Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Simon mounted the stairs two at a time, keen to distance himself from the woman who haunted his dreams. The need to release the breath he'd been holding since entering Westmore Hall left him gasping.

He would throttle Mowbray for this.

Had the blackguard concocted a story about spies to force Simon to confront his past? If only he'd not downed too much wine and stupidly revealed his secret. If only his tongue hadn't been as loose as a bawd's drawers.

He paused on the grand staircase, gripping the bannister as if it were his employer's blasted neck. How the devil was he supposed to focus on the case when in the company of Gwendolyn Caldwell?

Just one more job before you retire.

You won't need to spend a day in France.

Intelligence says this spy is working close to home.

Simon had gathered a wealth of information, spent weeks planning and preparing for the operation, only to find the north of England his destination—Whitehaven, to be precise.

Whitehaven!

Of all the godforsaken places!

He'd hoped never to set foot on Cumbrian soil again, let alone visit old haunts and stir unwanted memories. Like ghosts keen to make themselves known, visions of stolen kisses slipped into his mind. He heard echoes of promises made, of every romantic word he'd whispered as he nuzzled Miss Caldwell's neck.

Guilt surfaced.

Should he have tried to resolve their differences?

Should he have spoken to her before leaving England?

A sudden cough drew his gaze to where Flanders stood waiting on the landing. "I beg your pardon, sir, but it may be unwise to linger on the stairs. After downing three glasses of sherry, Mrs Astley has a habit of wandering into the wrong bedchamber. Doubtless she'll not be far behind."

Simon hardly knew Mrs Astley, but only one woman had dared to scan his body like she wanted to devour him whole. And it wasn't Gwendolyn Caldwell.

"How many glasses has the lady consumed?" he said, finding solace in the amusing conversation.

"Six at the last count, sir. Enough to make her indulge in the much-loved sport of swapping beds."

Simon continued up the stairs. "Does Lord Holmes know his butler spreads malicious gossip about the guests?"

"His lordship suggested I have a polite word with all the gentlemen present. You fit the criteria."

Simon snorted. "His lordship might disagree."

On a dark winter's night five years ago, Oliver Caldwell had made his true feelings known. Then, he had been his father's errand boy. Despite inheriting the title Viscount Holmes, he was still an arrogant arse.

"Doubtless your master had much to say about me. I'm the unwelcome intruder come to spoil the festivities."

"Nothing one could repeat, sir."

Simon chuckled to himself. There was one consolation to this whole sorry business. Holmes' face had twisted into a perfect picture of outrage as he read the King's missive. The viscount had no choice but to grant His Majesty's request and give Simon leave to conduct an investigation.

"What a shame you didn't adopt the same philosophy five years ago," Simon said. Had the butler kept his mouth shut, Gwendolyn would not have been forced to change her opinion. But who was he fooling? Perhaps she had always been false-hearted. "I might have married Miss Caldwell."

Flanders gave a nervous cough and seemed relieved they'd reached their destination. "You'll be staying in the blue room, sir. As requested, it gives an excellent view of the garden. It's usually reserved for special guests."

The butler led Simon into a palatial chamber of true Elizabethan design. Luxurious blue and gold hangings adorned the huge oak tester bed. Rich, detailed tapestries covered the walls.

A maid had been to turn down the bed, light the fire and lamps.

Oddly, Simon felt more at home in a traitors' den in France. The Caldwells might not have betrayed king and country, but they were all snakes in the grass.

Simon strode to the window, focusing on his mission and not those who deserved his contempt. "I recall there's a stile giving access to the coastal path leading down to the beach." It was hard to get one's bearings when gazing at nothing but a white blanket of snow.

Mowbray was confident the villain's fellow conspirator would arrive by sea. But few, except for experienced fishermen, would take to the water in the dead of winter.

Flanders ambled to the window. "Walk beyond the formal gardens, past the fountain to the path behind the tall topiary hedge. Be careful if you venture outdoors, sir. The path is rocky underfoot and often unstable in bad weather."

"You almost sound like you care, Flanders."

"I'm paid to be polite, sir."

"Regardless of how you feel about me, I admire honesty above all things." What a shame Gwendolyn had spun a web of lies instead of explaining how she felt. "Perhaps you might teach your employer the value of integrity."

The butler shuffled uncomfortably, the change of atmosphere revealing the servant's sudden unease. What had made Flanders nervous? The mention of the beach or integrity? Simon had not discounted the possibility the spy worked at Westmore.

"So I might avoid Mrs Astley's nighttime antics, can you tell me who occupies the rooms along this corridor?" It wasn't Gwendolyn. She had a chamber in the west wing. It probably smelled of spring roses and other female trappings. Things a man remembered when his body craved company at night. Devices used to make a man fall in love.

"I'm not at liberty to say, sir, though Mrs Astley can cover the best part of a mile when half asleep and in a state of dishabille."

Simon chuckled. He'd make sure to keep the door to his chamber locked. That said, he planned to do a little midnight snooping himself.

Flanders withdrew.

Time ticked slowly.

Simon's thoughts turned to Gwendolyn, and a host of questions flooded his mind. Why kiss him passionately if she found him lacking? Why insist she must marry a titled man yet remain unwed? Every fellow at Westmore sought an alliance—that's what had made him so damn angry. So why wait five years to take the plunge? Which fop had taken her fancy? He'd kill the first man who laid a hand on her.

Damnation!

Simon rubbed his temples to ease the mounting tension.

He should have stayed in the drawing room and been friendly to the guests. How else was he to catch a spy? Yet being in Gwendolyn's company roused all the old memories.

He craved her touch. Needed to feel her delicate hands roaming over his body. Longed to slide his tongue over her plump lips. God, he was desperate to hear her sweet pants and moans.

They're the moans of a traitor , he reminded himself. A woman who broke bread with him, professed her love only to abandon him hours later.

Only a fool would marry a pauper.

It was hard to believe those words had fallen from her lips.

Simon slipped his fingers inside his cravat and tugged it loose. The need to breathe clean air and rid his mind of these crippling thoughts had him striding to the door.

While the guests were engaged in a lively game of charades, he snatched his greatcoat from the cloakroom and headed out through the terrace doors into the garden.

The biting wind nipped his cheeks and ruffled his hair, but he pulled his coat tightly across his chest and braved the winter weather.

It made sense to venture along the path and check how easy it was to access the beach. Few spies conducted their unlawful transactions by day. A man needed to move quickly through the darkness. In these treacherous conditions, it paid to know the route.

He passed the fountain, the water frozen like his heart, and rounded the high hedge. Beyond the stile fifty yards ahead, he noted where the path met the cliff edge. A rickety wooden fence would hardly keep a man from tumbling to his death.

Simon was busy chastising himself for not bringing a lantern, when the crunch of snow and a feminine groan reached his ears.

Damn, Mrs Astley. The woman was probably scouting the bedchambers and had watched him leave. He hadn't the patience to deal with her pathetic attempts at seduction.

Hoping the darkness would deter her, he hid behind the verdure but had to bite his tongue when snow tumbled from the high topiary hedge and landed on his head.

The footsteps came closer.

Water trickled down his temple and cheek. An ice-cold rivulet ran down his neck. He pursed his lips to avoid making a sound, but a shadow stepped from blackness into the moonlight. A dark-haired shadow with porcelain skin and rosebud lips.

"Gwendolyn!"

She jumped in shock. "Simon!"

"Mr Garrick," he corrected, his anger surfacing. She had forgone the right to use his given name. "What are you doing outdoors, Miss Caldwell? You'll freeze to death. And these paths are treacherous."

He sounded like a vicar, not a dangerous bastard who caught criminals for a living.

"I—I saw you leave. I know you enjoy a late-night walk along the beach, and thought someone should warn you about the path. It's no longer safe."

The muscles in his abdomen tightened as he remembered kissing her beneath the full moon, the whoosh of the sea like a soothing sonata. "Thank you. You have done your duty and may return to the house."

She blinked rapidly but gathered herself and tilted her proud chin. "You might sound a little more grateful."

"Grateful you invented an excuse to follow me?" He let his anger swamp all feelings of love and lust. "Go back to the drawing room, Miss Caldwell. The men there are vying for your attention. I'm sure one will have the honour of being your betrothed before the week is out."

She jerked as if reeling from a blow. "I have no intention of marrying any of the gentlemen my brother invited."

Was this a callous joke? A means to torment him? "Can you not find anyone worthy amongst the wealthy men here tonight? Heaven forbid you were forced to marry a pauper."

Her bottom lip quivered. "How can you even say that?"

"Say what?" What right did she have to feel affronted?

"Suggest I care about money after all that has passed between us." Gwendolyn straightened her shoulders. "Why are you here? Have you finally come to claim your inheritance?"

There wasn't a day that he didn't consider returning home. "Inheritance? Do you know how much it would cost to repair the damp-ridden Whitney Grange?"

Finding funds was not the problem. He'd earned a small fortune while working for the government. The problem was living close to a woman who still held his heart in her talon-like grasp.

"I'm told you're a capable man." Her gaze dipped to his chest, and she swallowed deeply. "Your wild adventures abroad have had a marked effect on your physique."

Good God! Had he heard a hint of admiration in her tone?

Was he good enough to bed, just not good enough to marry?

"Despite our past acquaintance, Miss Caldwell, such an intimate conversation is hardly appropriate. Perhaps you should save your praise for the men in the drawing room. It would take more than a half-hearted compliment to rouse a reaction from me."

The lady clutched her breast as if mortally wounded. Water welled in her eyes. "What happened to make you so cruel?"

"Cruel?" Cruel was professing love for a man and casting him aside hours later. "Those in glass houses should not throw stones, madam."

Confusion marred her brow.

Knots twisted in his stomach as she dashed more tears from her cheek.

"So it's true. All hope is lost. You're no longer the caring man I used to know." Desperate to make a quick escape, she swung around too quickly and lost her footing in the snow.

Before Simon knew what the devil was happening, he'd caught her and hauled her into his arms. He was ready to chastise her again, but she sagged against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist like she used to.

Simon closed his eyes, his soul content for the first time in five years. The warmth of her body melted the ice around his heart. She smelled exactly as he remembered—like sunshine and summertime—like the woman he still loved.

Don't do this to me , he uttered silently.

Not now. Not after all these years.

He looked down at her, ready to pull away, but couldn't resist pressing a lingering kiss to her temple.

Gwendolyn looked up, desire's fire in her damp eyes, her plump lips parted as if hungry for more.

His cock hardened.

His pulse soared.

And his heart nearly broke in two.

He was seconds away from devouring her mouth, from laying her down in the snow and indulging in every wicked pleasure. The thought was like dousing a drunkard with cold water—sobering.

He clasped her upper arms, determined not to fall for this hoyden's tricks. "We're not the same people anymore. Go! Go now! Go, before I do something we will both regret."