One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,48

refusal to stoke the heat between them, shock. “But I—I don’t have it.”

Surely he knew that? Surely he believed her?

Not that it mattered—or ought not, at least. The villains after the codebook were the ones she needed to convince.

Still, relief surged through her when he gave a curt nod of understanding. “But it won’t be a simple matter to persuade them. In order to divert their attention away from you—and to rescue Hopkins—we need to find the thing. Until we do, you—and your family—will not be safe.”

We.

Under such circumstances—under any circumstances—the word should not have sent a thrill through her. For so long, she’d craved adventure, excitement. Longed to be a part of something important, even with all the risks he’d tried to warn her of.

Well, no. Not all of them. Standing here in his arms, she was beginning to suspect there were other risks to be weighed.

Despite the dangers he represented, was she truly reckless enough—ill-advised, to use his words from the night of the ball—to want to get closer to him?

“Then we must find it,” she said simply, choosing action over fear. “Where do we look next?”

“No.” The protest rumbled from his chest, past his clenched jaw. “I didn’t mean—” He looked resolutely past her, even as his grip tightened. “Not we.”

“You told me as much once before, as I recall. And yet, here we are.”

His lips parted, prepared to make some retort. Then he looked down at her, his eyes sweeping over her body. Her rain-soaked gown hid little from his view, she well knew. At last his narrow-eyed gaze flickered up to her wet lips, and she watched his resolve begin to unravel. In another moment, his mouth would be on hers.

“Good night, Magpie,” she whispered as she slipped from his stunned grasp, contenting herself for now with that small victory over his self-control.

As she turned and made her way toward the house, satisfaction surged through her—and with it, a tremor of desire, a reminder that she had never been truly satisfied.

Chapter 9

Langley awoke with a shiver so violent it nearly rattled his spectacles off the washstand. He’d lain for hours atop the bed in his wet clothes, refusing to warm himself with the memory of Amanda pressed against him, her rain-soaked muslin no barrier at all.

You’re in danger, your ladyship.

No. Not from him.

He would not let his desires distract him from a mission—again.

Just in case, he had deliberately made himself uncomfortable, never imagining he could fall asleep under such conditions. Now, at God knew what hour, sunlight streamed in through the open window and with it, the considerably cooler air that had followed the storm. He fought back another shiver, forcing his stiff muscles to move at his command.

The rain-swollen sash was no more eager to slide down this morning than it had been to slide up yesterday afternoon, but at least this time he could welcome the warmth of the exertion. Afterward, he stripped off his still-damp clothes and rubbed himself vigorously with the towel before donning yet another clean shirt, a pair of brown woolen breeches, and the same blue coat. If he’d had his greatcoat handy, he might have put that on too. A shave would have to wait for warmer water.

The schoolroom was comparatively cozy and smelled marvelously of hot coffee. He followed his nose to the worktable and found a breakfast tray, laden with food. In a matter of moments, the same good scents lured the boys from their chamber, Kingston looking and sounding much as he had the night before, Philip sleepy and tousle-haired, but dressed and at least willing to grunt “G’morning, sir,” in reply to Langley’s greeting.

After a fortifying plateful of coddled eggs and kippers, Philip found the strength to say, “My mother usually breakfasts with us…sir.” Resentment still rolled off the lad in waves. “Where is she?”

Langley returned his cup to its saucer. “I daresay she’s enjoying her first breakfast in some time that didn’t involve staring down a half-washed face and an uncombed head.”

The young earl disguised his smirk of satisfaction at that setdown of his brother by taking a bite of toast. Philip spluttered a moment before tossing back, “Yes, well, at least she was always clean-shaven.”

“Pip, you dolt,” Kingston said, favoring his brother with a withering glance. “If you’re going to talk back to our new tutor, then at least fashion a retort that doesn’t insult Mama.”

“Why, I didn’t—I would never—oh. Well,” here Philip shot Langley a narrow-eyed glance, “he knew what I