Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(14)

And unless his instincts were mistaken, she feared her father a great deal. He recognized the flash in her eyes, the tense set of her shoulders, the way she’d seemed to withdraw. All the boldness, daring, and brilliance that was Daisy Vanreid had withered and died before him in the salon at the mention of her father’s return.

Part of him knew he shouldn’t give a damn about what past terrors haunted the flirtatious beauty alongside him. But another part of him, a part he didn’t care to examine too closely, suggested that learning the story behind Miss Vanreid’s distress would aid him in his cause.

The more information he could uncover about Vanreid, the better. Perhaps earning his daughter’s trust would also garner some additional information. If she was involved in the dynamite plots, showing her kindness could be a way to sidestep any barriers she’d seek to erect between them.

There was also the troubling matter that he had actually felt… something when he’d noted Miss Vanreid’s subtly quelled terror. That he’d felt anything at all irritated him. He’d been trained, damn it. He was meant to feel nothing. No emotion, no pity, and certainly not kindness. Not concern or worry.

Absolutely not protective.

He refused to believe any of those emotions were the source of the odd tightness in his chest as he stopped with her now, just before a dormant rose bush and still within full view of her disapproving aunt. Where was a bottle of champagne and the Duke of Carlisle when he needed him? he wondered grimly.

Sebastian stared unseeing at the desiccated gardens for a beat before turning to Miss Vanreid. He tried not to notice how comely she was, even from the side. Outdoors, away from her aunt and the looming specter of her father, she outshone the sunshine. The purple of her gown heightened her creamy skin and the burnished coils of her thick hair. Everything about the gown, from its cinched waist to its lace trim, was designed to call attention to her impeccable figure and the sweet curve of her bosom. The dolman she’d donned to ward off the chill air did little to conceal her fine figure.

Damn it, he thought as he surveyed her profile, a wardrobe of dresses that buttoned to the throat wouldn’t be enough to tame her beauty or its effect upon him. Bloody hell. Maybe it would be unwise to see this assignment through.

But no. He had a duty. He’d sworn an oath. The lives of so many innocents were at peril.

“Miss Vanreid,” he bit out, displeased by the tumult she set off within him. “You seemed ill at ease back in the salon. What causes you such grief?”

She was silent, seemingly engrossed in a study of the dormant rose bushes. “I don’t wish to marry Lord Breckly, Your Grace.” Her voice was low, toneless. “Is it your intention to wed me?”

Wed her? Everything within him screamed no. Bed her? Everything within him screamed yes. His cock surged against his trousers and he shifted slightly to minimize the evidence of her extreme effect on him. She was an anomaly. Enigmatic, beautiful, seductive, but also quiet and imbued with a sadness he didn’t yet comprehend. He would learn her. Would learn every one of her secrets before he was through.

“It would be my honor, Miss Vanreid, to make you my wife,” he lied.

She turned to him finally, subjecting him to the full force of her undeniable beauty. “Have you ever hit a woman?”

Her question took the air from his lungs. What kind of a woman asked such a thing? The kind who had been abused, his instincts told him. The kind who sought to avoid entanglement in a situation similar to the one in which she already found herself.

“Of course not,” he answered past his shock, pausing a beat to read her expression. “Do you trust me?”

She pursed her lips together, taking her time to answer. “I know little of you, Your Grace, so to say that I trust you implicitly would make a liar of me.”

Ah, there was candor, he supposed, pointed as a dagger. “Such wisdom from one so young is a rarity.”

As the words left him, he realized how pompous he sounded. How ducal. He hadn’t meant to imply she wasn’t intelligent. Far from it—her intellect and her daring were the two traits that attracted him to her the most. Anyone could be beautiful. But not everyone could be bold and smart and fearless. The lady before him—duplicitous enemy of the Crown or no—was all of those things.

She was the sort of woman who, in different times, he would have been proud to call his duchess. Given the circumstances, the dubious cloud of her associations, and the fact that he’d been charged with viewing her as an enemy, his feelings for her in this moment could not be rooted in anything less rational than duty. For the spy, control was everything. Emotions had to be carefully excised, as infection from a wound, else the entire limb would require amputation.

Grim thought, that. But fitting.

She stiffened, oblivious to the unsettling bent of his thoughts, her chin tilting up in ravishing defiance. “Age is a fallacious indicator of intelligence, Your Grace.”

“So it can be,” he acknowledged, taking a step toward her. Her skirts billowed into his trousers. Her scent enveloped him. The morning was yet again unseasonably warm, yet still cold, and so he couldn’t be certain whether the scarcely discernible tremble that passed over her just then was from the chill or from something else. “You’re wise to withhold your trust until it’s earned. But know that I would never intentionally cause you harm.”

Was that even true? Hell, he didn’t know any longer. He would never hit her. Would never bring physical pain upon her. Anything else? He couldn’t promise. His time with her was as ephemeral as life itself.