Martin heard whispers from behind the screen, and tiptoed forward to eavesdrop with a gleeful sense of anticipation on hearing Harriet receive a thorough dressing-down.
What he heard was the maid saying, "I left a knife for you under the pillows."
"I know, Mrs. Swift. I found it."
"You could have used it."
"I don't renege on my bargains."
"If your da finds out about this he'll have the toff's balls on biscuits."
"I suppose he would—but Papa isn't going to find out, is he?"
"I don't know why your ma let you—"
"We don't have time to discuss it now. Hand me the sponge, please."
Martin almost clutched his genitals protectively. A pang of guilt went through him as he gave a quick glance back at the rumpled bed. A knife under the pillows? Good lord, was there really a weapon? Then he reminded himself that Harriet had agreed to the price; he had forced nothing on her. She had held to the bargain—he snorted—and been honorably dishonored. What a strange world this was, full of lady spies, mysterious couriers, and well-armed chambermaids. Not his world, not an admirable one, but certainly an interesting view of reality to visit for a while.
He also realized in disgust that he was spying on the spy. This would not do at all.
"Harriet, I am picking up bad habits from you," he called over the screen.
"And what's she picking up from you?" Mrs. Swift called back.
He did not deign to reply, and went off in search of his well-mannered, discreet valet.
By the time he returned Harriet was in the process of getting dressed, and was not that far along in her toilette. Martin closed the door and leaned against it, arms and long legs crossed, a smile curling his lips. His attention focused immediately on the confection of creamy lace and pink satin roses and ribbons that tightly cinched Harriet's trim waist and forced her bosom up at a most provocative, inviting angle. It was a piece of underclothing made to send a man mad imagining the erotic possibilities.
Though he delighted in the sight of this erotic confection, he stared at Harriet suspiciously and asked, "Where did you get that?"
"I borrowed it from my mother."
"Your father is a lucky man."
Harriet blushed a fetching shade of pink, all over as far as Martin could tell. She ran a hand down the length of the sexy lace corset, cleared her throat, and said, "My lord, there are some tilings I'd rather not think about."
Martin considered what it would be like to think of his own parents as sexually active humans, and rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Yes, I see what you mean."
Harriet turned her back on him and continued dressing. Martin took a seat in a deep chair near the fireplace where a fire had been made up to drive away the morning damp. He stretched out his legs, glanced out the window at the pewter-gray sky beyond the branches of a dripping tree, and said, "Do you know what I miss on a day like today?"
"Italy," Harriet replied automatically as her head emerged from the white brocade skirt that had just been pulled over her head.
"You know me too well." He chuckled.
Then the sound died in his throat. Damn the woman! She
did
know him, and was still playing him. Despite the intimacy they'd shared last night, she was still a stranger to him. He had to keep up his guard, remember that they were using each other. His sole reason for allowing the charade was for the sex. His body tightened as images of the ways he intended to take her flashed through his mind. He doubted there'd be time enough in the next few days to indulge every fantasy, but he'd make every moment he had her in his bed count. He promised himself she wouldn't forget him when they were through. In fact, he couldn't help but smugly indulge in the knowledge that he had had her first. He did not admire men who boasted of deflowering, but she knew and he knew, and that was more than enough. He momentarily considered asking Harriet if her nether regions were aching this morning, but Mrs. Swift's formidable presence kept him quiet.
No wonder Harriet turned out as she did, with that harpy for a nanny. I almost feel sorry for her
.
Martin hardened his heart against tender feelings and looked over his prize with a connoisseur's eye. She stood with her back to him while Mrs. Swift finished fastening the bodice of her dress. He was used to seeing Harriet's sable hair fastened simply behind her head; now it was arranged in a more elaborate upswept style, and the view of the back of her long neck pleased him immensely. He would leave a great many kisses and caresses on her throat before he was done. "Turn around," he commanded. He frowned when she did as he told her without any demur. He almost wished she'd argued, until he got a good look at the plunging neckline of her bodice and could do nothing but stare.
Harriet didn't understand why Martin's lips hardened in a thin line, or the flash of anger in his eyes. She brushed a hand over her skirt and asked, "Don't you like it? Isn't it suitable? It was my coming-out dress."
"You're still coming out of it."
Harriet looked down at her chest. "Mrs. Swift altered the bodice a bit."
He was on his feet, tense with outrage. "I won't have you going out dressed like—"
"Your mistress," she interjected.
He forced a smile. "Yes. Of course. I see. And so will everyone else." She could tell it was forced because when he really smiled, his dimples went very deep, and they barely showed at all now. He got up and slowly circled around her, making an inspection with his hands held behind his back. "I will enjoy showing you off."
Rather like prime horseflesh
, Harriet thought, and tried very hard not to resent what was the whole point of the exercise. She hoped she qualified as being worth showing off, but she certainly didn't want to be the loveliest, most seductive courtesan at Sir Anthony's affair. She didn't want to draw attention to herself. Still, for a confusing moment she felt an aching jealousy that she would not compare well to the other women, and Martin's fancy would light on some beautiful young thing that he would go off with and—
All right, she had recently advised him to take a new mistress, but she hadn't
meant
it.
She was not sure what she meant about anything at the moment—certainly not about what she felt when she looked at Martin Kestrel. She wished she had some time to sort everything out. Perhaps she would have liked to wake up in his arms and hold on to an illusion of love for at least a little while. She had probably not slept so well or felt so safe in her life as she had lying beside Martin last night. Mrs. Swift's arrival had given her no time to bring any illusions into the waking world. Perhaps she should be grateful, and maybe she would be later. Right now the best she could hope to do was play the role to the hilt. If that meant clinging to his arm and boldly showing her bosom to the world while he smiled like a dog fancier with a new pet, so be it.
She lifted her head proudly. "I am ready, my lord, if you would care to leave now."
"The carriage has arrived from Strake House," he acknowledged. "But I am not quite ready to leave yet."
A jolt of near panic went through Harriet. She had to get this over with
now
! For the sake of the nation! For her brother! And, dear God, yes, for herself! "But I—"
He held up a hand to still her protest, but it was to Mrs. Swift he spoke. "Lady Phoebe sent along a trunk of doming for your mistress with my man. Go see to it. I want a word alone with you," he told Harriet. Mrs. Swift turned a withering look on Lord Martin and a cautionary one on Harriet, but leave she did, grumbling.
When she was gone, Martin rose from his chair and gestured for Harriet to come toward him. Harriet stepped forward, half wanting him to take her in his arms and kiss her as he had the night before. The rest of her impulses were so jangled and confused she had trouble catching on to them. Wary and high-strung, she asked, "What do you want?"
"You," he answered succinctly, his gaze running over her with a hunger she recognized and couldn't help but respond to. Her blood sang and sparked, but she stopped a foot from him and kept perfectly still. He cupped her jaw in his big warm hand and then ran his fingers down her throat and across her collarbones, leaving pure fire in his wake. "Pity I don't have time to toss you on your back right now," he added. Outrage flared in her, but he continued. "We are both anxious to arrive at Strake House, each for our own reasons."
His thumb continued a slow, circular path tracing her exposed throat and bosom. His touch made it very clear to her that he was anticipating their activities at Strake's house party. Her outrage died and she could barely keep from closing her eyes, throwing her head back, and moaning. She took a step back from him before her legs turned completely to butter. It annoyed her that his slightest touch could dominate her so—but four years of simmering lust for him, and she was at its mercy. She could only hope the fever would run its course in the next few days.
"Do you dislike my touch so? Never mind," he went on before giving her time to answer.
"There are things I want to know, questions I want answered, and I don't want any chance of being overheard." He gestured her toward one of the chairs by the fireplace.
Rather stiff and sore from last night's exertions, she was glad to settle into the well-upholstered seat while he went to lean against the white-tiled mantel.
"I'm not interested in discussing your assignment at the moment," he began. "There was something I should have asked when Iùwhen you—Damn it, Harriet," he complained, "you've gotten me tongue-tied, and you know how I hate that!"
He looked as if he were about to smash one of the china figurines on the mantel in his frustration. That, or march forward and lay hands roughly on her as he had the night before. She hated that she caused him such pained agitation. She hated even worse
that he felt such a strong need to delve into their tangled, shadowed past. She sighed. "You are right, I owe you whatever explanation I am free to give you, and Strake House would not be the place to hold this discussion."
"I am frequently right," he declared.
"Yes, Martin."
He pointed a finger sternly at her. "Patronize me and I'll beat you."
She meekly lowered her gaze. "Yes, my lord."
"Unless, of course, you like that sort of thing. Then I'll refuse to beat you."
She shot indignantly to her feet. "Martin!"
"Ha! You accused me of liking it last night. I see you don't take any kindlier to accusations of
that sort of perversion than I do."
Harriet settled into the chair once more. "TouchΘ, Martin." She glanced at the mantel clock, then out of the window. The rain had stopped, and it looked like the clouds were finally clearing. Except in Martin's stormy gray eyes, she saw, when she made herself meet his gaze again. She had not wanted to hurt him; never planned on it. She had almost given up her life for him, and wounded her soul in the process. He should never have known. It was all her fault, for she had stayed too long at his side, filling a role someone else could have easily taken over. But Patricia had needed her and he needed her—and she had let herself need them. "What a fool I've been," she said, with a heartfelt sigh.
Martin did not dispute this claim. "But I was the one taken for a fool. Why?" He came to kneel in front of her chair, his expression wild with pain. "
Why
?"
"It's—" Harriet had difficulty finding the words. She touched her temples, which had begun to ache.
"You can't tell me?" he questioned. "You won't? Which is it?"
"Both," she said. "Neither." She shook her head. "You deserve the truth, Martin."
"Is it me?" He looked and sounded so devastated that she reached for his hands. "Is it my loyalty to my country that's in question? Is that why you were set to watch me?"
"No!" She was so shocked at the question that she shouted the answer. "Of course not. Your loyalty has never been in question, only your taste in women. I mean—"
He was up and away from her in an instant. Harriet stared at her empty hands, then looked to where he'd retreated. The anger and pain that radiated from him filled the room.
Harriet twisted her hands in her lap. "I put that badly—but there's no way to put it in a good light. It was Sabine."
"What does Sabine have to do with you?" he demanded. "You never even met her."
"That is true, but—"
"Wait a moment.
Sabine
was a spy?"
She saw him go white, and hurried to quash the awful thought she knew had come into his head. "As it turned out, she wasn't. Your Italian countess married you because she was enamored of you. Your marriage was a reckless act of passion, not a political maneuver. But there were suspicions…" She watched him begin to prowl the room. "And the Russian lover she ran off with
did
initially seduce her to get information about the very delicate diplomatic assignments you undertook.".
"I never discussed such things with my wife. She had no interest in my… life outside the bedroom," he said, his voice laced with bitter fury.
"My whole assignment started out under false assumptions," she admitted. "Some information about treaty negotiations you had access to fell into the wrong hands. Your father was demanding that the foreign office do something to protect you."
"I do not work for the foreign office."
"But you are frequently asked to intercede in delicate situations by the foreign office. That makes your safety the government's concern.
Therefore, it was decided to shield you—from the dangers of your assignments, from your wife. Maintaining the fiction that your work is unofficial has been useful in dealing with anti-British sentiment."
"Odd," he said. "I never thought of it as a fiction. I try to be a neutral voice trying to bring all parties together—rather than the instrument of British imperial policy, handing down uncompromising pronouncements."
"You are an idealist, Martin. Please never change."
He sneered at her. "Thanks to you, I'm not quite the idealist I was a week ago."
"Yes, I know." She sighed and rubbed her temples again.
Nor am I quite so pure myself
, she thought, but kept her own shattered ideals to herself. "My initial assignment was to keep an eye on Sabine while I tried to find out who on your staff was passing information to Britain's adversaries. By the time I arrived, Sabine had already run off. I was briefed about the scandal when I arrived at the embassy, and decided to go ahead with the assignment. Patricia
did
need someone to look after her in all that uproar, and it was necessary to determine if Sabine really was the source of the leak. It turned out she wasn't, by the way. It was your brother's mistress."