face-to-face with Lord Reynolds. The young lord’s coffee colored curls hid eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Had a bit of a romp, did you, Wessex?"
Aidan smiled while raking his fingers through his hair, forming a makeshift comb. "Excellent event, Lord Reynolds," he replied, hoping the evasive answer would satisfy.
"Quite," the dark man chuckled, "had my own sample of muslin a few hours ago."
"If you don’t mind, Lord Reynolds," Aidan said, affecting an exaggerated yawn. "I believe I shall retire to my own home."
"Not at all, old man, I’m for bed myself. Good evening."
The men parted company, and Aidan found himself walking out of the large double doors and onto St. James Street. The earl sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he spotted his landau some twenty yards down the road.
"Home, please," he grunted, pulling himself into the luxurious conveyance, and ignoring the widening of his coachman’s eyes at his master’s less than meticulous attire.
Aidan sank into the sage squab, touching the cut on his neck. It was sore, and he could feel the blood that had pooled at the wound. Whatever drug she had used was very powerful, and had most assuredly been used before tonight.
But why hadn’t she killed him? He could identify her. And while she might not have had a lethal poison on hand, she certainly could have used her knife once he had lost consciousness? She must have been interrupted, for he was sure that Napoleon’s mistress would not hesitate to kill a man.
The woman was deadly and if he did not find her soon she would pass on information that would condemn British troops fighting the French. He did not doubt her ability to extract information from men since she was willing to use her body to lure and entice.
He himself had been weak, overpowered the moment he pulled her body to his. The moment he felt of her breast, her backside, his lips against her silky neck, he had been lost.
Bloody Hell!
Aidan shook away the wave of desire that washed over him and settled in his groin. She was beautiful, but she was a traitor, a woman that bedded Napoleon himself, a woman that betrayed her country and led its young men to slaughter.
Blood surged through his body, but this time anger was its cause. He vowed that when he saw her next he would remember his men. Men that fought for England, brave men that lay dying in the filthy streets of Albuera while Napoleon’s troops walked among them, skewering the wounded with their swords.
Aidan would never forgive himself for surviving, for being taken captive while his men were robbed then mercilessly slaughtered. Men that gave their lives to defend the Earl of Wessex; men of lesser title, men of lesser ancestry, but men far more worthy of God’s grace.
Yet, he knew why he had survived.
God had given him Lady Rivenhall. Given him the opportunity to avenge his men and protect the crown. And in that moment and before God, he swore that she would not pass information to the French…even if he were forced to kill her to stop it.
***
A banging on his front door awakened the Duke of Glenbroke from an exceptionally peaceful rest. He carefully withdrew his arm from beneath his wife’s head in hopes that she would remain asleep. Not that there was much danger of her waking, for his duchess slept like the dead.
The silk of his dressing gown felt cold as he shrugged it over his nude body and stepped into the darkened hallway.
"Who is it, Simkins?" he asked his loyal servant who had managed to appear in pressed trousers and jacket as if he had never retired.
"The Earl of Wessex is awaiting your presence in the study, Your Grace."
"Thank you." Gilbert’s bare feet padded down the stairs and across the marble floor to his study.
He tried to still the anxiety that was pounding at his heart. It was four o’clock in the morning, and Aidan was not the sort of man to interrupt his rest without a damn good reason. The only question remaining, what was that reason?
"Aidan, what is
"Had a bit of a romp, did you, Wessex?"
Aidan smiled while raking his fingers through his hair, forming a makeshift comb. "Excellent event, Lord Reynolds," he replied, hoping the evasive answer would satisfy.
"Quite," the dark man chuckled, "had my own sample of muslin a few hours ago."
"If you don’t mind, Lord Reynolds," Aidan said, affecting an exaggerated yawn. "I believe I shall retire to my own home."
"Not at all, old man, I’m for bed myself. Good evening."
The men parted company, and Aidan found himself walking out of the large double doors and onto St. James Street. The earl sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he spotted his landau some twenty yards down the road.
"Home, please," he grunted, pulling himself into the luxurious conveyance, and ignoring the widening of his coachman’s eyes at his master’s less than meticulous attire.
Aidan sank into the sage squab, touching the cut on his neck. It was sore, and he could feel the blood that had pooled at the wound. Whatever drug she had used was very powerful, and had most assuredly been used before tonight.
But why hadn’t she killed him? He could identify her. And while she might not have had a lethal poison on hand, she certainly could have used her knife once he had lost consciousness? She must have been interrupted, for he was sure that Napoleon’s mistress would not hesitate to kill a man.
The woman was deadly and if he did not find her soon she would pass on information that would condemn British troops fighting the French. He did not doubt her ability to extract information from men since she was willing to use her body to lure and entice.
He himself had been weak, overpowered the moment he pulled her body to his. The moment he felt of her breast, her backside, his lips against her silky neck, he had been lost.
Bloody Hell!
Aidan shook away the wave of desire that washed over him and settled in his groin. She was beautiful, but she was a traitor, a woman that bedded Napoleon himself, a woman that betrayed her country and led its young men to slaughter.
Blood surged through his body, but this time anger was its cause. He vowed that when he saw her next he would remember his men. Men that fought for England, brave men that lay dying in the filthy streets of Albuera while Napoleon’s troops walked among them, skewering the wounded with their swords.
Aidan would never forgive himself for surviving, for being taken captive while his men were robbed then mercilessly slaughtered. Men that gave their lives to defend the Earl of Wessex; men of lesser title, men of lesser ancestry, but men far more worthy of God’s grace.
Yet, he knew why he had survived.
God had given him Lady Rivenhall. Given him the opportunity to avenge his men and protect the crown. And in that moment and before God, he swore that she would not pass information to the French…even if he were forced to kill her to stop it.
***
A banging on his front door awakened the Duke of Glenbroke from an exceptionally peaceful rest. He carefully withdrew his arm from beneath his wife’s head in hopes that she would remain asleep. Not that there was much danger of her waking, for his duchess slept like the dead.
The silk of his dressing gown felt cold as he shrugged it over his nude body and stepped into the darkened hallway.
"Who is it, Simkins?" he asked his loyal servant who had managed to appear in pressed trousers and jacket as if he had never retired.
"The Earl of Wessex is awaiting your presence in the study, Your Grace."
"Thank you." Gilbert’s bare feet padded down the stairs and across the marble floor to his study.
He tried to still the anxiety that was pounding at his heart. It was four o’clock in the morning, and Aidan was not the sort of man to interrupt his rest without a damn good reason. The only question remaining, what was that reason?
"Aidan, what is
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