Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(11)

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His senior in command was being a tad too dramatic for his liking. He’d never felt more like a villain than he did then, filled with a combined shame for his intentional compromising of Miss Vanreid and his loss of control both. As a covert operative who’d spent the last twelve of his thirty years in service to the Crown’s most elite secret espionage branch the Special League, he had only needed to use women as pawns a handful of times, and he had disliked each time immensely. But he had never married any of them.

Nor had he ever wanted any of them the way he longed to slide home inside Miss Vanreid.

Sebastian shoved the unwelcome insight from his mind. “I will be more than happy to make Miss Vanreid my wife as quickly as can be arranged,” he forced himself to say. “But for the nonce, I recommend Mrs. Stanley and Miss Vanreid take their leave before we draw any further attention to the matter. In a crush of this magnitude, no one will be the wiser.”

“I do expect you tomorrow, young man,” said the tipsy aunt, capable of giving him a dressing down despite the champagne and wine she’d consumed that evening. “You have much to answer for.”

He wasn’t accustomed to being taken to task or to being called “young man” rather than “Your Grace.” “Of course, madam.” He took care to keep his tone contrite. It wouldn’t do to rile the aunt, who seemed to be holding herself together with remarkable aplomb thus far but who could lose her calm at any juncture thanks to her inebriated condition.

The aunt creating a scene was the last thing that any of them needed.

A wider audience would cause scandal and ruin to swirl about Miss Vanreid, but it also would impede his efforts as a spy in the process. The fewer who knew of their scandal, the better. The haste of their nuptials would be fodder enough.

But that was a matter for another day.

Tonight’s work had gone well, even if the doing had left him feeling oddly aroused and hollowed at the same time, as though his conscience were at war with his prick. He’d become adept at burying guilt and banishing emotion from his every action. No man could successfully keep secrets from everyone around him, lie to others, and kill for his country, without removing weak sentiment from his life like an infected limb.

Yet despite all that, despite a dozen years and missions that he’d imagined had hardened him as surely as a lump of coal being formed in the earth, he felt like a complete blighter as he faced Miss Vanreid again in the moonlight. She had remained unusually quiet but for her lone revelation of the state of her gown. He had done the tearing that ripped her sleeve, had done irreparable damage to her. To them both.

For a good cause.

But damn it if he still didn’t feel something dislodge inside his chest when he caught Miss Vanreid’s gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss. He bowed to her with drawing room formality. There was ample reason to distrust her, and nothing about the minx suggested innocence, but there was a small chance that she was not a part of her father’s diabolical schemes. That she had nothing to do with dynamite, Fenian plots, or anything more malevolent than being a horrid flirt.

Of course, there was also the chance that she was everything Carlisle suspected her of and worse. That she was colluding with McGuire. That she was using her wiles against him to garner information for the enemy. That she sought to cause injury—perhaps even death—to the innocents of London, and indeed, all of England.

Somehow, the latter was difficult for him to reconcile with the soft, perfectly curved, altogether beautiful woman he’d kissed and held in his arms. He took a breath, careful to keep his tone devoid of all emotion before he spoke. “Miss Vanreid, I am so sorry. Pray accept my sincere apology for any insult I paid you this evening.”

She leaned close to him, the first real move she’d made since they’d been unceremoniously interrupted. “Apology accepted, Your Grace, of course.” And then she surprised him by moving nearer still, all but thrusting her bosom into his face. Her lips grazed his ear as she whispered for him alone. “But you should know that I’m not sorry.”

Bloody hell. One thing was certain: Daisy Vanreid was trouble. The sooner he could move to a new assignment and be granted an annulment, the better. His first act as her husband would be to order her an entire wardrobe of high-necked dresses that buttoned all the way up to her throat.





singular emotion overcame Daisy when she awoke the next morning: relief.

It stayed with her, unfurling in her belly like a summer blossom, as she dressed and went about her toilette with the assistance of her lady’s maid. She took extra care in choosing a morning gown of deep purple silk that set off her complexion and blonde hair to advantage. It hugged her curves and had an elaborately flounced skirt and lace trimming on the bodice that drew the eye to her bosom.

She’d noticed that the Duke of Trent’s eyes had a tendency to linger there. And last night, his mouth had been upon her. The recollection made heat suffuse her, coloring her cheeks.

“Miss Daisy, you’re a vision in that dress,” said Abigail as they both surveyed her efforts in the glass.

“Not precisely a vision,” Daisy denied. “But this will do, I think.”

“It will more than do, miss.” Her lady’s maid was quick to refute her in that effusive way she had. Abigail had been with her for as long as Daisy could recall, and her generous smiles and flattery sometimes seemed unnatural. “Not many ladies can carry off aubergine well, but you can claim that distinction.”