Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) (13 page)

R
ain splattered
against the glass window in Tristan’s bedchamber. Usually an ill omen for the day ahead, today, he was glad for the morose weather. It would keep Freddie confined indoors, where she would be easier to watch. Even if it would keep all the rest of the guests indoors as well, and he wouldn’t get a moment alone with her.

As he straightened his cravat, he squelched the eagerness he felt at the thought of seeing her again. She was quick-witted, and a worthy sparring partner. Not to mention a pleasure to look upon. When Freddie took it upon herself to wear fashionable clothing, like the low-cut green gown from last night, she shone brighter than any other young woman in attendance, even her sister. Miss Charlotte had a youthful sort of beauty about her, but it wasn’t accompanied by Freddie’s presence, her determination and iron will. Although Freddie was an innocent, and his instincts continually told him that she shouldn’t be in the spying game, he couldn’t deny that she was made of sterner stuff than most debutantes. She was a woman to be admired.

No, she was a woman to be watched, lest she foil his efforts. He clenched his jaw as he fiddled with his cuffs, ensuring that they hung straight. He ran his palm across his chin in case he’d missed a spot shaving.

“She is the enemy,” he muttered under his breath. Above all, he couldn’t forget that.

Even if she did look fetching in green.

Battling a yawn—he usually didn’t wake until noon—he stepped out into the corridor and shut the door to his chambers behind him.

“There you are! I thought you intended to sleep the day away.”

Tristan jumped at his sister’s voice. When he turned, he found her bright-eyed and perky. Her hair was neatly swept up off her neck in a simple style, though a few ebony locks escaped her coif to frame her face. Her dark eyes gleamed. Her mouth curved up in a sly smile.

Before he could so much as greet her with a polite, ‘good morning,’ she latched onto his arm and towed him along the corridor with her en route to the breakfast room.

She leaned closer. Unlike Freddie, his sister didn’t stand taller than his shoulder. She clung to him with her fingers as sharp as claws. “I notice you’ve been spending a prodigious amount of time with Freddie—Miss Vale.”

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t at first find the proper words to speak. Lucy was bound to take whatever he said and twist his words. He didn’t like the mischievous look on her face. He cleared his throat. “Do you mean to imply that I should avoid her?”

It would certainly be easier for his sanity if he did. Unfortunately, he couldn’t let a spy run amok in Tenwick Abbey, even an amateur one. If he didn’t keep an eye on Freddie, his brother surely would.

For some reason, the thought of her spending any amount of time with Morgan made him bristle.

When he glanced to the side, he found Lucy glaring at him with unveiled irritation. “She is a lovely woman, as you well know.”

With his free hand, he loosened his cravat. Clearly, he’d fiddled too much with it while dressing, because now he had trouble swallowing properly.

He didn’t respond to his sister’s statement.

She dug her fingers into his arm. “What are your intentions toward her?” Her voice was high, thin, and disapproving.

I intend to keep her from making a bloody fool of herself trying to best Morgan and I. I intend to keep her from putting herself in harm’s way. I intend…

Tristan could say none of the sentences that blossomed to his lips, so he lied. “I have no intentions toward her at all.”

Lucy dropped his arm. “Tristan Graylocke! I am ashamed of you.”

They’d reached the end of the west wing. If he darted down the corridor, he could ensconce himself in the breakfast room, where a surplus of witnesses would make it impossible for her to continue to carry this conversation.

Then again, knowing Lucy, she might continue to pester him regardless of who heard.

Stifling a sigh, he turned to face her.

Lucy crossed her arms over the bodice of her cream-colored walking dress. She hiked her chin higher, meeting his gaze without flinching. He looked away first.

“How could you trifle with a young lady’s affections like that?”

Tristan snorted. “Believe me, she is under no misconception about my designs on her…affections.”

“How can you say that?” Lucy threw her hands in the air. “A blind man could see the way she looks at you.”

Had his sister fallen and hit her head? The only way Freddie looked at him was with unbridled animosity. She loathed him.

Why, he couldn’t believe to fathom, because he hadn’t done any harm to her. And he had had plenty of opportunities to do so, as well as just cause.

He rubbed his forehead, where his pulse throbbed violently.

“You’re mistaken, Lucy. She feels no affinity for me, nor I for her. She’s an intelligent woman, perhaps the only one at this blasted party, and that’s the only reason I’ve been keeping her company.”

Lucy took a cautious step forward. “So you do like her.”

“I do,” he admitted. It was what she wanted to hear. He tried not to examine how close to the truth that statement veered. “But not in the way you imply. She and I are…” Enemies? Friends? Acquaintances? No words he conjured seemed quite right. He shrugged. “…temporary companions.”

Lucy stared at him for a long moment. He met her gaze squarely, afraid that if he looked away, she would take it as a sign of something he didn’t wish her to deduce. After a moment, she let out an audible breath.

“Very well.”

His mouth dropped open. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d won an argument against her. Certainly not since she’d learned to talk.

Stepping forward, she slid her hand onto his arm once more, less tenacious this time. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

He didn’t argue. They strode the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached the cozy rectangular room, Lucy dropped her hand from his arm and moved to the sideboard to direct the waiting footman to prepare her breakfast from the rows of covered trays. Aromas swirled through the air—eggs, bacon, sausage, coffee, tea, and the sweet scent of marmalade. Only a half-dozen people sat at the narrow table. Among them was a woman with brown hair who had her back to him.

His breath caught. Was it her? Freddie had always risen early on the other days during her stay at Tenwick Abbey. He battled his reaction to the thought of her.

Then she reached out to refill her tea cup. Her profile faced him and he confirmed her identity. His stomach flipped at the sight of her. The curve of her nose, the sweep of her mouth, the way one brown curl seemed determined to escape her pins and caress her cheek. She wore a high-necked dress again today, in a vibrant sky blue that seemed to light up the room.

Or, at the very least, it lit up her eyes. Suddenly, the day seemed much brighter.

Tristan bypassed the sideboard and claimed the seat directly across from her. He poured himself a cup of coffee. He emptied the pot, getting the strongest dredges from the bottom. The bitter aroma curled into the air along with the steam from his mug. He handed the carafe to the footman. Once he took a cautious sip of the brew—strong enough to wake the dead, just as he liked—he helped himself to a slice of bread and reached for the butter.

Across from him, Freddie was just finishing her meal. The last thing she ate was a slice of toast smothered with marmalade. He took a bite of his bread—freshly made and still soft and warm—as he watched her consume the last of her meal. A fleck of marmalade clung to the side of her mouth. She darted her tongue out to catch it. The sight stirred his desire.

He gulped his coffee, hot enough to singe his tongue. Anything to get his mind off of Freddie’s allure. She was an innocent, an enemy, and he’d best treat her as both.

He leaned back in his chair, taking his time with his bread. He didn’t like to eat a lot in the morning, when he was usually still queasy from stale cigars and strong whiskey consumed while carousing and gathering information. This party was a rare respite from the wild nights he kept in London.

As Freddie finished the last of her meal and wiped her mouth on her napkin, Lucy claimed the chair next to hers. Lucy’s breakfast was piled high on her plate. How could she possibly eat so much? It boggled the mind.

“Good morning,” Lucy chirped as she snagged a piece of bacon from her plate.

A genuine smile crossed Freddie’s face, one that lit her eyes as she returned the greeting. So she liked his sister. That was another point in her favor. If only she wasn’t so bent on aligning herself with Harker.

The mere thought of the man drew Tristan’s gaze to the door, but the breakfast room remained blessedly untainted by the man’s presence. Bad enough Harker festered somewhere beneath the same roof, like a fungus waiting to take over and weaken the structure.

Unaware of the dark turn his thoughts had taken, Lucy conducted a cheerful conversation with Freddie. Freddie answered with more reserve, though not with disapproval or malice. Like in most social situations, she held herself back, trying not to draw attention to herself. Whether that was her aim or she did it unconsciously, Tristan didn’t know.

He knew what it was like to live in the shadow of a sibling, but she didn’t seem as affected by Miss Charlotte’s beauty as he was by Morgan’s popularity. In fact, Freddie seemed perfectly content to wait in the eaves until her sister had taken the
ton
by swarm.

What, then? Did Freddie hold designs toward matrimony once her sister was taken off the market? The polite thing for a man to do would be to offer for Freddie first, but as she hadn’t tried to engage the affections of any man at this party—at least, not that he’d noticed—he had no doubt that Miss Charlotte would be the first to marry. If Tristan had been a woman, that knowledge would have stuck in his gob, made all the more potent by the fact that Freddie wasn’t a homely woman. She had a quiet sort of beauty that filled the edges of a room, rather than shining like a bright beacon in the center.

Lucy asked, “Would you like to take a walk with me to the portrait hall? Your sister is still abed and I have an idea I need to percolate. I’d love to have your company so I can talk it through aloud.”

Freddie opened her mouth, but Lucy wouldn’t let her get a word in edgewise.

She continued. “I’m sure you’d be able to give more insight into my idea, since you love books so much. Charlie, I’m afraid, doesn’t offer much advice on my plots, but she’s great fun and helps in other ways. In fact, I’m basing a character off of her.”

At this, a look of concern crossed Freddie’s face. It bunched her freckles together and created a little crease between her eyebrows. “Oh?” Her voice was weak, matching her expression.

Lucy didn’t seem to notice that her enthusiasm had waned. “It’s true! I’ve set her character—or rather, the character I created that most resembles her—to be the heroine in my next novel.”

“I…I’m sure she’s pleased.”

Tristan drained his coffee mug to keep his smile hidden. Freddie didn’t look as pleased. In fact, if anything, she seemed more worried.

A look which deepened when Lucy added, “I think she will be. I made her a swashbuckling princess.”

Tristan couldn’t hold back his amusement any longer. He chuckled and came to Freddie’s defense. “Don’t you base your books on personal experience, Lucy?”

She frowned at him. “I do…”

“You aren’t a princess.”

She raised her chin. “I’m the daughter of a duke. It’s almost the same thing.”

Drat, she might be right about that. “I didn’t know you learned to swordfight.” He let his tone and his gaze convey his disapproval, in case she had snuck behind his back to learn the dangerous sport.

She narrowed her eyes. “There are books about swordplay in the library.”

“Ah, but reading about it is not the same as doing it.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Does that mean you’re willing to bring Morgan around to granting me some fencing lessons?”

Lud, had she already broached the topic with him? “Indeed not.”

She sighed, overly dramatic. “And here I thought you might hold some sway over him. Oh, well.”

Tristan gritted his teeth. He knew she only aimed the barb because of his competitiveness with his brother, but it still cut him to the quick. Unfortunately for her, he and Morgan saw eye to eye on the subject of fencing lessons.

Before he mustered the ability to politely answer, Freddie jumped into the conversation. “Didn’t you say you wanted to visit the portrait hall?”

Lucy jumped to her feet, leaving half her plate of food uneaten. “Oh, yes, of course. Tristan, won’t you join us?”

From the look of pain that Freddie tried badly to hide, she clearly wanted him to decline. He took a perverse pleasure in disappointing her. With a grin, he stood. “I would love to.”

With a resigned expression, Freddie followed Lucy to the doorway. When he offered his sister his arm to be her escort, she gave him a sweet smile. “No need. I need both hands free to jot down my ideas. Why don’t you accompany Freddie instead?”

His stomach dropped. Blast! She had finagled for just such an eventuality.

He couldn’t very well decline. Keeping his smile pinned in place—although it had begun to feel forced—he offered his arm to Freddie instead. She didn’t have a notebook to hide behind, and had no choice except to lay her hand on his sleeve. The light, delicate touch seared through his jacket.

Lucy conducted a lively conversation as they made their way to the ancestors’ hall. Tristan barely heard a word. He couldn’t get his mind off the feel of the woman striding beside him. She kept enough space between them to please even the strictest of gossips. As he walked, he was acutely aware of that space. He burned with the need for her to lean closer. Even an inch…

By the time they reached the ancient door leading to the portrait hall, he was losing his mind. He nearly made his excuses and left them alone, but the thought of Morgan’s disapproval weighed on him. If nothing else, he would prove to his brother that he could do this. He could sway Freddie into aborting her quest to steal their code book.