coal scuttle and a costermonger wheeling his barrow through the puddles.

At this early hour, the bridle paths should be deserted, he mused. The perfect time for a hell-for-leather gallop. Though as he shifted in the saddle, Osborne realized that riding was perhaps not the best activity at the moment. The feel of his stallion’s flexing muscles and sleek flanks against his legs was an uncomfortable reminder his discontent was as much physical as mental.

He needed to find another mistress, and fast. Someone sultry and sexy enough to cause his mind and body to forget all about Sofia.

Spurring to an easy canter, Osborne slowly relaxed into the rhythm of the ride. The question was, who among the available ladies might suit his fancy. No old flame could hold a candle to the contessa. It would have to be someone new, someone unexpected?—

Through the mists and shadows, he suddenly spotted a ripple of motion up ahead. An instant later, the blur took shape as a stallion galloping at breakneck speed between the trees. Amidst the flailing hooves and flying clods of earth, a slim figure was just visible, crouched low and clinging to the saddle.

“Bloody hell.” Osborne watched in horror as a boot kicked loose from the stirrup and the rider tumbled toward the ground. But by some miracle, both feet hit the earth and the lucky devil managed to bounce back up and gain a tenuous grip on the wet pommel.

Despite the timely acrobatics, the young groom had clearly lost control of the horse and was in danger of being trampled. Osborne urged his own mount forward, ducking the overhanging branches as they gathered speed and raced along the narrow bridle path.

Thundering through a break in the trees, Osborne’s big bay gained enough ground to pull abreast of the runaway stallion. Fisting his reins in one hand, he angled in closer—a dangerous move, for one tiny slip could break both of their necks.

Just another inch or two . . . Daring a low lunge, Osborne grasped the runaway rider around the waist and yanked him to safety. But instead of holding a tearful lad, limp with relief, he found himself fighting a twisting and tossing of tensed muscle.

“For God’s sake, stop squirming like an eel.”

The boy had the ballocks to answer with an oath. Another kick grazed his horse’s flanks. The bay snorted and shied away, nearly unseating them both.

“Bloody little bastard,” he growled, trying to control the ungrateful imp’s sharp elbows.

In the tussle, the lad’s floppy cap came loose, revealing a tumble of raven tresses.

“L-Lady della Silveri?” Osborne blinked, wondering whether he had taken complete leave of his senses. For unless he was crazy, it was the contessa in his arms, dressed as a boy in breeches and a moleskin jacket.

“Yes, dammit. Now let me go,” she demanded.

As he drew to a skittish halt, she wrenched free of his hold and dropped lightly to the turf. Turning without a word, she stalked away to snatch up the reins of her own mount.

He slid down from the saddle and hurried after her. “Are you alright, milady?”

“I am quite fine,” she snapped.

“But . . .”

“But what?” She whirled around, eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, ringlets in wild disarray around her face.

Osborne couldn’t tear his eyes away from her—and the curves set off by the snug buckskins.

“Hell, you ride like a Hussar,” he said admiringly.

“A fact I hope you will keep to yourself.” It was no longer merely anger, but trepidation he saw on her face. “ Prego , Osborne,” she added after drawing a deep breath. “I beg you will not speak of this to anyone. I am aware that the rules governing a lady’s behavior are very strict here in England. Many people might consider me too . . . fast.”

“Dangerously fast, Lady della Silveri.” Osborne stepped closer. They were both still a bit breathless from the exertion and he could feel the whisper of warmth cut through the damp mists swirling around them. Gentlemanly scruples demanded that he honor her request. But at the moment, a far more devilish desire seemed to overpower any notion of honor.

“In our country, it is customary that one who asks a favor is willing to grant one in return.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Whether it was shock or a spark of some other emotion was difficult to discern in the shifting shadows. “What sort of favor, Osborne?”

Despite the chill, her skin glistened with tiny beads of sweat and the pulse at her throat mirrored the thud of his own racing heart. His lips lowered and covered the quivering spot.

A moan resonated somewhere deep in her throat but she didn’t push him away.

Emboldened, Osborne skimmed a kiss along the line of her jaw, inhaling the sublime sweetness of her scent. Heather and honey. He couldn’t help himself—he simply had to have a deeper taste. Crushing his mouth to hers, he drew her lower lip between his teeth.

Gently, gently . But his body was not listening to his mind. His stubble scraped against her delicate flash as he forced her head back. His hands threaded through her windblown hair, his tongue thrust deep inside her, drinking in her warmth.

Dear God, he was drowning in pure, primal desire.

What a spectacle he was making of himself. The debonair Deverill Osborne, desperate for a fleeting kiss.

He didn’t care. His hands found the opening of her jacket, and then the swell of flesh beneath the scrunch of linen. Cupping her breasts, he stroked upward.

“Please . . .” She twisted back and forth. “Please, this really must stop.”

Osborne’s simmering frustrations were on the verge of exploding. “If you are begging for release, you are going about it all wrong.”

She stilled in his arms.

“Why are you so warm to that preening peacock of a conte and so cold to me?” he demanded,

“I—he . . .” she stammered. “Marco is an old friend.”

“An old lover?”

She looked away, her loosened hair falling across her face, a shimmering black curtain between them.

“I’m sorry, that was unspeakably rude,” he said with a ragged sigh. “I don’t know what comes over me when I am around you. My manners seem to go up in smoke.”

“Please let me go, Osborne.”

He drew his hands away, not before brushing an errant curl from her cheek. She flinched as if singed by his touch. And yet, for a fleeting moment, her mouth had been molten with desire. He had kissed enough women to know that without a doubt.

“And now that you have taken your favor, sir, I trust that I can count on your silence in return.”

Stung by the scorn in her voice, he couldn’t keep from retorting in kind. “The pleasure was not all one-sided, contessa. Admit it, you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

Her cheeks flushed red as her kiss-roughened lips. “Why, you arrogant ass.”

“You haughty hellion.”

They stood toe to toe, glaring at each other through the tendrils of dawn mist. Much as he wished to turn his back on the lady and stalk away, Osborne felt held in thrall by some mysterious spell. Black magic. The breeze stirred her loosened hair, setting the raven strands to dancing along the line of her shapely shoulders. Her eyes, aswirl with anger, had an alchemy all their own. Emeralds on fire.

He found it difficult to breathe.

A dog barked, breaking the dark enchantment. Swearing softly, Sofia snatched up her hat and tucked her tresses out of view. Several quick strides brought her abreast of her stallion. Without waiting for any assistance, she caught up the reins and vaulted lightly into the saddle, her boot barely touching the stirrup.

Whatever else her faults, the lady looked magnificent on her mount. Like Minerva, the ancient Roman goddess of war. A bellicose beauty.

“ Andiamo, Jupiter,” she said.

The horse whinnied, his hooves kicking up clods of the damp earth. A flick of her heels and they were gone.

A close call.

Sofia slumped back against the stall door and pressed her palms to her sweat-slicked brow. Another few inches andOsborne’s roving hands would have hit upon the small turn-off pocket pistol hidden in her waistband. He was asking enough uncomfortable questions without wondering why she was carrying a firearm.

She bit her lip—a definite mistake, as it was yet another reminder of how badly she had let her guard slip.

Her tongue flicked over the raw flesh, tasting the lingering traces of his brandy and her own egregious folly. What madness had come over her? The man possessed a potent charm. And a sinful, sensuous smile. When his mouth had come close, hovering a hair’s breadth from hers in the morning mists, she had been powerless to resist.

Passion. While she grasped the intellectual concept, the Academy lectures had not quite prepared her for the full brunt of its physical force.

She shivered at the memory of his probing caresses, his tongue sliding so smoothly through her defenses. Hard yet soft. Sweet yet spiced with a hot, masculine need. The effect had been intoxicating. She had surrendered to his demands without a fight.

No wonder the devilish Deverill Osborne had seduced half the ladies of London.

Her sigh sharpened to an oath. Forewarned was forearmed. She would not let the man beat her so easily again. He might be a master of sexual swordplay, but he would soon discover that he was not the only one who could wield a sliver of steel. Any future advances on his part would be parried with better skill, she resolved.

She was no fledging chick, she was a Merlin. Woe to any man who got too close to her talons.

Osborne marched down the corridors of Whitehall, outpacing the young lieutenant who had been assigned to show him the back stairwell that led to the marquess’s office.

“Sir!” wheezed the officer. “I ought to announce your presence?—”

Ignoring the call, he barged past a startled copy clerk and entered the room.

“Osborne.” Lynsley looked up over the gold rimmed lenses of his reading glasses, his brows arching in inquiry.

“Forgive the intrusion.” All of a sudden, he felt rather silly interrupting affairs of state to pass on a bit of tittle-tattle. But retreat would appear even more foolish. “Might I have a word with you. In private.”

The marquess dismissed his secretary with a tiny nod. “You may go ahead and draft the memorandum to the Swedish ambassador, Jenkins. I will review it later.”

The young man gathered up a sheaf of documents and withdrew from the room.

“Would you care for a drink?” Lynsley gestured to the tray of decanters on the sideboard.

“Thank you but no. I shall not take up any more of your time than necessary to . . .” To what? Grass on a lady’s indiscretions?Osborne felt his cheeks turn a trifle warm as he finished by saying, “To mention my concerns in regard to the contessa.”

“Concerns?” Lynsley’s brows rose a touch higher.

“I fear she may be falling in with a rather disreputable crowd,” he said stiffly. “I have tried to warn her off, but my opinion seems to carry little weight with her.”

“Indeed?”

“To be frank, the lady doesn’t like me much. However, I thought that you might have some influence over her.”

“Lady della Silveri is of age,” replied the marquess dryly. “She is free to choose her own company, regardless of what either you or I have to say about it.” He picked up a pile of reports and resumed his reading. “I appreciate your telling me this, but I wouldn’t worry about the lady. I have great confidence in her judgment.”

Osborne made a face. “Even though she encourages a hellhound like Adam De Winton to come sniffing around her skirts?”

Lynsley calmly turned a page. “De Winton’s pedigree allows him entrée into the highest circles of the ton . If the leading hostesses of London do not object to his presence, I don’t see how we can argue.”

The marquess’s offhand manner was beginning to set his teeth on edge. “It is not his pedigree but his purse that is cause for concern. It’s common knowledge in the gaming hells around Town that his finances are precarious at best.”

“A fortune hunter? Be assured that Lady della Silveri is familiar with that breed of gentleman. She isn’t likely to be fooled by false flatteries.”

“Perhaps you would be a tad more concerned if I mentioned her early morning habits,” said Osborne.

Lynsley finally looked up.

“I happened to spot her alone in the Park around dawn,” he growled. “She was galloping hell for leather astride a great black stallion. Did you know she rides like the wind?”

“Seeing as I arranged for her equestrian instructor, I am aware of her skills in the saddle,” replied the marquess.

Osborne fell silent for a moment. He ought to leave it at that, but stubbornness overcame sense. “If she doesn’t slow down a bit, she may find her reputation in tatters. The tabbies are quick to pounce if a lady strays from the confines of conformity.”

“A widow is allowed a little more latitude, as I’m sure you well know.” The marquess took up a pen and began making a notation in the margin of the paper. “Consider that you have done your duty, Osborne. You have opened the right doors, which is all that I asked of you. In good conscience you may now stand aside. If Lady della Silveri wishes to go on from here on her own, we must respect her wishes.”

“Bloody hell.” The force of his fist hitting the desk blotter nearly knocked over the inkwell. “There is something damn peculiar about all this, Lynsley.”

“How do you mean?” asked the marquess.

“Well . . .” Nonplussed, Osborne realized he was not quite sure how to word his misgivings. Like the morning mists, they were no more than vague swirls. Ghostly vapors with no real form or substance. He blew out a harried huff of air. “I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with your. . . government duties.”

Lynsley’s mouth quirked. “Ah, you think the lady is a secret agent from the Kingdom of Naples? Or perhaps an assassin, sent by the Prince of Venice?”

Said aloud, such suspicions did sound patently absurd.

“Did one of your lady friends lend you a copy of The Duchess of the Dark Dagger ?” went on Lynsley, a hint of humor shading his voice. “I hear it is a highly entertaining novel—even better than The Curse of the Velvet Glove .”

Osborne swore under his breath. “Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction,” he said defensively. “Take the recent events at Marquand Castle—two peers end up dead, and my friend Kirtland returns with a mysterious bride. How the devil do you account for that ?

“Art auctions can be a cutthroat business from what I hear,” replied the marquess with a straight face. “As for the particulars of Lord Kirtland’s love life, you would have to ask the earl himself. I was not among the guests invited to his nuptials.”

“Yet you were investigating him.”

“My job requires that I investigate a great many people. Most, like the earl, are proved innocent of any treasonous activities.” Lynsley cocked his head. “In any case, I fail to see the connection between Kirtland and the contessa . . . other than the fact that the earl and his bride took a wedding trip to Italy.”

Put that way, Osborne had to admit that his misgivings did sound like a plot straight out of a horrid novel. The Cabal of the Killer Contessas. Mayhap he deserved to be their first victim for having such a lurid imagination.

“Then please excuse my intrusion,” he muttered. There was no point in prolonging the conversation. Even if there were some deep, dark secret to Lady della Silveri’s presence in London, the marquess was far too clever to let it slip by mistake. “I won’t keep you from your work any longer.”

“Osborne.”

He turned, expecting a last little quip.

However, Lynsley’s expression was deadly serious. “Thank you again for the warning. Allow me to return the favor. It would be a mistake on your part to become too involved with Lady della Silveri. She is . . .”

“Dangerous?” The word came unbidden to his lips.

“In a manner of speaking. Though the word I was about to use was ‘complex.’”

“How very kind of you to mention it now,” replied Osborne with a sarcastic sneer. “I wonder why you chose to honor me with the task in the first place?”

“For the very reason that your detachment from romantic entanglements is well-known throughout the ton .” The marquess set down his pen and folded his hands. “It’s is said that you bestow your favors quite freely. But your heart is wholly your own.”

Osborne could think of nothing to say in answer.

“It is a wise strategy,” finished Lynsley. “Especially in this case.”

“You fear that I may lose my heart to the contessa?” He took hold of the brass latch. “Ha. If I were ever foolish enough to fall in love, it would not be with a high-flying spitfire with a taste for vulgar red.”