Page 27 of To Love A Spy
“An excellent plan of attack, Perkins.” Valencia gave herself a mental kick for not thinking of it herself. “Thank you.”
“Yes, madam.” The maid allowed a faint smile to soften the set of her mouth. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a rigid correctness. “Shall I help you unlace your gown?”
“No. I shall manage on my own tonight.”
“Very good, madam.” Bobbing a curtsy, Perkins let herself out of the room.
Valencia took a seat at the dressing table and began to brush out her hair. The exchange had been a disquieting reminder that her Academy skills had grown dull from disuse, especially those having to do with playing the part of a grand lady. She sighed, and the sudden flare of the candlelight caught the flicker of doubt on her face.
Did she still have the mettle to be a Merlin?
Averting her gaze from the looking glass, she tugged the bristles through her hair. In the past, no challenge had been too daunting . . .
Her chin rose, her spine stiffened as her fingers touched the tiny tattoo above her breast. “I can still rise to the occasion,” she whispered.
Crossing the carpet, Valencia undressed and slipped into the silk wrapper that Perkins had laid out on the bed. Though tiredfrom the long day of travel, she found herself too restless to turn down the coverlet just yet. Instead, she drifted around the large room, pausing to inspect the Limoges figurines on the sidetable and the ormolu clock on the mantel.
Her steps slowed as she came to the paneled door that connected her set of rooms to Lynsley’s suite. Pressing her palms to the polished oak, she went very still. For a moment there was naught but the sound of her own breathing, and then she heard a whisper of movement.
Listening hard, Valencia could just make out the light tread of bare feet on the Aubusson carpet.
So, like her, the marquess had not yet retired for the night.
Was he also naked beneath a robe of thin silk? Perhaps he was headed toward the hearth, intent on enjoying a last glass of port before seeking his bed. Earlier in the day, she had caught a glimpse of an upholstered armchair in his room, perfect for stretching his legs out toward the fire . . .
Her cheeks began to burn.
Don’t go there, Valencia warned herself. What strange flight of fancy had her thoughts straying to such intimate images of Lord Lynsley at leisure?
For God’s sake, the man was a paragon of propriety—he probably slept in his starched shirt and faultlessly folded cravat.
And yet, his quip from her cottage kept echoing in the back of her mind.
I sleep in the nude.
The words were teasing. Tantalizing. She squeezed her eyes shut, but could not keep an enticing image from taking shape. She had seen enough of his body to know that the chiseled contours of his chest were all muscle, and the sleek stretch of his shoulders tapered to a lean waist and . . .
A nice arse.
Bloody hell. Valencia was tempted to pound her forehead against the door until something cracked—preferably her own rebellious imagination, rather than the oak. Maybe a few solid smacks would knock some sense through her skull. To entertain such erotic thoughts, even for an instant, was the kiss of death. There was only one reason she had come to Paris, and it wasnotto fantasize about Lynsley’s lordly charms.
She backed away, cursing her own weakness of the flesh. It had been a long time—apparently far too long a time—since she had enjoyed any intimacies with a man. The enforced closeness with a virile specimen of the opposite sex was stirring the strangest desires.
But a Merlin must always be disciplined and dispassionate. Come morning, she would martial her wayward longings and keep her thoughts in line.
The next morning, after an early morning stroll through the narrow streets of their quartier, Lynsley attired himself in Mr. Tremaine’s most elegant set of clothing and came down to breakfast.
“Just toast and coffee,” he informed the servant standing by the sideboard.
The American government had arranged for the mansion to come staffed with local servants. A cook, two footmen and three maids, according to his valet. Bailin could be counted on to keep a close eye on household. Still, they would all have to be discreet in their discussions. Despite the fact that France and America were allies, the Parisian authorities had likely planted an informant to listen for any interesting information.
On second thought, he would have Bailin see to hiring a new staff. They, too, would likely be bribed, but not for a while.
As he sat down, he noted that Valencia’s place was untouched. The trip had been tiring and the afternoon was going to be a whirlwind of activity, what with dress fittings and numerous stops to choose a stylish array of accessories. It was good that she was catching up on her sleep.
As for his own slumber, he had passed a fitful night. Strange dreams, and the prickling sensation of being watched. But that was only natural. Nerves were always stretched taut at the start of a mission. Their arrival in Paris meant that the real challenge was just beginning.
Signaling to the footman, Lynsley called for his valet. “Bailin,” he said loudly. “Have the carriage brought around. I mean to present myself to the Minister of American Affairs and Commerce this morning. Leave word for my wife that I shall return in time for her shopping excursion.”
