the seal—Lady Lucinda’s scent. His training in the Young Corinthians had ensured he could discern a staggering number of details about an individual in a relatively short period of time. Along with her height and approximate size, he’d already committed to memory her voice and any number of physical characteristics that might be useful during the course of keeping her safe. Or bedding her, though he was fairly sure that both Carmichael and Northrop would have him castrated on the spot.
Another agent had guarded Lady Lucinda when she’d left the ball, and then yet another agent, this one masquerading as a footman, had been installed in her household. Assured she was well protected, Will had gone straight from the glitter of the Mansfields’ ballroom to Carmichael’s office. The exclusive group of men gathered there were committed to capturing Garenne. Will joined them, spending the next hours poring over documents and maps, discussing and hammering out a detailed plan. When they disbursed to their homes just before dawn, he was satisfied that their scheme to protect Lady Lucinda was seamless.
He’d managed perhaps an hour of sleep before receiving her note, and there’d been little point in trying for more after reading her reply. Smithers had been too enthusiastic for Will’s taste at such an ungodly hour, but he couldn’t have done without his valet’s help. Arranging his wardrobe fell just below learning to play the pianoforte on Will’s list of things one must master before dying, though he had to admit that Smithers’s choice for the day was quite … well, gentlemanly. Snug, fawn-colored breeches were tucked into his Hessians, which were polished to a high shine. A pale green waistcoat beneath a dark blue coat of superfine cloth completed with an intricately tied cravat.
The damn neckcloth was the one thing Will could barely tolerate. Brummell should have been hung by a length of his own neckcloth, as far as Will was concerned. The strips of starched linen would see far better use in bandaging a wound or tying a woman to the bedpost.
Depending on one’s situation, of course.
Will had endured Smithers’s fussing for a good hour before the valet pronounced him fit to leave the house. For his part, Will had thought himself remarkably patient, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Lucinda would be suitably appreciative.
With expert maneuvering and a firm hand on the reins of his matched bays, he threaded his high-perch through traffic. He nodded at an acquaintance who hailed him from the walk but did not slow for a more substantive greeting.
He couldn’t shake memories of Lady Lucinda.
The blasted woman dancing, smiling as she turned so easily in his arms, nearly coming undone at his touch. His imagination took flight. He wondered if she dabbed the faint lemon scent on her slender wrists, the soft skin just behind her knees, and lastly, between her breasts.
Will grimaced, frowning. Height, weight—these were familiar factors to remember in his line of work. But the feel of her as they danced, conjuring up a vision of her unclothed? Will couldn’t quite convince himself as to the relevance of such things.
This was not beginning well. He needed emotional distance from his charge—anything less could result in a slip in his concentration and thus danger to Lady Lucinda.
True, he thought, narrowing his eyes against the mid-morning sun, never before had a woman been so intimately involved in Corinthian business, at least not to his knowledge.
Also true, his fondness for the fairer sex was no secret. News of his liaisons had found their way into the gossip rags, the legend of Iron Will growing with each report.
But this was different. Lady Lucinda was different. And it had to stop. It was distracting and, even worse, dangerous.
Will slowed the bays and brought them to a dancing stop, noting the movement of the sun behind the stone façade of de Bohun House. Carmichael had mentioned on more
Another agent had guarded Lady Lucinda when she’d left the ball, and then yet another agent, this one masquerading as a footman, had been installed in her household. Assured she was well protected, Will had gone straight from the glitter of the Mansfields’ ballroom to Carmichael’s office. The exclusive group of men gathered there were committed to capturing Garenne. Will joined them, spending the next hours poring over documents and maps, discussing and hammering out a detailed plan. When they disbursed to their homes just before dawn, he was satisfied that their scheme to protect Lady Lucinda was seamless.
He’d managed perhaps an hour of sleep before receiving her note, and there’d been little point in trying for more after reading her reply. Smithers had been too enthusiastic for Will’s taste at such an ungodly hour, but he couldn’t have done without his valet’s help. Arranging his wardrobe fell just below learning to play the pianoforte on Will’s list of things one must master before dying, though he had to admit that Smithers’s choice for the day was quite … well, gentlemanly. Snug, fawn-colored breeches were tucked into his Hessians, which were polished to a high shine. A pale green waistcoat beneath a dark blue coat of superfine cloth completed with an intricately tied cravat.
The damn neckcloth was the one thing Will could barely tolerate. Brummell should have been hung by a length of his own neckcloth, as far as Will was concerned. The strips of starched linen would see far better use in bandaging a wound or tying a woman to the bedpost.
Depending on one’s situation, of course.
Will had endured Smithers’s fussing for a good hour before the valet pronounced him fit to leave the house. For his part, Will had thought himself remarkably patient, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Lucinda would be suitably appreciative.
With expert maneuvering and a firm hand on the reins of his matched bays, he threaded his high-perch through traffic. He nodded at an acquaintance who hailed him from the walk but did not slow for a more substantive greeting.
He couldn’t shake memories of Lady Lucinda.
The blasted woman dancing, smiling as she turned so easily in his arms, nearly coming undone at his touch. His imagination took flight. He wondered if she dabbed the faint lemon scent on her slender wrists, the soft skin just behind her knees, and lastly, between her breasts.
Will grimaced, frowning. Height, weight—these were familiar factors to remember in his line of work. But the feel of her as they danced, conjuring up a vision of her unclothed? Will couldn’t quite convince himself as to the relevance of such things.
This was not beginning well. He needed emotional distance from his charge—anything less could result in a slip in his concentration and thus danger to Lady Lucinda.
True, he thought, narrowing his eyes against the mid-morning sun, never before had a woman been so intimately involved in Corinthian business, at least not to his knowledge.
Also true, his fondness for the fairer sex was no secret. News of his liaisons had found their way into the gossip rags, the legend of Iron Will growing with each report.
But this was different. Lady Lucinda was different. And it had to stop. It was distracting and, even worse, dangerous.
Will slowed the bays and brought them to a dancing stop, noting the movement of the sun behind the stone façade of de Bohun House. Carmichael had mentioned on more
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