All I Want for Christmas is Blue

A Novella

Shana Galen

Copyright © 2014 by Shana Galen

Published by BMLA Digital

Cover Design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Susan Gorman, because she convinced me Blue’s story was not complete.

One

Blue adored Covent Garden, and not simply because an excursion to the theater allowed him to don his evergreen coat with velvet trim, his violet waistcoat, and his finest linen shirt, complete with lace sleeves. Though, it must be said, Blue adored lace sleeves almost as much as Covent Garden.

When Blue stepped into Covent Garden, he always had the sense of coming home—the smell of lemon polish on the seats mingled with the scents of sawdust and paint from the creation of the elaborate settings. The operas were almost always superb, and when he attended—very nearly every night—he often preferred standing outside his box, closing his eyes, and listening to the singers’ voices drift through the walls of the theater.

And the applause. Even if it was not for him, Blue could appreciate heartfelt applause.

Mostly, however, Blue came for the opera singers. They were a notoriously loose lot of women and men and Blue found them infinitely amusing. The men preened and the women strutted. The show backstage was as dramatic as that to which the audience was privy.

Having lent his applause to that of the rest of the audience’s at the end of the performance, Blue anticipated the backstage performance now as he made his way into the bowels of the theater to where the singers shed their costumes and their stage characters. Blue’s blood thrummed in his veins with anticipation. He had his eye on one opera singer in particular. If he were fortunate, he’d take her home tonight. How he’d enjoy waking up in the morning to the spill of her brown-red hair on his pillow, her lovely dark eyes full of lazy pleasure.

As he passed the costume room, several chorus singers in various states of undress waved at him.

“Ladies.” He tipped his hat.

“Lord Ernest, do come and say hello,” one topless wench pled.

“Why do you run off?” another in little more than a chemise called after him.

“My lord! We don’t bite,” a third said.

“Too bad,” Blue murmured to himself, walking on without a backward glance.

He had no interest in chorus girls, especially those who only sought his attentions because he was the son of a duke. He was the sixth son of the Duke and Duchess of Ely, the tenth of eleven children. The country was positively infested with progeny of his ducal father. Blue could scarce keep up with his siblings’ comings and goings. And they took no more interest in him than the chorus singers, who called him Lord Ernest, when anyone who knew him understood immediately that he preferred to be called Blue.

Helena liked to remind him that Blue was his codename, not his Christian name. One did not choose one’s Christian name, however, and he had chosen—or at least sanctioned—his codename, which had been conferred in honor of the startling blue of his eyes.

He rounded the corner, entering a hallway teeming with gentlemen, armed with Christmas roses and kissing boughs. Fighting his way through the throng, he shouldered past two dressing rooms and tumbled to a stop before the third. Entry into the room was not an option as men spilled from it like ducklings from a nest. Men similarly overflowed from the other two rooms—that of the other female lead and the last, currently housing the male lead.

Blue did not begrudge those performers their admirers. Helena, however, was his.

Putting his hands to his mouth, Blue called, “Look over there! Is that Princess Charlotte?” He made a flourishing bow. “Your Royal Highness.”

The next moment, Blue was all but run down by men scampering to have a look at the daughter of the Prince Regent and Caroline of Brunswick.

“She went that way!”

As one, the men turned and followed his pointed finger.

Blue straightened his cravat. “Opera singers are not the only ones who can act.”

“Opera singers act?” a light, melodic voice asked. “High praise indeed.”

Blue swept into Helena’s dressing room, closing the door firmly behind him. She raised a brow and turned back to the mirror of her dressing table, where she was seated.

“I do try to flatter,” he said, leaning against the door and admiring the slope of her neck, visible where the silk robe she wore dipped in back. “Did I succeed?”

“Admirably.” She wiped the last of the stage makeup from her lips, leaving them rosy but no longer stark red. Her dark eyes met his in the mirror. “What do you want in return?”

Blue pushed away from the door and crossed the room in two strides. With measured movements, he removed his gloves, ignoring the way his hands shook with anticipation, and placed his fingers on her neck. He trailed his fingertips over the exposed flesh of her shoulders, pleased as gooseflesh appeared in his wake.

“Not much,” he murmured, attempting desperately to still his trembling fingers. No matter how often he touched her, how many times he caressed her, each time seemed like the first. “Since we are alone, I thought I might steal a kiss.”

“We are alone because you fabricated a royal appearance.” She swiveled to face him.

Taking her hands, he pulled her to her feet. “One does what one must to steal a moment of privacy.”

“You might have waited until I arrived home.” Her hands settled on his chest. “We are married, Ernest.”

His finger covered her lips. “Blue.”

She rolled her eyes, but he bent his head and brushed his lips over hers, silencing her teasing remark. Her skin smelled faintly of powder and the cream she used to remove the cosmetics. He touched his lips to her cheek, her temple, the shell of her ear. She quivered, and her arms came around his neck, pressing her slim body into his.

His tongue played with her earlobe while his hands swept down her back. Beneath the robe she wore a thin chemise and nothing else. The silk flowed over her body like water, and he followed it to the gentle swell of her hips and the lush roundness of her bottom.

“Will you never give me a real kiss?” she asked, her lips tickling his cheek.

“Patience, madam.”

Her mouth came closer to his. “Why?”

“I am attempting to build anticipation and drama.”

“Careful you don’t lose your audience.”

“Never.” He fused his mouth over hers, his lips sinking into satiny softness. He knew what she liked, the pressure and firmness, the angle and quick nip of his teeth.

Her mouth opened, and he ran his tongue over her teeth then swept inside. Her tongue met his, tangling briefly, and withdrawing. That only tempted him further, and he yanked her closer, kissed her more deeply.

“Helena!” A loud rap on the door startled them apart, and Helena quickly closed her robe and moved behind a screen. The door opened, and a small man with bushy muttonchops shouldered his way inside.

The man’s eyes narrowed under his wild eyebrows. “You again,” he said with a dismissive glance at Blue.

“A pleasure to see you again too, Mr. Burton. I would escort my wife to our carriage. We have an engagement tonight.”

“Engagement, eh?” The long, curly eyebrows rose.

Blue inclined his head. “A Christmas Eve ball at the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Ely.”

“Your parents?” Burton appeared unimpressed. “I heard His Grace forbid your wife from ever stepping foot in his home.”

Helena’s head popped out from behind the screen. “Is that true?”

“No!”

Her eyes narrowed.

Blue waved a hand, the lace fluttering dramatically. “Well, yes, but that was years ago.”

It had been the first and last time the duke and duchess had met his wife. He had not seen them since, though he had often been formally invited. The invitation to this Christmas Eve ball was the first invitation from his parents with a personal note scrawled in his father’s handwriting.

Do come, Ernest. Your mother misses you.

“The duke has come to his senses.” Blue had attempted to convince Helena of this point for the last fortnight and had actually tired of hearing himself speak about it. Apparently, there was a first time for everything. “It’s Christmas and time to let bygones be bygones and all that rot. As I am not the heir, nor with five older brothers ever like to be, I dare say he’s realized he need not care what I do.”

“Good. Then he may wait. I must discuss the second act with Hel—er, Lady Ernest.”

“Good God, I’d rather you call her Helena.” Blue took his wife’s hand and, drawing her out from behind the screen, kissed it. “I shall wait for you outside, sweet.”

As he moved toward the door, Helena took her seat at the dressing mirror. “The mishap in the second act was not my fault. Leopold missed his cue. I had to improvise.”

“With scales?” the theater manager bellowed. Blue closed the door. He had no worries his wife would handle Burton with her usual aplomb. She was not one to shrink from conflict.

He stepped away from her dressing room and ducked into the nearby shadows. From his vantage point, he could see her door, but could not easily be seen by the men and women scurrying about backstage. He leaned carelessly against a support beam and straightened his cuffs.

Then he gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know you are there. This is my hidey-hole. Find your own.”

“Now I understand your sudden interest in opera,” Baron said, coming to stand beside him. “She’s lovely. I always thought your tastes ran to baritones.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“So am I.”

Blue gave his lace a last fluff and lifted his gaze to the man beside him. Winston Keating was the new leader of the Barbican group, the Crown’s most elite espionage wing. They’d recently foiled an attempt to blow up Parliament, and that had been on top of thwarting an assassination attempt on the Prince Regent himself.

“Hardly,” Blue remarked, giving Baron’s wrinkled coat a disdainful glance. One would think a man with those broad shoulders might look better in a coat.

“I imagine you are here in an attempt to entice me back to the Barbican group.”

Baron tried to look innocent. “Did you ever leave? I seem to remember you were at Bonde’s side when she brought down Foncé.”

“Coincidence.”

“Bulls—”

“What is it you want, Lord Keating?” Blue interrupted. “I have a pressing engagement.”

“Yes, I can imagine you will be pressing the lovely Miss Giles into your carriage squabs—”

Blue moved quickly, ramming his arm against Baron’s throat and slamming the man against the support beam.

“A word of caution, my lord.”

Baron’s eyes bulged as he fought for breath.

“Take care what language you use to refer to my wife.”

“Your wife?” Baron wheezed.

Blue released him. “As per my lady’s request, I have indeed retired from service. You may take your letter or missive or”—he gestured toward Baron’s waistcoat pocket—“intercepted orders and go.”

Baron merely stared at Blue. He was either still catching his breath or he was suitably awed at Blue’s powers of deduction.

“You are married?”

Or Baron could not conceive of Blue having a wife.

Understandable. At times Blue could hardly believe it, though he’d been married for more than half a decade.

“And you call yourself a spy.” Blue shook his head with exaggerated woe. “Run home to Lady Keating and your offspring. I understand she is breeding again. I imagine she will need her feet rubbed or some such thing.”

“I call myself an agent of the Crown,” Baron said, straightening his bull-like shoulders. “As did you at one time. Your country needs you.”

Blue cast a glance behind him. Helena’s door was still closed. He ducked behind the support beam, motioning Baron to follow.

“I have served the Crown. Foncé is dead, and the Maîtriser group in shambles—thanks in no small part to me. I have done my duty and am formally retired.”

A sliver of light pierced the floor to his left.

“I do accept your apology, Mr. Burton.” His wife’s voice sounded from her doorway. Clearly, her interview was at an end.

Would Baron never leave?

“Goodbye.” Blue shooed Baron with his hands. The last thing he needed was for Helena to think he had taken to working with the Barbican group again. He’d told her he was through with spying, and he’d meant it. She’d understood when he’d had to go back, briefly, to help Bonde defeat Foncé. But the madman who had endangered both of their lives was now dead, and Blue would keep his promise to make Helena his priority.

“Blue,” Baron muttered, refusing to be pushed aside. The man was a veritable mountain. “I need but five minutes of your time.” He waved a crumpled sheet of folded vellum.

“Ernest?”

Blue heard Helena’s questioning voice.

“Go away,” he hissed at Baron. “Coming!” Blue called to Helena.

“If you would just glance at the missive—”

“Where are you?” Helena asked, a laugh in her voice. “Hiding?”

Blue glared at Baron. “No missive. Ask Wolf to help you.” Blue stepped out from behind the beam and waved at Helena.

“There you are.” She’d dressed in a green gown with red ribbons on the sleeves, bodice, and hem. A green ribbon threaded through her upswept hair, accenting the auburn tresses. She’d chosen the perfect attire for a Christmas Eve ball. He eyed the ribbons, tied primly at the swell of her breasts. Later he would untie them and unwrap her in a private holiday celebration.

“Why are you hiding back there?” she asked.

“I...ah...dropped my pocket watch. One moment, and I’ll help you with your wrap.”

“Clearly this is a pocket-watch crisis. I shall fetch my wrap and be back in a moment.”

Blue waited until she’d disappeared into her dressing room before facing Baron again. One of the Barbican leader’s shoulders was jammed against the beam.

“Found your pocket watch yet?” Baron drawled.

“Go away. Happy Christmas and all that.” He turned to walk away.

Baron put a restraining hand on Blue’s shoulder. Blue paused, looked at the offending hand, and removed it finger by finger.

“You are the best we have, Blue. The missive is coded, and no one knows the cipher. Five minutes, and I know you will decode it for us.”

Blue could feel his resolve wavering. He did love a good puzzle, and a coded missive was one of his favorites. The content was undoubtedly banal—troop numbers or weapons shipments—but still the challenge invigorated him.

He tamped down the urge to agree, stilling his itching fingers at his side. “I am retired.”

Baron skirted around to face him and spread his hands. “Fine. Forget I was ever here.”

“With pleasure.” Blue moved aside, tossing a curious look at Baron as he made his way toward Helena’s dressing room. His escape had been almost too easy. He’d expected Baron to make a scene with Helena or further appeal to Blue’s sense of patriotism.

Helena emerged, holding a red velvet cloak before her. “Who were you speaking with?” she asked, giving him her back, so he might drape the garment over her shoulders.

“No one of any consequence.”

“You sound odd.” She peeked at him. “Almost guilty.”

“Me, guilty?” Blue barely contained a wince. He might as well confess all now.

“Do not say you are spying again,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh, you are too amusing.” Blue laughed as well, an overblown, deep guffaw.

Had he implied he could act? He’d lost the talent in the last five minutes.

He dropped the heavy velvet cloak over the bared skin of her shoulders and she reached up to fasten the ties. Blue glanced back once again, but Baron had disappeared.

Good. The source of temptation had been removed. He shifted, preparing to offer his arm to his wife, when he heard a rustling sound. He patted his coat, which crinkled in response.

“That bastard.”

“Pardon?” Helena said, looking up at him.

“You look lovely,” Blue said, reaching into his pocket and feeling the missive tucked safely inside. “Are you ready for the ball?”

“As ready as I will ever be. Tell me we shall leave early.”

“We shall leave early,” he said, taking her arm.

Nestled between them, the forbidden missive seemed to burn a hole through his pocket.

Two

The biting December wind made Helena shiver. Blue pulled her closer and hurried her the few steps from the theater door to his waiting coach. She pitied the horses, who had to leave their warm mews on this Christmas Eve to fetch and ferry her to the Ely Ball. She raised a hand in greeting to the coachman. Poor Gordon resembled a sausage in his multiple layers of coats and scarves. Helena made a note to give him something extra when she distributed gifts to their small retinue of servants on Boxing Day.

Blue and she tumbled into the coach, and he pulled the door closed and rapped on the roof. The drawn curtains and flickering coach lamps made the interior seem warm and cozy, but it was still cold. She shivered and Blue pulled half a dozen blankets around her and settled her into the crook of his arm.

“Are there any blankets left at home?” she asked as the horses clopped away from Covent Garden.

“Perhaps one or two. Are you warm enough?”

She smiled. Ernest might play the part of the dandy, with care for nothing but fashion and gossip, but the man beneath the mask was warm and thoughtful and infinitely attentive. Considering his sense of fashion lacked...well, sense, his husbandly merits were welcome.

“Yes, I’m warm now.” She snuggled closer to him. “You look quite festive tonight. The violet waistcoat?” She raised a brow.

He puffed out his chest, which under the hideous waistcoat was quite impressive. “Everyone will be wearing green or red. God forbid I blend in with the masses.”

“Yes, God forbid,” she muttered. He would not blend in with that ghastly wardrobe combination.

He pulled at his lace sleeves, which she knew he adored although they had gone out of fashion with the revolution in France, and then patted his coat pocket. His gaze met hers, and he dropped his hand.

Interesting.

That was the second time tonight he’d touched that pocket with an uncomfortable look. Now what was he hiding?

“Your parents are aware I am accompanying you to this ball?”

“Of course. They did send the invitation.”

“An invitation addressed solely to you, Lord Ernest Bloomington. I was not included.”

The coach bounced over a rough patch in the street, and he held her tightly to steady her.

“You are my wife. You are implied.”

Helena bit back a retort and swallowed. “How utterly lowering,” she said with forced gaiety.

“Darling”—he nuzzled her neck, his breath warm on her chilled skin—“you must know you are much more than an implication to me.”

She did know. She knew he loved her madly.

He’d loved her enough to defy his parents’ wishes and marry her, a lowly opera singer. She hadn’t yet achieved any renown all those years ago. She’d been but a chorus singer with potential. Now that she’d earned distinction as not only a singer but an actress, the Duke and Duchess of Ely’s oversight stung.

She might have attended a half dozen other doings this Christmas Eve, affairs into which she would have been not only welcomed but received as an honored guest. Instead, she was en route to the one place no one—save Blue—wanted her.

And that was reason enough to go. Blue needed her at his side. She did not believe for a moment that the duke and duchess had changed their minds and accepted her. The salient point was Blue did believe it—or wanted to believe it. Helena wanted it to be true for him.

She shivered, though not with cold, as his lips continued their gentle attentions to the sensitive spot below her ear. Heat flowed through her, and the arousal he’d kindled in her dressing room simmered. His fingers found the ties of her cloak, yanking them free so he might slip it off her shoulders and kiss the bared flesh.

She’d never doubted Blue’s love for her. Even during the long years of their separation—when she had pursued recognition on the Continent and drowned her loneliness in too many glasses of champagne or gin or brandy—she had never doubted he loved her.

But he hadn’t loved her enough. Defying his parents was one thing, but giving up his work for the Barbican group quite another. He loved his work for the Crown more, and the Barbican was a greedy mistress. She’d thought she’d lost him to it forever.

Amazingly, he had come back, and had retired from the Barbican group to dedicate himself to their marriage. But she had been shocked that she’d felt more relieved than panicked when he’d come out of retirement for a few days several months ago. It was nice not to have him haunting the corridors of Covent Garden, looking lost and forlorn. He might be the son of a duke, but he needed a profession to occupy him. No, that wasn’t quite true. Not just any profession would do. He was happiest when engaged with the Barbican group. If only it did not consume him...

Even his temporary return to the Barbican had made her worried she would lose him once again to the lure of secret agents and coded missives and outlandish disguises.

His tongue flicked over her earlobe, and she couldn’t stifle a moan. He’d worked his way from her neck to her shoulders and back to her ear until her resolve faltered.

“Blue.” She pushed at him feebly, without any real intention. “I do not wish to arrive at the ball with a wrinkled gown and unkempt hair, looking like the opera singer I am.”

“Madam!” Blue straightened stiffly. “I would never wrinkle your gown or muss your hair.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “And I like opera singers, despite—dare I say because of?—their reputed loose morals.”

She laughed, unable to resist him. Grasping his cravat, she pulled his lips to hers. Heat smoldered between them, so palpable she could almost see it shimmer and spark. He deepened the kiss, pushing her back into the velvet squabs, and she ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He always carefully tousled it, and she took secret delight in ruining the artful carelessness of his look. If he wanted tousled hair, she would give it to him.

“How is it you taste so sweet?” he murmured against her lips.

“Honey in my tea after a performance,” she answered, allowing her hands to roam down the back of his tight-fitting tailcoat. How she wished she might remove it and touch the muscled skin beneath.

“Honey?” he said, his voice rising. “That gives me ideas. Zounds, how many layers are you wearing?”

She laughed and pushed aside the cape and blankets tucked around her. She did not need them with the heat the two of them generated. His hand slid up her thigh, and she wondered when he’d removed his gloves. His smooth fingers flicked over the flesh above her stockings, inching higher until her breath grew quick with anticipation.

He’s always had such sure, skilled fingers. Even when they’d first met, and he’d been a randy youth with more enthusiasm than skill, his touch had never been hesitant or tentative. He knew what he wanted. After all these years, he knew what she wanted too.

“Surely you do not mean to tumble me in a coach in the middle of London.” A thrill raced up her spine at the thought. They had coupled in more than one unlikely location but never in a carriage.

He sniffed with an imperious arch of his brow. “I would never be so uncouth. I merely plan to—” He whispered in her ear, his words making her face heat and her heart pound, thick and slow against her chest.

His hands ruched her dress higher, his fingers slow and teasing as they trailed a measured path up her thighs. She bit her lip and dug her fingers into the velvet beneath her. Suddenly, she seemed to be wearing too many clothes. Her breasts felt tender and chafed by the fine linen of her undergarments, her legs overly warmed by the petticoats.

He kissed the swells of her breasts with his lips, leaving her wanting, and then, with a wicked grin, he slid to the floor and knelt between her knees. She would not be wanting for long.

She hissed in a breath as his fingers skated up to part her thighs, and he grasped the hem of her gown in his teeth.

The coach jolted, making them both bounce hard enough to rattle their brains.

“Whoa there!” Gordon called to the horses.

She met Blue’s gaze—impossibly blue even in the dim light—and he frowned back at her. The coach door flung open, and just as suddenly Blue drew a pistol and shoved her behind him. He moved so quickly she saw but a blur before she’d been thrust into a corner, blankets and velvet swirling about her face.

And she had been worried about his lovemaking mussing her hair. Apparently, she should have concerned herself more with the damage bandits might wreak on her appearance—or her life.

“What the devil do you plan to do with that?” a cultured male voice inquired calmly.

“Do put it away, Blue.” That was a woman’s voice.

A woman bandit—and one who obviously knew her husband. Helena struggled to sit up and peer around Blue’s back.

Her husband had already lowered his weapon, and the movement of his arm gave her a glimpse of a dark-haired woman and a man in a greatcoat and beaver hat filling the door of the coach.

“Just because your aim is rubbish, Saaaa...Sophia”—Blue gave Helena a quick glance over his shoulder—“does not mean I do not know how to use this.”

Helena realized these were no bandits. They must be spies. She’d never met any of Blue’s fellow agents for the Crown. She’d never asked to meet any, as she agreed with Blue that the less she knew about that aspect of his life, the better.

But now that they were in front of her, she wanted a better look. The spies obliged by climbing into the coach. At the same time, Blue slid onto the seat beside her.

Helena’s gaze locked with the woman’s.

“This is a surprise,” the woman he’d called Sophia remarked. “I thought you...”

“You thought I preferred baritones?” Blue said, fluttering the lace at his sleeves and patting—there it was again—his coat pocket.

The woman laughed. “Actually, I would have guessed tenors, but this is clearly a...”

“Soprano,” Blue supplied.

Helena’s tongue seemed tied in knots. She tried to speak but no words formed on her lips. This Sophia did not look like Helena had imagined a spy might, had she ever even thought to envision female spies.

Sophia was short in stature, her chestnut hair pulled into a ribbon of glossy curls secured at her nape with a strip of lilac satin. Her brown eyes danced with barely disguised amusement as her gaze flicked from Blue to Helena, clearly understanding exactly what she’d just interrupted.

Her companion, on the other hand, was long and lean with short, dark blond hair and gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He had the chiseled features of a Grecian statue, and he assessed her as quickly as a general might a map of troop movements.

The woman’s lips curled. “Adrian, I do think we have interrupted our friend and his...lady at a most inconvenient time.” Her eyes twinkled with delight, belying the tinge of regret in her voice.

“So it appears,” the man she’d called Adrian said, settling across from Blue and Helena and rapping on the roof with his walking stick. Apparently, they had no intention of retreating until a more convenient time to meet. “Beg your pardon for interrupting. Are you en route to the Ely Ball?”

“You know we are,” Blue replied.

“Good. Thank you for offering us your coach.”

Blue brushed at his sleeve. “I did no such thing, and I give you no pardon. If you have something to say, perhaps we might arrange—”

Sophia interrupted. “I do think introductions are in order.”

“Isn’t that against the rules?” Blue said, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Rules! I’ve known you long enough to break the rules. Following them is Adrian’s job.” She pointed to Blue. “You go first, sir. Or is it lord?”

It occurred to Helena that though this couple might be well acquainted with Blue, the spy, they knew nothing of Ernest, the man.

Blue gave a last yank of his sleeve. “Helena, this is Lord and Lady Smythe. Viscount”—he nodded to Adrian—“this is Lady Ernest Bloomington.” He cleared his throat. “My wife.”

Sophia gasped and then covered her mouth to hide what sounded like delighted giggles. Adrian’s mouth twitched slightly, but he showed no other outward sign of having heard anything unusual.

He was definitely a spy.

“Lord Ernest,” Adrian said.

“He actually prefers to be called Blue,” Helena said, finally finding her words.

“Oh, that’s too bad now, isn’t it?” Sophia said between chuckles. “He will henceforth be known as Ernest. No! Ernie! We shall call him Ernie!”

Adrian pulled his lower lip in, obviously containing his amusement. Even Helena ran her tongue along her teeth to stifle a grin.

Blue crossed his arms and glared.

“Wait a moment!” Sophia ceased giggling and straightened suddenly. “Bloomington? Your parents are the duke and duchess?”

“Will that amuse you as well?” Blue asked.

She sobered. “No, not at all. That’s actually quite unfortunate. But I am being rude beyond belief.” She made a small bow to Helena. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Ernest. We are old, dear friends of Ernie. We met...ah, how did we meet again?” She looked at her husband and then Blue.

“Helena knows I used to work for the Barbican group,” Blue said, voice curt. “Since she is a civilian, I thought it best not to reveal your codenames.”

That must have been the reason he had stumbled upon first saying Sophia’s name. It had started with an S-A...

Sally? Sadie? Satyr?

Adrian and Sophia exchanged a look, and then she rose and insinuated herself between Helena and Blue.

“You do not mind if your lady wife and I chat for a moment, do you?” Sophia asked. “Female matters.” She waved a hand. “You go over there and converse with Adrian.”

With a heavy sigh, Blue rose and lurched to the other side of the carriage. He sat beside Adrian, crossing his arms over his chest once again in a blatant display of displeasure.

“What a lovely gown,” Sophia said. Her own was a deep purple in color. “Very festive. Are you looking forward to the ball?”

“Not particularly.” Helena tried to glance at the men. Blue had his head cocked toward Adrian, who spoke in low tones.

Sophia’s face popped into her line of vision. “Still, it is lovely to go to a ball, especially a Christmas ball. I have a young son, just a baby, and I must confess this is only the third time I have been away from him for more than a moment or two. Do you have children?”

Helena sat back, inching to see around Sophia’s other side. “No, we haven’t any children yet.”

“Oh, but that was a very indiscreet question on my part,” Sophia said, leaning to block Helena. “You must be very newly married.”

Helena huffed with frustration. “Actually, no. We have been married for quite some years. Why is it you do not want me to see or hear what the gentlemen are discussing?”

“Really? You have been married for some years? I find that fact quite astonishing. Where have you been hiding?”

“I was performing on the Continent. Are they discussing a mission?”

Sophia waved a hand. “Who knows what men talk about.”

Helena had a feeling that Sophia knew very well what not only men, but the two men seated opposite, liked to talk about.

“What sort of performer are you? Oh, but of course! You’re a soprano. That wasn’t a quip, was it?”

“No.” Before the woman could begin blathering again, Helena clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Lady Smythe, pardon me, but if you say another word, I will be forced to stuff this”—she lifted the first object she encountered on the seat beside her—“blanket down your throat.”

Helena removed her hand, and Sophia made a show of pressing her lips together.

“Now then, why are you here? My husband is retired from the Barbican group.”

“Precisely what I was just saying,” Blue added, his voice rising. “I’ve retired. Must I put it in writing?”

“Baron would only tear it up,” Adrian said. “You’re too valuable to retire.”

Helena drew in a fortifying breath. Would the Barbican ever release him from its hold?

“You retired,” Blue said, pointing an accusatory finger at the couple.

“Not true,” Sophia answered. “We consult from time to time.”

“And recruit,” Adrian added.

“Recruit elsewhere.” Blue rapped on the roof and the coach, once again, jounced to a standstill. He pushed the door open and a gust of freezing air ruffled Helena’s gown.

“Good night, Lady Smythe, Lord Smythe,” Blue said.

“Consider what I said, Blue,” Lord Smythe murmured before stepping into the chilly darkness. He held out a hand for his wife.

“Good night, Ernie. Enjoy the ball.”

Blue slammed the door and rapped the roof again. He all but threw himself into the space beside Helena.

The coach lurched into motion. Inside silence reigned. Finally, Helena cleared her throat.

“Should we leave them out there? It’s bitterly cold.”

“Good,” Blue said with a scowl. “I hope it snows.”

But his gaze returned to the window and his hand went again to his pocket, smoothing over the material like a lover might a lock of his beloved’s hair.

Was it the Smythes or his wife he wished left out in the cold?

Three

The clock had just struck midnight when Blue led Helena into the Ely ballroom. The butler announced them, but the company currently danced a lively reel and no one took much notice.

The large rectangular room—in which as a child he’d often played hide-and-seek—was draped in evergreen garlands, sprigs of holly, and dozens of arrangements of Christmas roses. Throughout the room, kissing boughs of evergreens, mistletoe, and apples hung from red ribbons. Couples paused under the boughs to exchange chaste kisses before continuing their promenade around the ballroom.

Thoughts of kissing led him back to Helena. She stood beside him, peering about the room with avid interest.

“I don’t think you saw the ballroom when you were last here.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “I saw the drawing room and your father’s wrath before we fled like the naughty children we were. I truly hope we have finally been forgiven.”

“It’s Christmas. Even the Duke of Ely cannot hold a grudge at Christmas.”

She raised a brow, and he lifted the invitation, waving it before her nose. “Just in case, I have brought this. We were officially invited.”

At least he was.

“We should find my parents.”

She nodded, and reluctantly placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

The duke and duchess stood across the room, where they would have a splendid view of the guests entering and leaving. He was in no hurry to speak with his parents, but he could hardly put it off without breaking custom.

Not that he gave a damn about custom. Correction: Blue did not give a damn about custom. Ernest was the son of a duke and a man of property—or he would be if he ever bought land. Ernest Bloomington adhered to social customs.

As they neared, the duchess’s chin went up and she shifted. Helena’s hand on his arm tightened. Blue had the distinct feeling he was walking into an ambush, but he forced his legs to move forward, despite the warning bells clanging in his mind. He bowed to his mother and father.

“Duke. Duchess.” Blue inclined his head to each in turn, as Helena curtsied and murmured a greeting. “You remember my wife, Lady Ernest.”

He might abhor his name, but there were times it proved useful.

Standing before his parents, Blue marveled at their diminutive size. In his memory, they towered over him like neglectful giants. In reality, they were both short of stature. He was a head taller than his mother and a few inches taller than his father, even though he was only of average height.

Both of his parents had blue eyes, but no one in his family had eyes as vividly blue as he did. As a child, every stranger he met remarked upon the unusual color. He’d been told his grandmother, a highly regarded beauty in her day, had eyes the same color. Blue had never met her, having been born five years after her death, eighteen years into his parents’ union.

The duke and duchess smiled stiffly, their attention focused on Blue.

“Ernest, dear. How good it is to see you after so many years,” his mother said. She must have been about seventy now, and her hair had whitened and thinned, though she still looked healthy and agile. “You look well.”

“As do you.” Blue put his hand on Helena’s back, keeping her close and tacitly drawing attention to her. His parents’ gazes never even flickered toward Helena.

“Have you been in Town long?” his father asked.

“Yes, almost two and thirty years now.”

His father’s lips turned down, the extra skin around his wrinkled cheeks sagging further.

“You never call,” his mother chided.

“Why haven’t you applied to White’s for membership? Your brothers have all been accepted.”

“I have no interest in White’s, Duke,” Blue said. “I prefer to spend my evenings at the opera.”

The duke opened his mouth as though to retort, but the duchess stepped forward and clasped Blue’s free arm in her bony grip.

“Come with me, dear. I want to introduce you to my lovely friend.”

Blue glanced at Helena for agreement, but she was watching the dancers. No doubt his parents’ snub left her with little interest in their conversation.

“Helena—” Blue began.

“Oh, I am sure she would rather dance. Edward!” She snapped her fingers and one of Blue’s older brothers crossed to them. Edward was about four years Blue’s senior and taller than Blue, but with a rapidly receding hairline.

Edward bowed to his mother and nodded to Blue.

“Dance with Miss Giles,” the duchess said.

“She is not Miss Giles,” Blue protested.

“Darling”—Helena gave him a steady smile—“I’ll be fine for a few moments with Lord Edward.” She extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

Blue suddenly regretted the velvet trim on his coat. The room felt far too heated at the moment.

Blue resisted a backward glance, just barely, and allowed his mother to lead him away. He smiled and nodded at the guests who bowed and curtsied to the duchess as she wended her way through the room. In their eyes he spotted curiosity. Blue was probably the least well-known of the Ely offspring, and that was not by accident. Now that he’d renounced his position in the Barbican group, it was past time he took his place in Society once again.

Oh, but he was already having regrets. Dare he hope his parents would warn up to his wife as the evening went on? Could he tolerate the ball long enough to give them opportunity to make amends? He had been in worse places for reasons that mattered far less than his wife. He would not be sad to take his leave from his parents, however. Helena would have her dance, he would meet whatever elderly matron his mother had in mind, and then he and Helena would be once again ensconced in the carriage and off to bed.

He touched his pocket once again, felt the coded vellum inside. Perhaps if he had a moment later, he might...

No. He had retired. He had promised Helena. He would not give in to temptation.

“Here we are,” the duchess remarked, indicating a small circle of ladies with a gloved hand.

One of the ladies turned and gifted him with a wide smile. “Ernest! You came!”

Blue smiled with true feeling at the sight of his younger sister. They were only fourteen months apart in age, and he’d always been closest to her. Far closer than to his older siblings, the eldest of whom was eighteen years his senior.

“Eleanor.” He bowed with a flourish and kissed her outstretched hand. “How good to see you.”

“And you. Where is your wife? I had hoped to meet her.”

Blue gestured toward the dancers but had no time to answer before the duchess cleared her throat.

“Lady Albina, may I present my youngest son, Lord Ernest.”

A tall brunette with lovely brown eyes made a slow, graceful curtsy.

“And Miss Cecilia Rummel, may I present Lord Ernest.”

This time a blond with eyes almost the violet shade of his waistcoat curtsied.

Blue bowed to both ladies, wondering how quickly the dancing would end and when he could collect his wife. “Lady Albina, Miss Rummel. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“My lord,” Lady Albina said, her voice low and smoky, with an infinitely cultured accent. “The duchess tells me you fought in the war against Napoleon, and you were decorated for your service.”

Blue inclined his head. “I did my duty, that is all.”

The duchess took his sister’s arm and pulled her aside, leaving Blue alone with the two ladies.

“My brother fought in the war as well,” Miss Rummel said. “From what I understand the conditions were horrible. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Blue didn’t want gratitude. He didn’t want attention. He was quite used to slipping in and out of situations without being noticed. And when he was in London, he attempted to attract attention to his garish clothing—thus diverting it from himself. At the moment he felt much like Helena must feel on stage.

He did not care for it.

“As I said, I only did my duty.” From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother shoo Eleanor away, and he heaved an inward sigh. The one member of his family with whom he actually wished to speak was out of his reach.

“And do you live in Town now?” Miss Albina asked.

“I do,” Blue said as his mother came to stand beside him. “I’ve always preferred London to the country, which may make me something of an anomaly.”

“Oh, I prefer London as well,” Miss Rummel said, her violet eyes dancing. “I love all the excitement and activity.”

“I do think the quadrille is almost at an end,” the duchess said.

Thank God. An escape. “I should collect my—”

“I believe Miss Rummel and Lady Albina are in need of partners,” the duchess remarked.

Blue cut her a sharp look. What was his mother about? He was a married man. Why would she attempt to partner him with a debutante?

One did not need to be a spy to realize she hoped to rid him of his wife and choose another more to her liking. If he hadn’t been in company, he would have made perfectly clear his marriage vows were legal and binding. As it was, he had no choice but to offer to partner one of the ladies. To do otherwise would be the height of rudeness.

He glanced from one to the other, not particularly interested in either. Finally, he bowed to Miss Rummel. She reminded him a bit of Bonde, and he’d always found her a tolerable female.

And an excellent spy.

“Miss Rummel,” he said with a bow. “May I have the pleasure?”

She beamed and accepted. He led her to the center of the ballroom, where the dancers had formed rows of men and women facing each other for one of the country dances. Six or so couples away, he spotted Helena, who was now partnered with Ewan, another of his brothers.

Her gaze collided with his, sending heat straight through him. He had the uncharacteristic urge to topple the men between them, snatch her away, and kiss her until he forgot this whole monstrous evening.

And then the music began, and she gave him a weary look and reached out her arms to clasp Ewan’s hands. Blue followed suit, taking Miss Rummel’s hands in his.

He made idle conversation with Miss Rummel as they danced. He excelled at speaking of nothing and detested it as well. He promenaded and turned and bowed, and finally the dance ended. He grasped Miss Rummel’s hand and yanked her after Helena and Ewan, pulling her so they might intercept Helena before Ewan foisted her on another of his brothers. Indeed, Blue spotted Edwin and Erasmus waiting. Edmund, the heir, would most likely not be called upon, but Blue did not intend to take that risk.

Instead of promenading Miss Rummel about the ballroom and back to her chaperone, as was customary, he snatched Helena from Ewan’s arm and presented Miss Rummel.

“Excuse me,” Blue said, bowing, then pulling Helena out of his brothers’ clutches.

“What are you doing?” she said, her breathy laughter warming him through. Thank God she hadn’t an arrogant bone in her body and was not angry at his parents’ snub.

“Escaping before you are forced to dance with another of my brothers and I with another debutante.” He arrowed for one of the exits but quickly changed direction when he spotted his father and his sister Esther blocking the doors. Helena squealed when he careened her toward the other exit, but damn if Eugenia and Emily were not stationed there.

Devil take him and his whole family too.

He was trapped. The more fool him for neglecting to hold a plan in reserve. Where were Wolf and Saint now that he needed assistance?

Blue spotted Edwin approaching and swerved in yet another direction.

“Blue!” Helena protested. “I grow dizzy.”

“Shall we dance?”

“Now you wish to dance?”

Without waiting for her approval—as he doubted it would come—Blue led Helena into the center of the ballroom, where a waltz had just begun. He swept her into his arms and counted the steps in his mind, moving his feet in time until he forgot the music, forgot his siblings, forgot everything but Helena.

In his arms.

His hand on the small of her back curled protectively, and he tugged her closer than etiquette allowed. His belly tightened, and the blood thrummed in his ears. He could never hold her without thinking of kissing her, and it required willpower not to give into the compulsion now.

His gaze lowered to her lips, which were still faintly red with the paint from the theater. She darted her tongue out, the small pink tip enticing him as it wet the red flesh.

“I thought we were escaping,” she said as he twirled her. He’d neglected to count or even listen to the music, but he knew instinctively they moved in time. They always danced well together. She was an excellent dancer, anticipating his moves and following effortlessly.

“Change of plan. My family has the ballroom surrounded.”

“Oh dear,” she said with mock terror. “Shall we call for reinforcements?”

“You laugh now, but if we stay much longer you may be forced to dance with each of my brothers and several cousins, while I must play caper merchant to every debutante of my sisters’ acquaintance.”

“Are all of your brothers and sisters here tonight?” she asked, her hand on his shoulder sliding down over his arm and back up again. The gesture was one of familiarity, and he opened and closed his hand on her waist, fighting the urge to pull her hard against him even more familiarly. Blue wondered if she even realized she’d stroked him. When they were together, it was instinct to touch and stroke and kiss...

“I have not seen Edmund, but he is undoubtedly lurking somewhere.”

Her brow furrowed. “I thought I danced with Edmund.”

Blue spotted the duchess frowning from the edge of the dance floor and twirled Helena away from her.

“No, that was Edward.”

“I danced with Edward first and Edmund second.”

“No, you danced with Ewan second.”

She shook her head quickly as though an insect buzzed about her ears. “I cannot keep them straight. However do you do it?”

“Practice, I suppose.” He’d been scanning the room, and his diligence was rewarded. “A-ha!” He twirled her toward the edge of the dance floor and yanked her in the direction of the exit.

“A-ha?” Helena asked with a laugh.

“Eugenia has abandoned her post.” He took Helena’s hand and pulled her closer to the wide door. “Emily alone cannot detain us. Now’s our chance.”

Blue cut through the guests milling about and positioned himself on a trajectory to intercept Emily. Emily shifted right then left, then looked helplessly about for the cavalry.

But she’d been abandoned in her time of need. She might as well unearth her white flag. Success was within his grasp. Blue had the urge to throw his head back and laugh.

“Lady Emily,” he said with a quick bow as he pulled Helena past his middle sister.

“Ernest, wait!”

“My apologies,” he called without looking back. “We will talk later.”

He turned toward the entrance doors, and skidded to a stop. Helena ran into him, laughing when he caught her about the waist. “What are you doing?”

“Foiled again. Edmund has been stationed at the great egress.”

“The great—”

“This way, my lady!”

Pulling his imaginary sword from his scabbard, he led his lady in the opposite direction, pausing before the library door. Blue tried it, cursing when it would not open.

“Thwarted again!” He made a figure eight with his sword.

“Is this how you behaved on your missions?”

“Of course not.” He tucked a hand on his hip, resting his sword arm. “I am never thwarted on missions. I was foiled once...” He gestured to his imaginary sword.

Helena shook her head at his vain attempt at humor. She faced the entryway, and her eyes widened at something she saw.

“Now what?” she asked. “I think Lord Edmund might have spotted us.”

“Hold this.” He handed her the imaginary sword. “Give me a hairpin.”

She obliged without inquiring as to why. A lock of her hair fell down over one creamy shoulder. Blue, the consummate professional, attempted to ignore the lovely sight of that dark curl against that pale flesh and knelt to—as the rooks said—dub the gigger. He’d picked this lock before in his misspent youth, and it opened easily. In one fell swoop, he kicked it wide, whirled Helena inside, and closed the door with his foot.

“That was close.”

“My knight.” She presented him the imaginary sword, which he promptly sheathed. “Your chivalry must be rewarded.” Both of her hands landed on his shoulders, and she pushed him back against the door. “I will never understand why I find you and your imaginary sword so completely irresistible.”

Her body collided with his in a flash of heat and passion, and he could do little but hold on to her as she took his mouth with hers.

The kiss seared him, zinging a shot of arousal straight to his cock, which stood at half-mast as it was. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he opened for her. When her body molded to his, pressing against that hard length, he couldn’t help but groan into her mouth. She swept inside, exploring him even as her hips moved invitingly.

“If you enjoy my imaginary sword, you should see my real one.”

His hands grasped her back, sliding down until he cupped her bottom and her sweet warmth pressed against him. His cock throbbed with the need to be inside her. Her tongue lashed at his as she took his mouth fiercely. She slid her hands down his chest, back up, then down again, this time curving them over his hips.

He shook at her touch, at the proximity of her hands to his very tangible sword. And then she slid a hand between their bodies and cupped him.

He muttered a very ungentlemanly oath, borne out of need and pleasure. “If you continue this assault, madam,” he said, reaching for control, “I shall be forced to raise your skirts and show you what my trusty foil is capable of.”

“Is that a warning or a promise?” she purred.

“Oh, a promise.”

“Good.” Her hand closed on his cock, and he groaned with need. Suddenly her mouth left his, and she slid her body enticingly down his front. He felt every inch of her rounded breasts against his chest, his abdomen, and his cock until she kneeled before him.

Her fingers played with the fall of his breeches, and he struggled to summon the words to tell her no. He wanted her in bed, he wanted to pleasure her until she cried his name, he wanted to hold her and whisper words of love in her ear.

And he also desperately wanted her to take him inside her hot mouth and pleasure him until he screamed her name.

With a teasing smile, she loosed the fall, and he sprang into her palm.

“Helena.” His voice was raw and hoarse, half filled with need and half with warning.

“Hmm?” Her fingers danced lightly over the head of his member, and she gave him a seductive smile that almost undid him. Her hand closed over him, slid down to the root and then back to the head.

Blue’s fingers scraped against the door as he fought to remain on his feet. “Hele—”

Her warm mouth closed over him, and the words ended in a strangled groan. His head fell back against the door when she took him deep.

He had to stop her.

Not that he didn’t want her to continue. He desperately wanted her to continue.

But they were in his father’s library. On Christmas Eve. There should have been candlelight and wine.

At least mistletoe.

And he had that damn coded missive in his pocket. He couldn’t allow this to continue with that secret between them.

It pained him, it physically pained him, but he grasped her shoulders and pulled her up. “We should—” he began but said no more before her lips nuzzled his neck and nibbled all the way to his ear.

“I’m wet for you,” she whispered.

All of his good intentions fled with those four words.

Four

Blue moved so quickly that Helena’s head spun. One moment her body clung to his as she whispered all manner of naughty words in his ear, and the next he’d shoved her against the bookshelf, her wrists imprisoned above her head as he savaged her mouth with his own.

Blue rarely lost control. He was more the son of a duke than he liked to admit. She’d been born of cruder stock, and she liked a rough tumble now and again. Something about dancing the waltz with him in that stuffy ballroom filled with all the trappings of Christmas and none of the genuine cheer had made her long for escape. There was no escape like that of his arms, and when he’d yanked her hard against him, in full view of every lady looking down her nose and every man squinting through his quizzing glass, Helena had wanted him madly.

She still wanted him, and she’d be damned if a gaggle of brothers and sisters would keep her from him.

“I think we may be clear on one point at least,” she managed when his lips dipped to her throat.

“What is that?” His words, spoken against her skin, rumbled through her.

“Your family has not changed its mind about me.”

“It would appear not.”

His tongue dipped into her cleavage, sliding in and out. She moaned as her sex throbbed violently with each thrust.

“My opinion of you has not changed either,” he said, tugging her bodice down a half-inch and freeing her breast. His tongue swirled around her nipple, and she arched her back, silently begging him to suck the swollen flesh.

He didn’t oblige, teasing her instead. “I see I am not the only one who is hard.”

She twisted her hands where they’d been imprisoned against the books, but he did not release her. His mouth still on her flesh, he gave her a mocking gaze.

“I have you right where I want you.”

“Then take me.”

“Here?” he asked in faux surprise. “My lady, I would not dare.”

“I’m no lady,” she said, wrapping her legs around him since he would not release her hands.

“Good.” He shoved her skirts up. “Because a lady would faint if she knew the thoughts I entertain.”

He kissed her, his hands sliding slowly over her thighs and taking the silk of her gown with them. She could feel him, hard and hot, at her entrance, and she stifled a whimper of impatience.

“Lord Ernest!” A sharp rap battered the door. “I know you are in there with that...woman.”

“No,” Helena whispered, wanting to cry out in frustration.

“Damn it all to hell,” Blue growled, releasing her arms and lowering her skirts. “What do you want?”

He attempted to right his clothing while she smoothed her dress. She’d just tucked her breast back inside the bodice when the door opened. Oh, why hadn’t they locked it?

A woman with a sharper and finer set of Blue’s features stepped into the room. She was older than Blue by a good many years, possibly old enough to have been his mother. Her gaze swept over Helena and her lip curled with disgust.

“So they sent you to fetch me, Beth.” Blue radiated disgust.

“Beth?” Helena said. She’d been expecting an Emma or Eudora.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Blue’s sister said with a sneer. “And there’s no need to introduce yourself. Your face paint and the immodest cut of your bodice tell me exactly who and what you are.”

Helena looked down at her bodice. She didn’t think it cut any lower than the current fashion, and she’d wiped most of her stage makeup off before leaving the theater. Personally, she thought Beth’s sallow cheeks might benefit from a touch of rouge.

“If you know who she is,” Blue said, the warning in his voice loud and clear, “then you know she is my wife. Careful what you say.”

Beth seemed to swallow her not insubstantial pride. “Very well. I apologize. I have only come to tell you that the duke and duchess wish to speak with you. If you would be so kind, they await you in the music room.”

“And if I am not so kind?” Blue’s tone was icy.

Beth’s mouth narrowed into a hard line. “Our father is a powerful man. If you speak with them now, you may take your leave without reprisal.”

“How generous.” Blue offered his arm, and Helena reached for it.

“The invitation is for one,” Beth said with a pointed look at Helena’s hand in the crook of Blue’s arm.

“I won’t leave my wife alone.”

“If she does not care to dance with Edmund, I am to offer her refreshment.”

Blue glanced at Helena, one eyebrow cocked in that charming manner of his. Helena could think of eight thousand things she would rather do than accompany Lady Elizabeth anywhere, but Blue’s parents had obviously been waiting years to say their piece, and she would not stand in the way.

“I would love a glass of lemon water,” Helena said, releasing Blue’s arm.

“Helena, they can have nothing to say to me you cannot hear.”

“I know.” She gave him her best stage smile. “But that does not mean I wish to hear it.”

She was an actress—an opera singer. She’d been called every vile name for a woman she knew, and some she could only assume had been invented. She did not even blink at the insults any more. But that did not mean she wished to listen to them, especially when hurled by her husband’s parents.

“I will have the butler fetch our carriage and then drown my loneliness in lemon water until you return to the ballroom.”

“Very good.” He took her gloved hand and kissed it. “I will not keep you waiting long.”

Helena followed the pinch-faced Beth from the library and into the vestibule, where she asked that Lord Ernest Bloomington’s carriage be brought around.

“You needn’t accompany me into the ballroom,” Helena told Blue’s sister. “I am certain there are other ladies with whom you would rather converse.”

Beth straightened her spine and notched her shoulders back as might a soldier with a duty to perform. “I was to fetch you refreshment.” She signaled a passing footman, who balanced a silver tray on a gloved hand.

He paused and Lady Elizabeth lifted a glass of champagne from the salver. “Champagne?”

Helena shook her head. “No, thank you. I prefer lemon water.”

That was a blatant lie. Her tongue tingled and her pulse quickened at the thought of champagne on her tongue. And that was precisely why she did not drink it.

One glass would never suffice.

She had been down that dark alley before, and she would not start along it again. She could not allow a few harsh words from the Bloomington family to force her to lose control.

When the footman moved away to fetch lemon water, Beth sipped the champagne, her hazel eyes assessing Helena over the glass’s rim. “Do you know what my parents are telling Ernest at this moment?”

“I can imagine,” Helena answered with a sigh of tedium. Inside, she felt anything but calm or bored. She could imagine what the duke and duchess were now saying to their youngest son, and though she knew Blue loved her, she also knew the rift between himself and his family bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

She had known how this night would end when she’d first opened the invitation. And she had known why Blue had accepted anyway.

He still had hope.

So he would listen to them call her whore and grasping female and every other rude term their polite language allowed them to use. Ernest would be forced to defend her and have his hopes dashed yet again.

And on Christmas Eve no less. They should have been happy, warm and cozy in their flat, not forced to listen to slurs and endure sniffs of displeasure.

“I don’t think you can imagine,” Beth said, her smile smug.

Helena stiffened. Something about that haughty smile made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. “What do you mean?”

Beth shrugged and turned to walk away, but Helena grabbed her shoulder and spun her back around.

“Take your hands off of me, woman!” Lady Elizabeth hissed.

“Then do not begin something you cannot finish. Tell me what the duke and duchess have planned.”

Beth shrugged as though it was no matter to her whether or not Helena knew. “They already have the papers drawn up. Ernest need only sign them.”

Helena felt as though she’d just downed several glasses of champagne. Her head spun wildly. “What papers?” she asked, feeling slow and stupid.

“The annulment papers.” Beth leaned close, her words like the whisper of a lover.

Helena reared back. “Annulment? Under what grounds?”

Beth waved a hand. “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. My father paid an unimaginable sum for those papers. They will not be disputed.”

Behind her eyes, Helena’s head throbbed. People passed her, and their faces looked too long or too wide. The entire vestibule suddenly seemed too tall, as though stretched by some unseen force.

“Blue would never sign an annulment,” she heard herself say.

“Won’t he?” Beth taunted.

Would he? Wouldn’t his life be much easier without her in it? He could return to the bosom of his family. And even more importantly to Blue, he could rejoin his beloved Barbican group. He’d been so happy when he’d briefly returned from retirement. She had not seen him smile as much in the months since they reconciled as he did that week.

Was his love for her enough to compensate for losing what had always been his first love—spying?

Helena whirled away. The urge to snatch a glass of champagne and down the contents in one long swallow almost overwhelmed her. She needed somewhere quiet to catch her breath. The library door was still slightly ajar, and she ran for it. She slid inside the room and pushed the door closed, bracing her back against it.

Blue made to follow Beth and Helena out of the library, but with his hand on the door handle, he paused. He was in no hurry to confront his mother and father. He could afford to make them wait.

And that meant he had just enough time to remove the missive from his pocket and toss it into the fire. Blue pulled the vellum from his coat, turned it over, noting the broken seal, and crossed to the fireplace.

He held the vellum between two fingers, dangling it over the flame.

Let it go.

All he had to do was open his fingers and release the paper. It would float into the fire and be gone in a second. He need never think of it again. He would be well and truly through with the Barbican group.

Blue wafted the vellum toward the fire.

“Bloody hell.”

He closed his fist around the missive and stepped back. He couldn’t do it. A thousand excuses flickered like the flames through his mind, but the truth was he wanted to know what was inside. Blue paced the room, raking a hand through his hair and finally planting his feet before the window.

Ice frosted the corners of the pane, but through the circle of glass he could see the darkness without. Flurries of snow swirled about, some tapping against the window as they fell.

It was snowing on Christmas Eve, a rare occurrence in London. Helena would be so pleased.

And he wanted to please her.

He really did. But it was against his very nature, everything in him, to burn the missive.

He opened the paper and studied the code. Not a substitution code—he could see that straightaway. A substitution code would have been too easy.

Blue narrowed his eyes at the strange symbols, familiar somehow. A language? Perhaps this was not in code at all but a dead language.

He spun around, his hand still clenching the missive. His father had an entire shelf of books about languages. What were the odds? And which shelf was it?

As a youth, he’d spent hours in his father’s library, perusing books. There were few fictional tales, and after he’d read those half a dozen times each, he began on the non-fiction. Eleanor was often his companion on those long, lazy days.

He glanced toward the fire, picturing her as a girl, sitting in a leather chair there. The chair had been replaced or reupholstered with one of burgundy velvet, but he could still imagine her there.

And he would sit...his gaze darted to the couch. That had not changed. Same chintz-patterned couch, same position. Right across from the shelf with the books on language. He could remember staring up at them from his prone position.

Now he grasped the ladder and climbed up, running a hand along the spines. Latin, Greek, Egyptian, Sumerian, Khitan—Sumerian.

That was it. The letters were written in a cuneiform style. It might not have been Sumerian, as there were other languages in cuneiform, but it was a start.

He reached for the book on Sumerian and slid down the ladder. At his father’s desk, he placed the missive beside the book, opening the cover and flipping quickly until he found what he wanted.

He compared the wedge-like shapes on the vellum to those in the book and pieced out several words.

Blue smiled again. No, he was never wrong—

“What are you doing?”

He turned to see Helena.

—until now.

Five

She knew exactly what he was about. She’d seen that look of concentration on his face before. Everything about him—his stance, his disordered hair, the way he mumbled to himself—spoke of spying.

She’d feared he would leave her because his parents made annulment easy, but the truth was he would leave her for the same reason he always had: his work.

“Helena—”

She shook her head and pressed back against the door, although she was already flattened against it.

“You promised.” Her voice sounded small and wispy. She’d been known to fill a theater with that same voice.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks as though you are working for the Barbican group.”

He started toward her, but she held up her hands, warding him off. He continued to advance.

“Baron slipped the vellum in my pocket. I told him no.”

She had no idea who Baron might be, and she did not care. It was all lies and more lies. She had thought they were past this—the lies and the deceptions—but she had been terribly wrong. He would leave her again. He would sign those annulment papers and return to his first love.

He’d almost reached her outstretched hands. “I only pulled the vellum out to burn it.” He gestured toward the fireplace.

Her gaze flicked to the desk, where the paper and a book lay spread.

“I know, I know. I didn’t burn it. I couldn’t.”

“You will go back.” She said the words with a finality that scared her. But better she say it now than be taken off-guard in a week or two. Why had he even come for her in Naples, promised her she mattered more than his work, if he only intended to discard her again?

“No. This”—he gestured to the desk—“was only a momentary distraction. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Somehow those words made it even worse. Tears burned the back of her eyes until her nose watered from the sting.

He grasped her hands in his, brought them together as though in prayer between the two of them. “Baron asked me to take a look at the code, to try and decipher it. I told him no, but he slipped the paper in my coat.”

“He is at the ball?”

Guilt flickered across Blue’s face.

She inhaled sharply. “No, that’s not correct. This happened before.”

“At the theater.” He winced.

Heat flooded into her face, singeing her skin. She shoved his hands aside and pushed away from the door. “All night you’ve had this...this—” She gestured helplessly at the desk.

“Missive,” he supplied. She cut him a deadly gaze.

“—in your pocket and you said nothing?”

He didn’t answer, instead thrusting his hands in his pockets and appearing like a boy ready to take his punishment.

“And in the carriage, Lord and Lady Smythe knew about this missive, didn’t they? Lord Smythe wanted you to go back to spying?”

His silence told her everything.

“I knew it. If that is what you want”—she swept an arm at the vellum with the strange wedge-like writing on it—“then go. Go back to your precious Barbican group and leave me alone!”

His head snapped up, and he reached for her. She tried to jerk out of his grasp, but he caught her arm and pulled her to him.

“Never. I will never leave you alone. I love you. How can you still doubt your place in my affections?”

A tear slid down her cheek. “Because you give me reason.”

He closed his eyes tightly, the pain on his features etched in deep lines of frustration. “You agreed I should go back to capture Foncé. I did not leave you then. I dare say with all your rehearsals you barely noticed my absence.”

“And you swore that was the last time.” Another tear rolled down her cheek and onto her nose. Blue gave her a handkerchief with his free hand, and she dabbed her face. The cloth smelled like him—his soap infused with pine or evergreen, black tea, and the scent of home.

He’d always smelled of home to her.

“And I will keep my word. I refused Baron and Wolf. I’ll burn this vellum right now.”

“There will be another and another. You will never be free.” She held the handkerchief beneath her nose, breathing in his scent. It might be all she had left of him after tonight.

“Is that so wrong?” he asked suddenly. “Would it be so terrible if I deciphered a missive here and there or compiled a report on an enemy of the Crown?”

She closed her eyes, pain lancing through her. “That will not be enough for you. The Barbican group will become your life. Again.”

“No. I admit it was my life, but I was little more than a boy then. I did not understand what was important. Listen, Helena. I do not have to travel. I could stay here in London and do my work. You have the opera. Tell me”—he shook her lightly—“what do I have?”

She hadn’t considered that. She had thought he sought to reconcile with his family and reestablish himself with the ton, but that was not a calling. And she knew her husband. He was far too intelligent and had too much depth to be satisfied with a life of endless routs and balls.

“I haunt whatever theater in which you perform or wait at home for you, like some sort of puppy.”

“I never asked that of you!”

“And I want to be where you are,” he said, his hand on her arm soothing, caressing her as did his voice. “But I want something of my own. You have your music. Could you give it up, if I asked?”

“Yes!” she said fiercely, but inside her very soul trembled with fear at the suggestion. She would die if she could not sing. She would wither and die.

“You lie. You would hate me for even asking and if you gave it up, you would grow to resent me.”

“Is that how you feel about me?” she asked, the words spilling forth.

He pulled her into his embrace, his warm body heating hers. “Never, but I need more than dressing rooms and my box at King’s Theater. I am no longer four and twenty, no longer eager to traipse the globe in search of danger.”

“You are hardly an old man,” she pointed out.

“And yet I have seen more than enough danger for a lifetime. I want to spend every night with you, listen to you sing, watch you transform from Ifigenia or Desdemona or the Queen of the Night back into my Helena. But I want this too.” He reached behind her and lifted the missive. “Don’t you think it possible I could have both?”

She stared at the vellum, her body visibly shaking now. She wanted it to be possible, but she’d gambled and lost before. How could she trust him to put their marriage first when he’d always chosen the Barbican group?

She stepped back, and he released her. Her tears had stopped, but she held the handkerchief to her nose, as though holding him close as long as she could.

“I don’t know, Ernest.” She backed toward the door. She wanted to believe he could balance work and marriage now, but if she was wrong, their marriage was over. “I simply do not know.”

She crossed the room and opened the door, blinking when she all but collided with the duke and duchess.

“My apologies,” she said with a curtsy. “He is all yours.”

The thought made her ill, her belly cramping in fear. She’d never allowed anxiety to control her before. How she wished now she could go back and tell Blue she’d been a fool. He did not have to choose. She trusted him to cherish her and pursue his work.

Could she ask less of him when he gave her that same courtesy?

In the vestibule, she waved away the footman who approached with her cloak. Instead, she turned back to stare at the library door.

It hadn’t closed completely. Not yet.

Blue could not believe Helena had walked away. He could not allow her to go. He had to make her understand he was not choosing the Barbican over her. He chose both of them, but if he could not have them both, he would choose her again and again and again.

“Helena!” He started after her, but made it no farther than the door, where his parents blocked his way.

“A word, Ernest,” the duke said, pushing into the library. The duchess closed the door, trapping him. Blue shoved the missive into his pocket, still unwilling to toss it in the fire as he should have done.

“I have nothing to say to you.” He looked from his mother to his father. “I had hoped we might begin again, but I see that is not possible.”

“But that is exactly what we wish to discuss with you.” The duchess held out her hands in a pleading gesture. “We want to begin again as well.”

Blue stilled, his mother’s words taking him by surprise. She’d never spoken like that before. “I’m listening.”

“That is why we invited you tonight.” His father rounded the desk and sat in the chair. Blue saw his gaze flick to the book open on the top of the desk, but it did not linger. The duke pulled open a drawer and unearthed a file. “We hoped to bring you back into the fold, so to speak.”

Blue allowed his gaze to linger on the file and then touch on his parents’ faces. “And how, exactly, do you intend to do that? By introducing me to every debutante this Season? I have no interest in some silly green girl who wishes to giggle and flutter her lashes.”

“And we have come to terms with that,” his father said. “Your mother will no longer introduce you to debutantes.” He gave the duchess a stern look.

She sighed and nodded. “No. I will not interfere.”

Blue frowned. Surely his parents could not be saying they accepted his marriage to Helena. If that was the case, they would have embraced her when they’d had the chance.

“You do not need to pretend for us any longer,” the duke said. “We accept you, no matter whose bed you share.”

Blue was rarely surprised, but he felt his brow wing upward almost of its own accord.

“You are prepared to accept Helena?” he asked carefully.

“The opera singer?” his mother said on a gasp. “She is the reason we asked you here tonight. Ernest”—the duchess placed her small bony hand on his arm—“you need not pretend any longer.”

“Pretend? Madam, I have no idea what you mean.”

“We know what you are, Ernest,” his father said. “And we are prepared to accept you.” He opened the folder and pushed it toward Blue. “Sign here and there will be no more pretense.”

Blue followed the progress of his father’s hand across the desk as he slid the folder toward him. Their eyes locked, Blue trying to read something in the duke’s dark gaze. Finally, he looked down.

“An annulment?” He shook his head, stepping back. His mother grasped his arm, digging her fingers into his bicep.

“Ernest, everything has been taken care of. All you need do is sign.”

Carefully, he removed his mother’s hands from his arm. Why the hell had he been such a fool? He should have known his parents cared for nothing but their own misguided sense of honor. He had shamed them by marrying an opera singer, and now they would be rid of her.

“Why the devil would I sign?” He pulled the quill from his father’s outstretched hand and tossed it on the desk. “Helena is my wife, whether you approve or not.”

“There is no need for the sham marriage any longer,” the duchess said, her tone pleading. “You needn’t pretend affection for an opera singer. We accept you for what you really are.”

“What I really am?” Blue looked from his father to his mother. Clearly, he was missing something. “And what the devil do you think I am?”

Blue stared in utter disbelief as his mother’s cheeks colored. Whatever she thought he was, it embarrassed her to say it.

“A sham marriage,” Blue said quietly. He turned on his father. “If you do not think my marriage to Helena authentic, why do you think I married her?”

The duke cleared his throat. “As a disguise, of course.”

“For my work with the Crown?”

Helena would love that idea. The Barbican group had almost torn them apart and threatened to do so again. It was far from the reason for their union.

“No, because you...” The duke cleared his throat. “Because your nature is...because you prefer...”

Blue closed his eyes and shook his head, gritting his teeth in frustration. “What is it about me that makes everyone believe I’m a...”—he glanced at his mother—“that I prefer baritones to sopranos. I am not a sodomite.”

His mother gasped and stumbled to a nearby chair.

Blue rolled his eyes. “That is what you are saying, is it not?” he demanded.

“Ernest, watch your language!” the duke ordered.

“You can accept my preference for men, but I can’t speak of it?”

“Then you admit you are a—you prefer men?”

“No!” He raked his hand through his hair and paced away. His thoughts raced, and he struggled to contain and organize them. Finally, he paused in front of the desk, the damned annulment papers staring up at him.

“I have no qualm with the sort of man you describe. To each his own, I say. And I must admit, it is quite generous of you to accept me as I am. But I am not as you say. I am married, in truth, to Helena. There is no sham about it.”

“Then you...” His father began.

“Have carnal relations with her?” Blue nodded vigorously. “Yes! Frequently. I tumble her as often as I can.”

“Oh, good Lord!” His mother hid her face in her hands.

Blue knew it was wrong, but he was enjoying himself now. “I am sorry, duchess, did I offend your sensibilities? You can accept me if I prefer to roger men, but if I dip my...sword in my own wife, I am an abomination?”

“Ernest! Cease!” the duke roared.

“I will, but first I want you to understand two simple matters. One, let there be no doubt in your mind that I prefer women. I love women—their rounded hips, their full breasts”—he moved his hands to illustrate and his mother’s face turned from tomato to beet—“their plump bottoms, and especially their—”

“Ernest!” his father bellowed.

Blue stifled a smile. “The second matter you must understand is that I love my wife. Deeply, madly, and unreasonably. I love her more than life itself. I would no more sign these annulment papers than I would cut off my own nose. If you accept me, then you accept her. We are a matched pair, and you cannot have one without the other.”

“And you would choose her over your own mother and father, your own family?”

Blue placed his hands on the arms of the duchess’s chair. “Over and over and over again. But the question, Madam, is will you choose your precious family honor over your own son?”

“I’ve had enough of this!” The duke stood. “Either sign the papers, Ernest, or leave this house. Forever.”

Blue locked gazes with his father. The older man’s lips were pressed tight, his cheeks bright with patches of color. Blue lifted the annulment paper, walked to the fire, and threw it in.

“No!” the duchess cried.

“Get out,” the duke ordered.

“Gladly.”

“I cannot stand the sight of you.” The duke held out his arm for his wife and she clutched it as though it were a rope tossed in a churning sea. Heads held high, they marched out the library door.

Blue watched them go, uncertain whether he should laugh or tear his hair out. They were idiots, and so was he if he allowed anything to come between Helena and himself.

He yanked the missive from his pocket again and held it out to the fire.

“Wait!”

Six

“Don’t burn it,” Helena said, pushing the door open. Blue’s vivid eyes widened.

“You are still here.”

She moved toward him. “I could not leave you. I wanted to tell you, and I heard your conversation with your parents.”

“Which part?”

“All of it, I think. Spies aren’t the only ones who can eavesdrop.”

A ghost of a smile played on his lips at the echo of his earlier words. “Then you know I chose you.” He held the vellum toward the fire again. “I will always choose you.”

She placed her hand on his wrist and pulled the vellum between them. “I should never have doubted. Earlier, I spoke from fear. Lady Elizabeth told me about the annulment, and when I found you with the missive, it was the last blow. I couldn’t help but think perhaps you would be better off without me.”

“Never.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest, her cheek pressed against the wool of his green coat. “I would be nothing but a husk of a man without you.” His voice rumbled through her, raising gooseflesh on her arms and calves.

“And I won’t allow my insecurity to turn you into a husk. You love your work, Blue. You should go back to the Barbican group.”

He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length. “No. I’ve chosen you.”

“And I was wrong to make you choose. You can have us both.” She took the vellum from his hand and shook her head at the strange markings. “Why shouldn’t you decipher codes or dispatch orders or write reports? I fail to see what the appeal is”—she handed the vellum back—“but one look at you when you work, and it’s clear you love it. I’d never take that away from you.”

“Are you sure?” The smile on his face showed so many white teeth she was all but blinded.

She was not sure, but she had to trust in him. She owed him that much and more.

“Yes, go tell Wolf or Hedgehog or whoever it is that you’re back. But”—she raised a finger—“I have one request.”

“Anything.”

“Wherever you go, and whatever you do, you take me with you.”

In answer, he took her in his arms for a kiss.

Blue shook the snowflakes off his greatcoat and settled himself beside Helena in the carriage. A warm brick lay at their feet, but her attention was on the snow falling outside the windows.

“I cannot believe it’s snowing! Isn’t it lovely?”

“You are lovely,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and settling his chin on her shoulder. “And finally, we are alone.”

“We might have been alone sooner, had you not insisted on reading that tedious book.”

She’d had to wait approximately seven minutes while he decoded the missive and returned the book to its shelf. He might have taken it with him, but he wanted nothing from his father’s house. They’d left without a farewell or any interference, and now Blue rapped on the roof of the carriage to begin the jaunt home.

When they reached the flat, he’d have to send his manservant to deliver the decoded missive to Baron. Unless he was wrong—and he was never wrong—it detailed a plan to aid Napoleon’s escape from St. Helena. That news could not wait. Not even for Christmas.

“The theater is closed tomorrow,” she said, turning to embrace him. “You know what that means.”

“We can lay in bed all day, inventing new and ever more illicit ways to pleasure each other?”

“That was not precisely what I would have said, but yes.”

“Good. Let’s begin now.”

He took her mouth with his, sliding his hands under her cloak until the heat of her body enveloped him. The taste of her was familiar and yet wholly intoxicating. He could have kissed her for hours, but her hand loosed his cravat and unfastened the buttons of his shirt. She bent and kissed his throat, teasing her way along his jawline until he arched his neck to give her access.

She settled on top of him, lifting her skirts to straddle him. He loved this position, and he immediately brushed his fingers up her legs until her garters gave way to the bare skin of her thighs. He could feel the heat of her sex pressed against his hard cock, and he need only loose the fall of his breeches to be inside her.

She moved her pelvis, teasing him with the promise of what was to come. Their mouths met again, and he dragged his lips away to feast on the swells of her breasts. Her cloak slid in his way, and impatiently, she unfastened it and allowed it to fall across his knees.

His hands cupped her bare bottom, and she hissed in a breath when he moved her body against his in a rhythm they both knew well. Her hand reached for him, sliding confidently along his hard shaft through his straining breeches. He laid his head back against the squabs, eyes closed in anticipation.

But something made him open his eyes—a sound or a feeling or a tingling of unease. He cracked his lids and started at the pair of eyes peering down at him from the hatch above.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Bonde said, sticking her head into the coach. Her hair dangled down in long golden ribbons.

Helena screamed and jumped with fright, falling back against the squabs and scrambling to push herself into a corner.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Bonde jumped down with a smooth leap that barely ruffled her skirts.

Blue gathered Helena in his arms. “Shh. She’s a friend—or at least she was until now.”

Helena trembled, but that didn’t stop her from aiming a vicious glare at Bonde.

“Now what? Another spy?”

“Agent,” Bonde corrected, “and I only need a brief word.” Bonde spread her hands in apology.

“Here.” Blue handed Bonde the decoded missive. “I presume this what you came for.”

Bonde took the vellum gingerly. “Baron needs it deciphered—”

“Done.”

She unfolded it.

“Unless I miss my guess—”

“And you never miss your guess,” she answered, still looking at the vellum.

“Exactly. Our old friend Bonaparte plans an unauthorized excursion to the Continent.”

“Someone will have to put a stop to that.” She raised a brow at him then slid her gaze to Helena. “I suppose you aren’t up for it.”

He ran a hand up and down Helena’s arm to keep her warm. She didn’t appear frightened—much more annoyed—but an icy breeze pierced the warm carriage through the open hatch above.

“I have other plans this Christmas.”

“I’m sure you do. Sorry to interrupt, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet your wife.” She held a hand up. “No need for introductions. We frown upon that sort of thing in the Barbican group.” She jumped onto the squabs, and Blue frowned at the dirt her boots left on his velvet seats. Bonde grasped the edges of the hatch and prepared to pull herself up.

“How did you know she was my wife?” Blue asked.

Bonde gave him a weary look. “Because I’m the best.”

Blue was of the opinion that he was the best, but Bonde was no one to scoff at.

“You didn’t think me a...resident of Sodom?” he asked, curious as to how much of her knowledge was from investigation and how much skillful deduction.

“Actually, I thought you could go either way.” She pulled herself through the hatch and onto the roof—a feat of strength that would have taxed him and been impossible for most women. Her head appeared in the opening again, snow now sprinkled over her hair.

“Happy Christmas,” she called down.

Blue reached up and slammed the hatch closed.

Helena fumbled for the curtains, peering out into the dark night. “But how will she get down?”

“Oh, she’s part ape. And why the devil does everyone think I’m a—I prefer baritones?” He looked down at his evergreen coat, the velvet trim flecked with snow, and his rumpled violet waistcoat. “Is it my hair?”

Helena bit her lip, no doubt suppressing a smile. “It’s not your hair, darling.”

He patted it, the lace of his sleeves brushing against his forehead. “Perhaps I should wear it shorter. Or longer. Or more tousled...”

With a laugh, she curled up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Don’t change a thing, my love. You are perfect just as you are. And Blue?”

“Yes?”

“When we are finally home and in bed, we lock the door.”

He heartily agreed.

Acknowledgments

Thanks and appreciation go to Abby Saul for her copyediting, Joanna MacKenzie for her editing, and Molly Foltyn for her help with the blurb.

Reader, if you enjoyed this novella, it’s due to Joanna MacKenzie. I called her on November 6-ish and said, “I have a crazy idea.” She didn’t think it was crazy, and a month later, here’s the finished product.

About the Author

Shana Galen is the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston's inner city. Now she writes full time. She's happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making. Shana loves to hear from readers, so send her an email or see what she's up to daily on Facebook and Twitter.

Visit her website at www.shanagalen.com.

Excerpt from Earls Just Want to Have Fun

Coming February 2015 from Shana Galen

Dane stared out the window of his coach and wondered what the hell had possessed him to lend it to Brook. How was staring at a street in Cheapside more interesting than Lady Yorke’s soiree?

Oh, very well. Just about anything was more interesting than Lady Yorke’s soiree. Watching grass grow was more interesting, and sitting in his carriage for the last hour, circling the same street, was about as interesting as watching grass grow. He sighed and massaged his temples. He might as well sit here. It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do, since Parliament did not sit tonight. He smiled, thinking of the speech he’d given at the last session. It had been a rousing denunciation of a proposed bill to allocate more funds to help the poor.

The poor! What about the military or the farmers? What about the deuced Irish problem? Dane had argued quite successfully—as the bill had been defeated—that the poor deserved their fate. They were lazy or preferred sloth to hard work. Dirty, uneducated, and immoral, the lowest classes were barely human. Best the country look to the future—feeding its people and defending them.

As an earl, Dane not only had the responsibilities of a landowner, a peer, and a member of Parliament, he had social duties as well. He was so utterly weary of the same balls, the same insipid debutantes, the same ridiculous conversations about the weather. He hated London during the Season. And this was only the beginning. Duty could be extremely tedious.

He’d thought if he accepted invitations and made appearances, his mother, the Dowager Countess of Dane, would stop haranguing him about finding a wife. If anything, she was worse than she had been before. He should just pick a girl already and be done with it. They were all the same, at any rate.

If Brook had been sitting here, he would have rolled his eyes and said Dane had it so hard, being the earl. But not everyone could be a hero like Brook. Not everyone could go about saving people. Someone had to be ordinary.

But devil take him, if this was what Brook’s position entailed, then the man was welcome to his heroics. Dane was about to fall asleep from the sheer tedium.

The coach began to move, and Dane frowned. He hadn’t ordered his coachman to drive. Were they being waylaid by highwaymen? At least that would make the evening a bit more interesting.

And then he heard the scream.

Dane shot up and opened the curtains just as his brother’s voice called out, “Open the door. Open the bloody door!”

Dane threw open the carriage door, even though the conveyance was still moving. It slowed briefly, and Brook threw a wild animal inside the carriage. Dane jumped back, out of range of the creature’s claws, just as Brook dove inside and slammed the carriage door. “Drive!” he yelled.

The carriage lurched forward, racing at a speed that could not be safe, even had they not been on the crowded streets of London. But he had no time to worry about the jehu’s dangerous driving. The creature lunged at him, scratching at his leg and managing to get a pretty good bite of his calf. “Ow!” he yelled, shaking it off.

It fell back, and Brook threw a hood over its head. That confused it, and his brother took advantage of its disorientation and bound its hands.

Hands? It was human?

“What the devil is that?” Dane asked.

“It’s a who, and her name is Elizabeth,” Brook told him, teeth clenched with the effort it took to secure the knot in the rope binding its—her—arms.

“That is a woman?” A woman had just bitten him? Damnation, but his leg hurt like hell. He peered closer and noted the dirty dress she wore. His gaze traveled upward...yes, she was definitely a woman.

“That,” Brook said, falling back into the squabs in exhaustion, “is Lady Elizabeth Grafton.”

Dane had always thought that when the day came and his brother made a mistake—a monumental mistake, the sort Dane was exceedingly careful never to make—he would be glad. But damn if his leg did not hurt him, and he was too worried for his brother’s sanity—and truth be told, his own safety—to be able to say, I told you so.

Dane glanced at the woman again. He didn’t know who she was, but she was not the daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon. She was some sort of street rat. The smell of her alone was enough to prove bathing was not a luxury she frequently, if ever, enjoyed. And her language. No lady knew words like those she’d spewed at Brook. Dane didn’t even know some of the curses. And the dirt. He’d have his valet clean these breeches immediately.

“Are you feeling well?” Dane asked. “Have you hit your head recently?”

Brook glared at him. “It’s her.”

But before Dane could dispute him, the creature—female, if Brook insisted—must have caught her breath, because she began thrashing around again. She couldn’t see with the hood over her eyes, and her claws were restrained, but she could still kick. Dane moved from one side of the seat to the other to avoid her quick feet. She would make a fearsome pugilist if her fists were as fast as her feet.

“I can’t take her to Lord Lyndon like this,” Brook said.

Dane frowned. He didn’t like the implications of that statement. When Brook didn’t go on, he suggested, “You could toss her back out on the street.” He looked out the window and saw they were in Mayfair now. Perhaps they should not unleash such a creature on Mayfair. They might keep driving and leave her somewhere safer. Somewhere like Scotland. Or the Americas.

“I’m not tossing her back on the street.”

The woman quieted, as though listening for her fate.

“We could put her on a ship. Australia might be far enough away.”

“No!” the wench cried and began thrashing again. Dane held out a hand to protect himself.

Brook rolled his eyes. “Dane.”

Dane spread his hands. “You said yourself she was a thief. That’s the least of the punishments she might receive.”

“True, but I was thinking we might reform her.”

Dane narrowed his eyes, and the girl spoke up for the first time. “I don’t want no reforming.” Her voice was muffled beneath the hood.

Dane pointed an accusatory finger at the woman. “You heard her. She doesn’t want no reforming.”

“Nevertheless, we take her home—”

“Home!”

“And we clean her up and make her presentable before we give her to Lord and Lady Lyndon.”

“No!” This from the creature.

This time Dane didn’t avoid her kicks, and his knee suffered the consequences. “Damn it!” These breeches would be past saving.

“Let me go,” she screamed, kicking again. “You bloody cockchafer! Let me out, you bastard boat-licker!” She went on, and Dane glanced at his brother incredulously. He’d never heard a woman speak thus.

“I feel as though I should take notes,” he said over the noise. “I might impress the fellows at Gentleman Jackson’s.”

“You might be thrown out,” Brook observed. “In any case, I’m taking her to Derring House.”

Now Dane was out of patience. “No, you are not. Susanna is there, and mother. We cannot inflict this”—he gestured to her contemptuously—“upon them.”

“Nonsense,” Brook said, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture Dane knew meant he had made up his mind. “Unlike you, they love a good charitable cause. And it wouldn’t kill you to smudge those lily-white hands once in a while.”

Dane looked at his spotless gloves. It might not kill him, but it would certainly pain him.

More from Shana Galen

Want to read more? Pre-order the first in Shana’s new Covent Garden Cubs series, Earls Just Want to Have Fun, coming in February 2015.

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Check out  Love and Let Spy, in which Blue also makes an appearance, and meet Bonde, Jane Bonde.

Want more spies under your tree this Christmas? Check out Shana’s novella, The Spy Beneath the Mistletoe in the Christmas in the Duke’s Arms anthology, also featuring novellas from Grace Burrowes, Carolyn Jewel, and Miranda Neville.