Sebastian's Lady Spy (2 page)

Gabrielle smoothed her skirts and drew in a fortifying breath. The Eastmans' ball had started two hours ago, and Sebastian had yet to make an appearance. Damn the man.

After leaving Atwater's residence, she'd ridden home in her carriage, refusing to shed the tears that pushed against her eyes. It had taken every bit of willpower to ignore the raging pain that Sebastian's cutting words and looks had inflicted on her.

A fool. That's what she was. So he didn't fall at her feet, as she'd stupidly hoped. So what?

Lady Eastman appeared at her side, bustling with efficiency and purpose as she always did, dressed in a pink gown, a color that should have been reserved for debutantes. “Chin up. Don't let him see you're nervous.”

Automatically Gabrielle raised her chin. “He can't see anything, because he's not here.”

“Men like to believe they have the upper hand, and they don't like to be told what to do. He's biding his time because he's angry.”

That was only part of why Sebastian was angry. However, Lady Eastman's no-nonsense approach was exactly what Gabrielle needed to hear to shore up her courage.

Just then the crowd stirred. The orchestra continued to play, the conversations around them faltered.

Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder to find the earl of Claybrook parting the crowds, looking neither right nor left as he approached her. Her heart started thundering, and all the talks of courage that she'd given herself vanished. He could have been much more circumspect in his approach, but she supposed this would work as well.

He eschewed fashion and wore no wig. His black hair was cut short, falling over his forehead. There was white at the temples that hadn't been there seven months ago. She found him even more desirable, if such a thing were possible.

A quick glance around showed that other females were having the same reaction: Whether they were new debutantes, firmly on the shelf, or married, they all watched him with the hunger that she knew was on her face as well. Seven months ago they'd had a torrid but all too short affair that had ended in a mutual understanding. She had not been able to walk away as easily as she had from her other lovers. She found herself thinking of him often. And now here he was. And they were working together.

And he was furious.

He had not told her he was an operative, and she had not told him she was. They had followed the protocol and played by the crown's rules. Why he was so furious at her, she didn't know, for she had not revealed any more or less than he had in those far too few days together.

He moved with quiet grace and determined purpose, his bright blue eyes boring in to her. His mouth, that sensuous, beautiful mouth, was a slash of anger, and yet she could not seem to look away from it. Her body tingled at the memories of what that mouth had done to her. If she could have, she would have leaned on something and fanned her overheated face. The memories were too much, coming too fast. She hadn't expected that. She thought she'd been prepared.

She'd been very, very wrong.

He stopped before her and looked down at her with no expression. But she saw and she knew. He was conservatively dressed in black and white, and he towered over her, using his considerable height to intimidate. If only he knew that he was doing the opposite. He made her insides quiver and that private spot between her legs ache with repressed memories.

“Contessa Gabrielle Marciano,” Lady Eastman said. “May I present Sebastian Addison, earl of Claybrook. My lord, Lady Marciano.”

Lady Eastman stepped back, and just like that, their mission began.

Sebastian bowed. “My lady, a pleasure to meet you.”

He smiled, and for a moment Gabrielle forgot to breathe. It was the smile he had bestowed on her all those months ago, when the outside world was nothing but an inconvenience. The smile that had been accompanied by a loose laugh as they lounged in bed, talking about everything except what was truly important. Because the important things were taboo. The important things reminded them that an outside world awaited. A world that would not accept them as a couple.

Brought back to reality and the ball and the man who was now a stranger standing before her, she realized his smile merely stretched his lips and never reached his eyes.

She curtseyed and smiled back. “My lord. I have heard much about you and am pleased that Lady Eastman introduced us.”

The crowd watched avidly. Gabrielle had no doubt they were cataloging every word, every eyelash flutter. It was rare for the earl of Claybrook to appear at a ball. His introduction to her, a woman with a tarnished reputation whose presence was merely tolerated, was beyond the pale and fodder for a week's worth of gossip.

“Would you care to dance, my lady?”

What she wanted to do was turn around and walk out, to return to Venice and her apartment. To forget this Sebastian Addison and remember the other Sebastian Addison. Since that wasn't possible, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

Conversations faltered. People stared. The pieces were in place.

When they reached the center of the dance floor, Sebastian turned and held out his hand. She placed hers against his, preparing for the minuet to begin. She refused to allow her memories to overtake her. Yet the images persisted of Sebastian sprawled across her bed, wearing nothing but a lazy smile and the scent of their lovemaking. The sound of his laughter haunted her lonely nights.

The music started, and he moved expertly though emotionlessly. He knew the steps and executed them flawlessly, but there was no emotion behind them. No joy. Nothing.

He looked down on her.
On
her. Not
at
her. A seductive smile played around his mouth, but she was no fool. At least not anymore. It was all for show. He was playing his part well, as she should have expected from a decorated veteran spy.

“How long have you been in England, my lady?”

She glanced around. The other dancers were wandering uncomfortably close, not paying attention to their steps but, rather, the unlikely earl with the wanton contessa. “Not even a sennight, my lord.”

“You came from Venice, I understand.”

“Yes.”

The dance steps pulled them apart, giving Gabrielle time to collect herself. Constance Price, who was watching the exchange closely, stumbled into Sebastian, who had to sidestep in order not to trip. He caught Constance and set her back on her feet. Face red, Constance mumbled an apology.

When he touched Gabrielle's hands and they spun in a circle, Gabrielle smiled up at him. The muscle in his jaw clenched. “My, my, how clumsy of her,” she said.

“It seems we are the item of the moment.”

“The earl and the fallen woman.”

He looked down at her and, surprisingly, his gaze softened. “I wouldn't say that.”

“No?” They stepped away, then quickly back. “What would you call it?”

His silence was answer enough. He knew the way of the land just as she did. 'Twas why she needed him in order to be accepted into the
ton
this season. And while she understood one dance would not accomplish that, it was a start. People were noticing them, talking about them. Dare she say they looked at her a little differently? Nay, probably not. No doubt the mamas were fuming that Gabrielle had tainted yet another eligible bachelor.

The music ended. Sebastian bowed to her and Gabrielle curtseyed. What would he do now? Ask her to walk the room with him, or something more shocking, like step out onto the terrace? Would he kiss her on the terrace? All eyes remained on them, and even Gabrielle waited with breath held to see what he would do. He offered his arm and she took it, ignoring the slight trembling that started in her deepest core.

He led her off the dance floor and turned to bow to her. “It's been a pleasure, my lady. I will call upon you in the morning.”

He turned on his heel and walked off, leaving her standing alone in front of the speculative eyes of the
aristocracy.

Gabrielle took her time with her toilette, inspecting then discarding one garment after another. Too bright, too dark, too daring, too conservative: She couldn't find the right one, and she refused, absolutely refused, to accept that it was all because of Sebastian.

Except it was.

That was the point now. She wanted to put some sort of emotion into those cool blue eyes. She wanted to see something from him. Some spark of recognition. Some hint that he remembered
something.
She didn't believe that the man she'd spent three glorious days with, who had laughed with her, made love to her, and cradled her body against his, was the same cold, heartless man she encountered yesterday.

“No, no, Eliza, not that one, either.”

Her lady's maid, Eliza, made no effort to contain her frustrated sigh and returned the lavender gown to the wardrobe. Gabrielle studied the gowns strewn over her bed, over her chairs, and draped over the doors of the wardrobe. She was such a damn laughable fool.

“The maroon will have to do.” It was quite a lovely gown. Her favorite, in truth, with an open robe and a rose-colored petticoat embroidered in maroon thread. The sleeves came to just below the elbow, the turned-back cuffs the same rose as the petticoat. She could not hide her stiletto, but she doubted she would need it today.

“Finally,” Eliza muttered, reaching for the gown.

When Gabrielle descended to the parlor, she was not at all surprised to find that Sebastian was not there, but she was completely surprised to discover someone else.

“Lady Marciano.”

She stopped short with an inward sigh of frustration. “Lord Wilcott,” she said with a false smile. She sat, and Wilcott sat in the opposite chair. She didn't ring for tea, as manners dictated, because she didn't want to entertain Wilcott any longer than necessary.

After Sebastian had walked away from her at the ball, Gabrielle would have been completely shunned except for Lady Eastman's continued support. So it presented some surprise that Lord Wilcott had approached her, since everyone else had turned their backs on her. She had completely forgotten he had asked to call upon her with an urgent and personal request. She could guess what his request was, but she had agreed anyway. It was best to get this conversation over with privately and Wilcott out of her life for good.

He was a smallish man. “Fastidious” was the word that came to mind. Receding hairline, plump about the middle, always impeccably and somberly dressed. Always unsmiling. He was well into his forties and unmarried, and that was about all she knew of him.

Wilcott cleared his throat and glanced about before settling his gaze on her. When he attempted a smile, it appeared strained. “My lady, we've met on several occasions previously, before you left for Venice this last time. Even though our contact has been sporadic, I feel that we know each other well enough—”

Gabrielle held up her hand, unable to stomach any more. “My lord, if I may. I have a feeling where this conversation is going. I am not looking for a protector at this time.” Good Lord, she couldn't believe she was having this conversation. It was always awkward, turning down a would-be protector—of which she seemed to have an inordinate supply. Due to her reputation, men considered her unattached state something that needed remedying posthaste. They were always surprised when she turned them down.

“If you would just listen,” Wilcott said. “I can offer much—”

“I don't need anything at the moment.”

“I wouldn't be too, er, demanding. I sincerely feel we would suit nicely. Of course, you would have carte blanche at any modiste of your choosing—”

“I'm in no need of new gowns at this time.”

“Jewels—”

“I have plenty.”

His mouth opened and closed. He clutched the head of his walking stick. “I don't believe you understand, my lady.” His voice had fallen to an alarming tone that had Gabrielle straightening her back. She wasn't a fool. She had any number of weapons secured in this room, as well as her very capable butler on the other side of the door, but Wilcott put her on edge. Why hadn't he left the walking stick at the door along with his hat and gloves? Walking sticks were a common accessory for men, but it bothered her that he still possessed his. In the future she would instruct Riggs, her butler who was also a bodyguard, to require that all walking sticks be left at the front door.

“I can offer you a house, clothes, jewels, and freedom.”

“Rarely does any of that come with freedom, my lord.”

His eyes brightened and he nodded vigorously. “Precisely, my lady. We could set up appointments.”

She stood abruptly, taking a slippery hold over her growing anger. “You offend, my lord. I will
not
be shared among your friends.”

“No, no.” Wilcott had hastily stood when she did, and now he reached a hand out to her. She quickly stepped away from him. “That's not what I meant at all.” His hand dropped to his side, and he looked away as a flush crept up his cheeks.

Something in Gabrielle softened at his vulnerability. “My lord, if I may. Find a nice, biddable woman and marry her. You could lavish your jewels and modistes on her instead of a stranger.”

“I can't.”

“You can't?”

“I can't…marry. Even though I know I will have to someday.” He laughed, the sound dry and painful, and he still wouldn't look at her. “My title requires it, after all.”

“Why can't you?”

He folded his hands on top of his cane and looked at her steadily. “I need the respectability of a mistress so people won't talk. Because I'm in love with someone else.”

“If you love this girl so much, then marry her.”

“She's not a female, Lady Marciano.”

Not a…Oh. Not much shocked Gabrielle, but this did. The very proper, uptight Lord Wilcott was in love with another man.

“Like I said, we could make appointments. I could arrive and leave after a prearranged amount of time, but there would be no…” His color rose again and he cleared his throat. “It would all be for show.”

“My lord, I do apologize, but I am simply not available for such an extended commitment.” Ah, but if she were, she would seriously consider his offer. What greater way to avoid the unwanted attentions of the gentlemen of the
ton
and be able to live her life as she wished. But she was not allowed to live as she wished. She was a weapon of the crown, unable to pick and choose whom she slept with and consorted with.

Her heart went out to him, for in many ways they were alike: he bound to his proclivities, she bound to the crown that had plucked her from certain death and given her a second chance. Both living a lie that, if discovered, could cost them everything.

His expression was so desperately bleak that she almost hurt for him. And to think that all this time she'd thought ill of him. It proved that people could be completely different on the inside from what they portrayed on the outside. She was a stellar example, after all.

“You won't even consider my offer?” he asked quietly.

She drew in a deep breath and said just as quietly, “I cannot, my lord.”

He pressed his lips together and appeared thoughtful before nodding and looking down at his hands, folded over the head of his walking stick. “I understand. If I may beseech you, my lady, to keep this conversation between us. I would be ruined should word leak. When I do eventually marry—well, that might not even be a possibility if rumor went around…”

“You have my word that this conversation will stay between us.”

He swallowed, the bleakness abating a bit. “Thank you.”

Riggs knocked on the door and entered. “Lord Claybrook, my lady.”

Wilcott straightened and Gabrielle witnessed a transformation in him. He buried his inner turmoil and became the snooty aristocrat whom everyone knew him to be. “I will take my leave, then,” he said.

“Will you attend the Buchanan ball tonight?”

He paused. “I wasn't planning to.”

“I just thought…if you do, I will save a dance for you.” It was the least and the most she could do. If he danced, people wouldn't suspect. Then again, if he danced with
her,
people would talk. And not in a good way.

His expression cleared and he smiled. She didn't think she'd ever seen him smile. He was such a stern man, clinging outwardly to manners and protocol. Now she knew why.

“Thank you, Lady Marciano.”

“You may call me Gabrielle.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you, Gabrielle.”

Sebastian entered, halting any further conversation. Lord Wilcott bowed to her, nodded to Sebastian, and left. Sebastian watched him go with a frown, and Gabrielle's heart skittered. He was dressed not so somberly as the night before but no less exquisitely, in buff breeches and a midnight blue coat and waistcoat. The man could steal the air from the room. He most definitely stole the air from her every time she looked at him.

“What did
he
want?” he asked in the abrupt way she was coming to expect from him.

Gabrielle forced herself to smile and step forward. “Why, good afternoon, my lord. So nice of you to call upon me.”

He scowled at her and looked around, his gaze resting on and then skipping over the furniture, the paintings, and the vase of purple lilies on a small table by the settee. “I told you I would call on you.”

“Yes, you did. I hope nothing was amiss last night.”

His gaze flew to hers. “Amiss?”

“You left so abruptly after our dance, I feared something had happened.”

His scowl deepened. “You know I'm not pleased with this mission, and if you think I will dance attendance upon you and fawn over you like Wilcott, then you are sorely mistaken.”

Gabrielle's back teeth came together as heat climbed up her neck and into her face. “I don't expect you to fawn over me; however, our mission is to convince the
ton
that we are courting.”

“The mission is to find a spy, and regardless of what Atwater says, I'm not convinced that dancing all night, drinking afternoon tea, and riding through Hyde Park in the morning will accomplish that.”

“Oh? Is that your way of asking if I would like to go riding with you today? Why, I would love to, thank you very much.”

He tilted his head and lifted a brow in a disbelieving look. The horrible thing about all of this was that he was just too handsome for his own good, with that midnight hair and the blue eyes that she knew could heat to flames of passion, though now they were cool as ice chips.

“What was Wilcott doing here?” he suddenly demanded, piercing her with his cold eyes.

“Calling on me.”

“Why?”

She drew back. “Why?”

“What does he want with you?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but he wants me as his mistress.”

His jaw muscle ticked and his eyes narrowed, creating creases at the corners that never failed to intrigue her. “You told him no.”

He was so sure of himself, so matter-of-fact, that she almost said she was thinking about it. “Why is this any concern of yours?” she asked.

“Because apparently I'm courting you, and I don't want competition.”

“Maybe you need competition,” she teased.

His lips didn't even twitch in a smile. Where was the man she'd known seven months ago? What had happened to him?

“Atwater says we are to ‘encounter' each other at the Buchanan ball tonight,” he said, seeming to ignore her statement.

“I'm aware.”

“I'll arrive a few hours after the ball begins. I expect you to be there on time and ready for our encounter.”

“As you were on time last night, my lord?”

He raised a brow but remained stubbornly silent. What would it take to break through to the man she'd known in Venice?

“Sebastian?” She softened her voice and reached toward his hand but dropped her arm before touching him. There was a part of her that ached to press against him, to lay her head upon his chest, and stand there inside his heat.

He looked down at her hand. The expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did. They became softer, and she saw the memories lodged in them. He remembered, and it hurt him to remember. It hurt her, too, but she refused to let the hurt and the memories make her cantankerous.

“Yes?” he asked.

“What happened to you?”

His gaze cooled, and the hurt disappeared behind whatever wall he'd erected. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You are not the same man I knew in Venice,” she said softly.

He stared at her for a long moment. “We agreed not to speak of this, Gabrielle.” His voice had softened, and she considered that a small victory.

“That was in Venice, before either of us knew who the other really was.”

“It will serve us no good to speak of it now. Nothing has changed. We are the same people with the same reasons as before.”

True enough. But before she had time to respond, he was making his way to the door. “Where are you going?”

“I have things to do.” He pulled open the door and stepped into the entryway.

Gabrielle followed. “Wait a moment. What things?” She hurried to step between him and the front door. Riggs was conspicuously absent for once, and she was glad of it. “You're going to attempt to find the spy, aren't you? Without me.”

He halted and pressed his lips together but would not look at her.

Gabrielle drew in an outraged breath. “You
are.
” She pressed a finger into a chest roped with muscle. It didn't budge him but bent her finger backward. “Atwater said we are to work together. You cannot go off on this mission without me.”

He removed her finger from his chest. “Atwater said I was to take you to balls and such. He said nothing about us working together in any other area.”