Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Are you ever coming back to Northumberland, Crispin Sinclair?

~Unsent letter hidden in a hat box under a countess’ bed

A fter the third intimate indulgence of the night, which ended with the shoddy bed collapsing beneath them, Cece let Crispin sleep. Currently, his long body was sliding off a settee unused to holding a man his size, the faint wheeze echoing through the small space tying her heart into a proper knot.

Whether the spy liked it or not, he had a touch of the baron’s lung complaint.

Energized, her body positively ablaze , she’d tucked a small woolen blanket around him, ridiculous as it barely covered him, then went on a mission to retrieve their lost clothing. Her spencer was ruined but adequate enough to get her back to the house. His boots—Hoby, she’d guess—weren’t in much better shape, the leather blackened from rain and muck. She hung the wet garments before the hearth but left his cravat in a wad by the door as it wasn’t worth the effort. Nelson could try to clean it, perhaps.

Nelson , Cece thought and glanced back to the settee, love a steady thump gliding in between her rapid heartbeats. The young man had run from her but taken the cantankerous groom who’d been like a father to him.

This said something about Crispin not leaving everything behind.

Cece found a deck of cards left by a past inhabitant and shuffled while Crispin slumbered. She bit hungrily into an apple she’d located beneath a tree near the pond, one appetite appeased while others raged. If she’d had paper and pen, she would have practiced copying Jasper Noble’s signature—which she hated to tell him wasn’t far off from Crispin’s. She laughed softly around a mouthful of fruit. He wouldn’t be happy about this project.

But making a man entirely happy didn’t seem the best course. She’d wanted Crispin to work for her, even if for only one night.

Propping her back against the wall, she finished the apple while letting her gaze caress every inch of him not concealed by that ratty blanket. The chamber smelled of dust, mildew, and spent passion, a scent she was largely unfamiliar with.

It was madness… but in this very moment, she wanted to look more than touch.

They’d been so crazed for each other, she honestly hadn’t had the chance. She grinned, pleased, the ability to make him lose himself the bright spot of her century . His hand had trembled when he’d pressed his brow to hers and whispered he’d never forgotten her.

Never forgotten this .

He was lying on his stomach on the settee, his head adorably buried in the crease between his forearm and biceps, his hair a black-gray blotch against his sun-kissed skin. His shoulders were wide, his ribs compelling dints leading to a lean waist and slim hips. Unfortunately, his tight bottom—she could confirm it was tight because she’d held on to it at various points—was hidden by the coverlet. Tilting her head, she studied him, wondrously still aroused. He had the physique of a brawler when the young man had been gangly. Rippling muscle layered upon more muscle. He must box or participate in some sport to acquire such brawn. Cece searched around on the floor for a second apple and tore into it, wishing she could draw instead of forge. She’d fill pages with sketches of this stunning beast.

If only she could capture the vulnerability the man tried incredibly hard to hide.

He was difficult. Ill-tempered. Arrogant. He hated to lose when she loved to win. Yet, he treated Josiah with tremendous kindness. His staff adored him, and this she’d found to be a decisive assessment. While snooping in his desk, a flaw she hadn’t been able to conquer her entire life, she’d uncovered documents about a project to remove boys from the workhouse and place them in apprenticeships on the Duchess of Leighton’s ships, in his warehouse, and at the Streeter-Macauley distillery. Unlike most of society, he wasn’t boasting about his philanthropic efforts. He was concealing them. Why did he want to conceal the good side of himself?

“I’ll do better next time,” he whispered drowsily from the curl of his arm. “Longer. Slower. More. A little surprised, you meeting me at the pond.” He wagged his hand. “Off my game.”

Cece choked on an apple sliver. What they’d shared could be better? Longer? Slower? More ? However, the good news was there would be a next time. She also liked that he’d not been able to do his typical routine because she knew the bounder had one. She swallowed somewhat viciously. His game .

Flipping on his side to face her, Crispin stretched like a cat coming out of a vigorous nap, the absolute glory of him filling the space. The groan that whispered free of his throat was one of supreme satisfaction. He’d made a similar sound during the last round, from his position beneath her. Her legs straddling his hips, the speed and depth of their connection left to her, had proved to be a revelation. It was the control she’d asked for, given in full measure.

Images running wild, her throat went dry as the pulse between her legs began to thump. Oh , that provoking thump! It had gotten her into leagues of delicious trouble.

Holding out his arm, he wiggled his fingers. “Food, please.”

Cece scrambled for the third apple. She’d saved the biggest and most beautiful one for him .

“I’m bloody starving,” he rasped and tore into the fruit like it was a slice of roasted mutton. He’d yet to open his eyes, resting there like a sated tiger. She wondered how long he planned to lie there, the blanket having wiggled its way to his waist, baring much of him to her view. He was comfortable with nudity in a way she’d never been. Although he’d murmured his appreciation for her in between ribald descriptions of what he planned to do to her. Her gorgeous hair, her bountiful breasts, her pert nipples. He loved the color of her nipples. That admission just before he’d snaked them between his lips. She’d never imagined a man would value such a thing.

When he opened his eyes, she almost wished he hadn’t. Wariness had returned, swimming amongst sea blue. He motioned to her with the apple, chewing slowly. Something about the scene had thrown him off. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Breath stalling, she glanced down. The once crisp cotton covered her from neck to thigh. It had been an impulsive decision to slip it on, an intense need to keep him with her a moment longer. His spicy scent rose from the material every time she moved, catching her in its teeth. “I, um…” She shook her head, not sure what to say.

“Another image burned in my brain,” he said and took a vicious nip of the fruit.

He’d lost every trace of Northumberland from his speech, his accent now caught between rookery docks and Mayfair parlors. At times, it seemed he didn’t know who to be, thug or baron. “Are you angry with me?” She snorted against her wrist, truly amused. “After that,” she added, gesturing to the wrecked chamber.

Dropping his head to his fist, he sighed into his fingers. “I’m vexed with myself. I was not as solicitous as I prefer to be. I got carried away, which isn’t like me.”

Cece circled through her memories of the night. Flashes of hunger, desire, truth . There’d been nothing charming or diplomatic about it, thank heaven. She wanted passion raw enough to break a bed. “You didn’t corrupt me, Crispin. And you didn’t when I was seventeen. I sought pleasure, the first time since then I’ve been able to. I loved it. Is this what you need to hear? ”

“Crispin,” he whispered, the name layered with anguish. “Can’t you let him go?”

His torment unleashed a horrid yearning to uncover his secrets. To know the man as well as she’d known the boy. “What happened after you left me?”

With a sigh, he flopped to his back, tossing his arm over his eyes.

Placing the apple core on the floor, she shoved to a shaky stand. Her knees were as flimsy as wet straw from the glorious things they’d done in his ragged bed. Crispin tensed when he heard her approach, but he didn’t try to run. Progress.

Lifting the blanket, Cece trailed her fingertip down the arch of his foot. He flexed his toes and gave an aggrieved growl that lit her up inside. Bracing his arms, he wrenched to a sit, giving her the opposite end of the settee. The blanket fluttered but landed quite magnificently across his waist. Once she was settled, his shirt covering her well enough but not fully, they stared, waging a silent war. No matter her intense love for him long ago, they hadn’t gotten along every second. They’d bickered and battled, trying to best each other. She’d never felt better than when she’d beaten the baron’s son at something. The brash, enchanting young man who’d stolen her heart.

Knowing there was no reason to delay, she dove into the deep end. “This person you’ve become, you love his life?”

He eased back, scrubbing his hand over his face. Stubble rode his jaw, dark as the night surrounding them. He looked exceedingly unreachable, but she wasn’t easily dissuaded. Taking a final bite of his apple, he gave the core an expert toss that sent it sailing into the hearth. With an absurdly masculine smile, his gaze skimmed her bare legs, halted at her breasts, before meeting her eyes. His cock shifted beneath the tattered wool covering him, and he did nothing to hide it. “I have ideas for activities that don’t involve talking.”

She did the wrong thing. Laughed when it was clear he was exhausted and, if she wasn’t mistaken, in a vulnerable state. The least vulnerable man in England. “But you so like talking during them.”

He frowned while calculating his strategy. Massaged the finger he’d injured in some silly carriage mishap with Dash Campbell that Hildy had told her about, another Duchess Society warning against getting involved with a scoundrel.

Had he been this shrewd before? His tender nature must have hidden it.

Finally, he whispered, “What did you do after I left, minx?”

Oh , he wanted to put her on the defensive. Stretching her legs, she nudged his hand with her big toe. She liked rubs, and he’d been happy to accommodate.

He glanced at her foot like it was a smoldering lump of coal. He was too astute not to realize this was an intimate act. Simple… but intimate.

She had her own strategy, she’d love to tell him.

“After you left,” she started before her courage fled, “after you left, I retreated to my bedchamber and refused to talk to anyone, including Edgerly, until the ceremony. I entered the chapel that morning—it rained horribly if you must know—determined to save my family’s reputation and nothing more. My sister’s chances depended upon my not making a hash of my life, which I supposed I’d done that summer with you. If you recall, we were found by a servant, possibly the worst of circumstances since news travels swiftly at the lower levels, a fact my father stressed to me. After bribing the staff and the marriage occurred, things settled down. Rose entered the marriage mart the next Season and found a wonderful man in a forest of vultures. Her husband is an American, not titled, of course, but wealthy enough to satisfy. Until their last breaths, my parents felt they’d done right by their daughters. They didn’t care if I was dreadfully unhappy as long as society was appeased.”

He frowned and rolled his shoulders. “The estate in Northumberland?”

“It isn’t entailed, thankfully, so it came to me. The only challenge is, Edgerly wasn’t clever at managing money. Neither, it turns out, was my father. Although, I have funds enough to survive if I’m careful from a small bequest from my grandmother.”

Crispin glanced away during her speech as if he couldn’t stand to gaze at her while hearing about her husband. But he’d taken her foot in hand, his thumb digging into her arch in a way that made her want to purr. “Some time, I’ll ask more about your life with Edgerly, but for now, I don’t think I can stand it.”

She shrugged, a tad drowsy. His fingers were working magic. “There’s not much to tell. He lived in London, and I lived in Northumberland. It turns out he didn’t want an heir, if I’m allowed to be indelicate, as much as he wanted the concealment of a wife. His mistress of long standing was married, although her husband conveniently contracted cholera somewhere along the way. She was with Edgerly at the end, I believe. Was it wrong of me that I didn’t care?”

Crispin blinked and touched the bridge of his nose. He was searching for his spectacles, an accessory which hid his eyes from view. The man was keen about self-protection. “I don’t like to imagine him anywhere near you. I knew about his paramour and the other woman in Limehouse, the chit I’m guessing was Josiah’s mother. All of London knew about them, including your father. I tried to talk to him. I offered to marry you the day we were found or any day he chose. A year later, if we needed to wait. That didn’t end well, as you know. The conversation with my father went even worse.”

Cece flinched, and Crispin’s gaze raced to hers. She remembered the bruises on his face—the ones hidden beneath his clothing—something she didn’t like to imagine. He’d often sported injuries from clashes with his father, abuse she presumed made it easier to leave Northumberland and never look back. “I know you tried to rectify the situation. I was never angry with you like you were with me. I was merely sad. A bone-deep, everlasting sadness.”

He gave the heel of her foot an almost painful squeeze. “I was hurt. Tormented and misplaced, my own everlasting sadness spinning out in the hours. Although men show any slight with raised fists, don’t they? Luckily, I found a profession that fit my mood flawlessly. One with a new identity and a solid smattering of violence wrapped into a tidy package. At first, I thrived on the danger, which made me an accomplished agent because fear is what ruins them. I would have run into a burning building back then and not looked back.”

“You never wondered about me?”

Dropping her leg, he shoved to his feet and began to prowl the chamber. Unfortunately, he’d taken the tattered blanket with him and had it clenched at his hip. Cece rested back with a muted sigh, enjoying the sight of his muscles rippling as he strode about the chamber. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to touch. She had a long list of things she wanted to do to him. Do with him. It astounded her how much he’d changed—when how much she wanted him hadn’t changed one bit.

She drew her bent legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them to protect herself. “I wondered about you.”

“I got reports,” he returned almost immediately.

Cece’s lips parted on a shocked breath. “Reports?”

He didn’t stop pacing, merely sent a swift side-look her way. “I had contacts. I got reports.”

She patted her chest, truly stunned. “About me ?”

He gave the settee an angry nudge as he passed it. “About Northumberland. About my property and, yes, fine, about the property next door.”

“About the countess next door, you mean.”

He halted in the middle of the room and knotted his fingers around the blanket looped at his waist. A distant gaze, tight shoulders, fidgeting. A demeanor akin to Josiah’s after he’d stolen a sweet from the pantry and hidden it beneath his mattress.

“I would have let you in had you showed up on my doorstep, Cris.”

“And then what?” he snapped, fixing his attention on her. “It would have ended with us in bed, as mad for each other as we were tonight, wanting more, wanting everything because we were too bloody naive to realize happy endings don’t exist. This isn’t a fairy tale, Ce. What if I passed Edgerly on the street days after I left you, which I did once and barely kept from throttling him, only to think, is he going to Northumberland next week to see her? Touch her? Tup her? I simply couldn’t do it. Insanity would have been mine .”

Cece rubbed her temple, where a headache was brewing. He’d kept tabs on her all this time. “Edgerly meant nothing to me, and you knew it,” she whispered.

He shocked her by finding a teacup on a scuffed cupboard and hurling it against the wall. “Was that to be the madness we lived in? Hidden mistresses and forbidden love? I wanted more for our memories.”

Truthfully, she had as well.

The ferociousness surrounding him shouldn’t have enthralled her, nevertheless, she was completely enthralled. More so when he sighed and dropped to his knees to pick up the broken shards. She could only hope the blanket slipped, giving her full view of his dazzling body. “I turned down the Order of St Michel three years ago. Top-secret, of course, to protect my involvement with the government. Xander Macauley would never speak to me again should he find out. The baron bit, which I admitted because you nearly forced me to, was enough of an impediment. They don’t exactly want more titles in the Leighton Cluster. They have enough.”

This said, he stared morosely at the shattered teacup cradled in his hand. Long seconds passed with only the sound of their breaths and the calm shift of the wind against the cracked windowpanes to bolster them. “I have no clue why I tell you things I’ve never told another person.” His gaze struck her, his eyes the color of skies before a raging tempest. She guessed a storm was brewing in his soul. “ This is why I stayed away, Ce, to protect us both. Our connection isn’t typical. It never was. Better to be heartbroken, past not present. Scars of skin and heart eventually heal, even if they’re unpleasant to gaze upon after.”

“And now?” she asked past a parched throat. She was scared of his answer, fear twisting her stomach in a knot.

He dusted his fingertip along a jagged fragment of the teacup with the concentration of a surgeon. “You need a man with a sterling reputation, one who could be a father. I don’t know anything about children. My mother died when I was a lad and my father, well, you know enough to know I learned nothing about love from him.”

She wasn’t going to argue a ridiculous point. Josiah was clearly as taken with Crispin as he was with Josiah. He could be a father. Saying she needed him for what they’d done tonight was also a waste of breath. Hadn’t her hunger been clear for him to see? So, she would try this. “I might be willing to leave forgery behind if I had something else to occupy my time. ”

He placed the shards on a table at his side, braced his fist on his thigh, and stood. “Do tell.”

Nervous, Cece smoothed her hand down his shirt, the bone buttons cool against her still fevered skin. A dangerous time for illicit love, dawn was peeking through a crack in the drapes and tossing slices of subdued light at their feet. This was one of her secrets. “I’ve been corresponding with a woman in London, someone involved in women’s rights. She’s particularly interested in topics involving child custody. She’s working on approval of a legislative act for care of infants as voting isn’t going to happen during our lifetimes. Caroline—”

“Norton,” he finished for her.

Cece unfurled her legs and plopped her feet to the floor. “How do you know that?”

Crispin hung his head and laughed into his fist. “Damned if Dash Campbell doesn’t have it right. We are drawn to the problematic chits. Have you told Hildy you’re involved with Mrs. Norton?”

Cece gave a dismissive snort, feeling a bit like she’d hidden a sweet beneath the mattress. She was playing a role with the Duchess Society, much as he’d played with his government contacts. Who wanted to find a proper husband for an agitator? He was the only person she trusted enough to admit this to.

Muttering softly, Crispin scrubbed at the nape of his neck. “Maybe you should. Hildy meets with Mrs. Norton once a month, I believe. Tobias puts an extra footman at the entrance those days. Furious husbands are known to be vengeful from time to time. It doesn’t surprise me you’re thinking of getting involved with a matter possibly more dangerous than your charming hobby. What luck, that.”

Cece smiled, his long-suffering tone warming her to her toes. Hmm … Hildegard Streeter was an agitator as well. This was valuable information.

They laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and he took a tentative step closer. “A dimple is denting your cheek, Countess, which means devilish things are circling that keen mind of yours. I wonder if I have enough time to make you forget your schemes and grand plans.”

A high-pitched shout slid like a vapor beneath the door, interrupting them. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was flirtatious. And very, very feminine. Crispin halted and glanced over his shoulder, his oath bouncing about the shadowed space.

“Jasper Noble, are you set on taking a midnight swim?” Crispin’s visitor asked from much too close to the cottage. “I’m happy to come along, though I found it quite cold last time.”

“Behind me, minx,” he instructed, pointing at a spot in the corner like she was a dog. “ Now .”

As Cece saw it, she had two choices. She could continue letting men direct her life as her father and husband had done—or she could take the painful step of mucking it up herself, thereby choosing the life she wanted.

Even if she made a mistake, at least the mistake would be hers .

With a heroic inhalation, she crossed to the hearth, gathered up her muddy spencer, and hooked it over her shoulders. “Thank you, but I don’t think I will.”

Crispin palmed his chest with a pained expression. “Can you not do this? It’s social self-destruction to walk out that door.”

She fisted her spencer at her breastbone much like he had his blanket fisted at his hip. “You’re right, it is.”

The knock was light, three teasing taps. A kittenish laugh soon followed.

Crispin stalked to her, grasping her elbow, and giving her a gentle shake. “I never brought anyone here. Hell, I’ve never even stepped into the place before tonight. Nelson manages it.”

“Yoo-hoo,” came another call. The woman was determined. Cece would give her that.

A flush rolled across Crispin’s cheeks. “It was only a bloody stupid swim.”

Jealousy was a bubbling cauldron, the haze spilling across her vision painting the night. “Why bother with this old place”—she gestured to the charming cottage she’d dream about for the rest of her life—“when you have a perfectly adequate bedchamber across the lawn?”

His lids lowered as a muscle in his jaw began to flex. “I have a past, Ce.”

“Trust me, I’ve been reading about it for years,” she said, thinking furiously of the hat box beneath her bed .

“You have a past, too, don’t forget. Damned if I don’t try to.”

She wiggled from his hold and straightened her spencer, preparing for battle. “Edgerly visited me five times during my wedded years. Five ham-fisted experiences, each worse than the last. Is that similar to your story?”

His eyes glowed a deep, dark blue as fury took him. “You have to accept me for who I am, or we have no chance. I don’t wish to touch another woman. I wouldn’t . You’re all I want, all I’ve ever wanted. Everything else was my way to survive. I can’t erase what I did to repair a broken heart, and I can’t make things right by becoming Crispin Sinclair again.”

“Do you love her?” Her fist clenched around the crumpled velvet until her knuckles whitened.

Crispin’s lips parted, shock making him take a stumbling step back. “I’ve never loved anyone but you. This”—he flung his arm toward the door—“is a man being a man.”

“You loved the girl, you mean, because she adored you. The woman?” She laughed softly. “You have no idea what to do about her.”

Another knock sounded. “Jasper darling, I can hear you moving about in there.”

“Bloody hell,” Crispin whispered and closed his eyes as if he was in pain. “You’ve not got any of this right, Ce.”

In that moment, Cece decided she was a country girl. An unsophisticated hoyden. A forger of exquisite talent but modest ambition. She wasn’t educated in the ways of society, and she never would be. She wasn’t fit to be the next in line for a man like Jasper Noble. He needed them rough-and-ready, women able to leave his bed and never think of him again.

Frankly, social self-destruction seemed better than hiding from view, like he’d done for the past twenty years.

Waltzing past him and out the door, Cece played the countess for the final time.