Page 10 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

A nnette’s smile grew. “Well, then.” She slid her hands off Damaris’s lap and pulled her gloves off, one finger at a time.

Damaris’s heart thrummed in her breast, and she felt rather lightheaded.

“You start like this.” Annette draped the gloves over her knee, then turned back to Damaris. First she untied Damaris’s bonnet, never breaking eye contact.

Damaris was frozen under her gaze. She stayed motionless, letting Annette gently tip back the bonnet.

Then Annette framed Damaris’s face with both warm, dry hands.

Damaris nearly shuddered at the touch of Annette’s fingers. Was this why she’d felt so odd when Annette measured her for dresses? Is this what she’d been craving, and hadn’t even known it?

Annette’s eyes flickered between Damaris’s mouth and her eyes.

And then she smirked, eyes gleaming, as if to say, get ready for our adventure, and gently brushed her lips across Damaris’s.

One, twice, thrice. It was so achingly soft, just the barest brush of skin, that Damaris’s heart seized.

It was agony, knowing she was being kissed, but only just.

A little moan slipped from Damaris’s lips. Before she could be embarrassed, though, Annette kissed her fully.

It was everything Damaris had wished kisses could be—warm, soft skin, gentle breath, but hard pressure. She kissed back hesitantly, molding her lips to Annette’s and closing her eyes.

Annette firmed her lips, slanting them across Damaris’s, and then kissed harder, deeper.

Damaris’s heart leapt and resumed beating now, speeding up as Annette’s fingernails dug into Damaris’s cheeks.

Annette parted her lips and stroked the seam of Damaris’s mouth, adding just a slip of wetness to the passion that made Damaris’s core respond with similar wet heat.

The kiss went on, awakening Damaris’s body.

Arousal spread through her, starting in her chest and blossoming outward.

She sensed everything—the rumble of the wheels over cobbles outside, the swaying of the coach and firmness of the squab beneath her.

The rasp of their skirts brushing against one another, Annette’s sweet, floral scent Damaris hadn’t smelled before getting this close, and the faint calluses on her fingers from years of needlework.

The wet, smooth texture of her tongue as she slipped it between Damaris’s lips and coaxed them open. She tasted glorious.

Damaris’s legs tightened, creating pressure in response to the ache growing between them. And still the kiss continued.

Their tongues tangled—something Damaris had never imagined enjoying—and her hands fluttered in the air between them, shaking with nerves and desire.

Annette released Damaris’s cheeks without pause, caught her hands, and placed them on her own shoulders.

Damaris gripped Annette’s shoulders through the muslin, relishing the warm muscles and the intimacy it created. She opened her eyes to see Annette’s closed, black lashes against her cheeks. Enraptured—for her , for Damaris Dunham.

The carriage halted with such a sudden jerk the two women nearly slid right off the leather squabs.

Damaris grabbed her bonnet before it hit the floor, then laughed awkwardly. She smoothed her hair, looking everywhere but Annette.

Annette chuckled too, placing her bonnet back on and knotting the ribbon quickly. “Well?”

Damaris could feel herself blushing, drat it. “That was, um, lovely. Thank you for the education. It was most…educational.”

Annette chuckled again, her nose wrinkling. “If you want an education again, let me know.” She reached for the latch.

“Wait!” Damaris set a hand on Annette’s bare arm.

Annette glanced back at her.

“Are you…attending tonight? To stop your cousin?”

Annette sobered, nodded. “I’ll show up as a lady’s maid for the retiring room, like you suggested. As long as you can make sure I get in. Around half eight?”

Damaris nodded. “I’ll look for you.” She smiled.

“See you shortly.” Did Annette, too, feel like the world had tipped over and resumed its axis in a new position?

Did she do this sort of thing with girls all the time?

Was Damaris the only one who felt like her heart would beat out of her chest, that she was simultaneously tipsy and flying and frightened and—maybe that was too many descriptions.

Damaris had just never had so many emotions bubbling inside her that it felt like her skin would burst. But she couldn’t show it.

She couldn’t show her infatuation or fear or delight—because this was probably just a favor Annette offered since Damaris was her new friend.

No, Annette couldn’t feel the same way about Damaris.

She was French and cultured and sophisticated and very, very experienced with other women.

Annette grinned, her bonnet somehow already crooked. “Au revoir.”

Annette kept her composure until she stepped back inside the shop, floated across the front room, slipped into a fitting room, and pulled the drapes shut. Then she looked in the mirror and squealed, hands on her cheeks. “I just kissed Damaris Dunham!”

She hoped she’d been a good teacher. She hoped Damaris would want to do this again.

Damaris was always so cool and self-assured.

Annette shouldn’t let on she’d been wanting to do this for months.

Maybe she could suggest another learning opportunity?

But no, not right now. She needed to focus on the danger ahead: her cousin’s threat of violence tonight.

It felt like every experience she’d had, every seam she’d sewn, had been drawing her closer and closer to Damaris Dunham until her dreams and her hopes were basted together and maybe, just maybe, there’d be a lot more kissing in her future.

Annette sighed and rested her forehead against the looking glass. “Kissing later,” she told herself. But a smile showed up in the mirror anyway.

Four hours later

“I am still quite cross with you.” Mother’s voice filtered through the haze of Damaris’s thoughts.

Damaris blinked, taking in the majestic sight of the Westbrook’s Mayfair townhouse—all six stories.

It took up half its side of the square, for goodness’ sake.

A line of torches showed the way for carriages to drop off passengers in front of the entrance.

Red brick, dark in the declining light, was covered tastefully with ivy and vines that had likely been growing for fifty years.

It was beautiful—a place Damaris couldn’t quite believe they’d received an invitation for, rather than paying a shilling tour in the London off-season when the aristocrats were away.

“Damaris!” Mother’s voice was shrill.

“Hmm?” Damaris replied faintly, counting the number of carriages between them and the front door.

“Listen to your mother,” her father’s gruff voice broke in.

Damaris blinked. “I beg your pardon, Mother?”

“You should never go anywhere without a chaperone!”

Damaris barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes in time. What had gotten into her? One kiss with the modiste’s daughter, and suddenly she’d turned into a rebel.

“Mother,” she said respectfully, “I’m sorry I worried you.

I went to Madame Morand’s modiste shop because I was concerned about a piece of my gown.

” She glanced down and smoothed the skirt, secretly admiring the velvet ribbon Annette had sewed on.

The rich, royal purple was absolutely her color.

She’d put the dress on and gasped in the mirror, wanting to kiss Annette all over again.

Somehow this extra bit of ribbon brought the color out in her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle.

Instead of the sallow, bland look that most of her dresses drew out from her, this was actually… attractive.

Mother pursed her lips. “Still. You should’ve brought a maid.”

“Clara was beating the carpets!” Damaris protested. “And I certainly couldn’t pull Cook away from a hot oven, could I?”

“We need more footmen,” Mother groused. “Just having a contract with the agency for a few manservants whenever we host dinner parties isn’t enough.”

“Yes, my dear,” Father said tiredly, looking out his window now.

Damaris sighed. They weren’t nobility. They weren’t even gentry.

She couldn’t even claim a noble bloodline, like Annette could.

The daughter of a baron! Damaris still couldn’t get over it.

The Dunhams’ blood was as common as a streetsweeper’s, even though her father had obviously built upon his father’s business and made a small fortune.

She didn’t need a chaperone: she wasn’t an heiress, she didn’t need to prove her virginity beyond all doubt, no scandal sheets knew she existed. It was preposterous.

When they finally entered the home of the duke and duchess and after they’d shown the footmen their invitation, Damaris tried not to gawk at the marble, gold-gilt, and luxurious trappings.

The stairs up to the first floor were lined with deep red carpeting, and the wallpaper was all extravagantly colored peacocks.

Large mirrors were displayed artfully to capture and reflect as much light as possible, keeping the foyer and first flight of stairs well-lit but without too much heat.

The ballroom was on the first floor, down a wide corridor, and was really several connecting drawing rooms that had been cleared and the walls pulled back to make space for dancing.

Mother gripped Damaris’s hand, her body vibrating with excitement. Father had been to the duke’s home a few times for business, but never Damaris or Mother.

Candlelight mixed with expensive gaslight glinted off the pine floors. Landscape paintings dotted the walls. The exterior wall was primarily floor-to-ceiling windows with several open doors to let in fresh air.

The Dunhams glanced around. Father strode immediately back into the corridor to look for the card room. Mother spied the punch bowl in the corner, being arranged by footmen in green livery with blue trim and silk white stockings.

In one corner sat half a dozen chairs in a semicircle with music stands and instrument cases scattered around. Only two men sat there, dressed in formal black with silver buckles on their shoes, playing a slow, sweet tune on their violins.

As the room filled up, Damaris remembered she would play the wallflower tonight. As fine as her gown was, it would be no match for the women of rank. She went to finishing school in Bath: her roots were in trade, and it would be obvious.

But Annette would be here soon.

The grenades. A thrill of fear skittered down her spine at the thought of an explosion here, around this many people. Damaris sidled around the room, looking in every nook and cranny, and found nothing.

She glanced at the clock. Half eight.

Damaris slipped away from her mother, back toward the main entrance. She had to slide between more and more people, as the home became crowded. Damaris paused to check behind curtains, in decorative vases, and on shelves by every place she walked. And found nothing.

Perhaps we misunderstood. Damaris breathed a sigh of—hope? Relief? Embarrassment? She didn’t know. Or perhaps he’s changed his mind, because it is indeed a foolish plan.

Regardless, Annette was coming. Her heart beat faster as she neared the entrance, where she’d stand near the door to watch for Annette’s arrival.