And Claire Brooks would rot in a W.O.R. prison cell. If she gave them enough information, they might let her go eventually, but not until she was too old to be of use to either agency.
That one kiss would haunt him until the end of his days, as would the woman herself.
He stood in front of the mirror, tying his cravat. Claire was fortunate Howard hadn’t killed her that night. He’d made the mistake of thinking the fall would do her in.
Or had he? He must have seen the carriage below. If he truly wanted to protect himself, he should have put a bullet in her brain just to make sure she didn’t get up from the fall.
Her situation wasn’t like his own, was it? Had Howard let her live because he had feelings for her, just as Claire claimed Sascha had for him? She could be after him for a little lover’s revenge.
No. It didn’t make sense—not just because he thought she’d have better taste in men, but because he couldn’t believe any man would walk away from Claire.
Alastair glanced at the bath door. He could hear water draining out of the tub. She’d be in there, naked and wet, her body slick. . . . He swallowed. He’d known her only a few days, and she already had him by the wedding tackle. Jesus, he needed a wife or a mistress—someone to occupy his body and encourage his affections. Then he wouldn’t sniff around every unsuitable woman like a randy hound.
Though he couldn’t imagine any Englishwoman, mistress or wife, demanding that he “do it” as Claire had.
He was packing his toiletries when she emerged from the bath. “Did the maid bring my gown?”
“It’s on the wall,” he replied, not looking up. “She said she’d return to assist you in dressing if you needed her help.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He looked up just in time to see her standing there in a chemise, drawers, stockings and corset. The drawers were short and lacy, giving him a view of thigh above her garter and stocking. She cstoa chem had long legs—shapely and strong. It was too easy to imagine them wrapped around him. The corset nipped in her waist and pushed up her breasts so that they swelled over the low neckline of the chemise, which was so thin he could make out the faint blush of a nipple.
She didn’t notice him staring—thank God—or the obvious interest his crotch had in the proceedings. She simply pulled the purple gown over her head and began buttoning the multitude of fabric-covered buttons that ran up the front.
“Did Lady Huntley send my fan?” she asked as she worked.
Alastair’s gaze jerked up to meet hers. “Yes.”
She arched a brow. “May I have it?”
He turned to retrieve it. He was such an idiot—acting as if he’d never seen breasts before, while she was cool and collected, as though she almost devoured a man every day.
Perhaps she did. Perhaps she flirted and reacted the way she did with him to keep him off balance and keep him from asking the wrong questions.
Well, he’d damn well ask them anyway. “Was Howard your lover?”
She went perfectly still—like a doe at the end of a hunter’s sights. She looked up from shoving the fan in her reticule and met his gaze with one that burned and snapped like wildfire. Her fingers tightened on the item, and for a moment he wondered if she’d whip it open and use it on him.
“I would never let that man touch me. And if you ever again insinuate that I would, I’ll make it impossible for you to ever jerk yourself off again.”
Her words should have shamed him, but they didn’t. They made him angry, but they also ignited his lust for her. Even the most skilled of actresses could not put that much truth into a performance. She was not in league with Howard; she never had been.
He wanted to go to her, turn her to the wall, throw up those skirts and shag her until she screamed. He wouldn’t care if she lined her cunny with razor blades and lye; he’d still want to be inside her.
But he was a “good” man, and he’d never force himself on a woman, though he reckoned there would be little force involved. She was more than a match for him. He was also trying to be a smart man, and that was what kept him from acting on his desires.
“It will be difficult to do that from inside a prison cell,” he informed her coolly. “But duly noted. My apologies for offending you.”
She nodded stiffly and went back to her reticule, leveling an uncomfortable and thick silence between them.
A short time later, they’d packed up their things, had the baggage taken to their carriage and began the short journey to the Dunrich estate, just outside of Ayr.
“How did you procure an invitation to this party?” Claire asked as the carriage rumbled along, putting them closer and closer to their target.
She deigned to speak to him again? In his experience it generally took much longer than this for a woman to forgive a lesser slight. “I’m an earl. I get invited to many of these sorts of things. Once the s cs. ook much eason is over, it’s assumed that gentlemen and ladies of the aristocracy are bored and have nothing better to do than go live in someone else’s house for weeks at a time.”
“Not everyone shares your dedication to the Crown, I take it?”
“No, though it would make the Company’s job easier if some idiots did.” He avoided her gaze, not wanting to decipher what he saw there when she looked at him.
“Howard must be masquerading as nobility then,” she surmised. “Or at least as someone important.”
“Most likely he’d pretend to be foreign. Debrett’s Peerage is required reading amongst my set.”
She said something about wagering that the Wardens required their agents to know just as much about the ruling classes of every European country and went back to staring out the window.
Alastair stared at the countryside as well. Things wouldn’t be nearly so tense between them if he hadn’t kissed her. If he hadn’t finally wondered why Howard hadn’t killed her and asked a stupid question. But he had, and it was just as well. He’d rather have coldness between them than lust. Lust led to mistakes and regrets. Coldness was much better in regard to self-preservation.
They arrived at the Dunrich estate forty minutes later. It was a large, stately structure built at least two centuries earlier, but outfitted with modern conveniences. The gate at the end of the drive worked on punch cards, which each guest was sent along with an invitation. For the duration of the party, the code carried by the cards would allow access to various parts of the estate. After the party, the code would be changed. Guests were also given similar cards to access their rooms.
Their driver pulled the carriage right up to the front door, which had a long flight of shallow stone steps leading up to it. As his door opened, Alastair saw Blackstone practically running down the steps toward him. What the hell . . . ? The man was usually a much more discreet operative.
“Blackstone, what’s going on?” he demanded, stepping to the ground.
The man regarded him with an agitated expression. “Howard and the Doctor. They’re gone. They’re sailing from Ayr in half an hour.”
“To where?” Alastair demanded, ignoring Claire’s sharp intake of breath.
Blackstone shook his head, his expression turning to resignation. “I have no bloody idea.”
Chapter 8
“No.” Disbelief seized Claire with icy fingers. “He can’t get away. He can’t.” She didn’t care that Alastair watched her with curious eyes, or that his friend looked at her as though she were a lunatic. He was obviously a W.O.R. agent, there to provide support if they needed it.