Page 17 of To Love A Spy
His features had a chiseled austerity, a sculpted strength—long, straight nose, prominent cheekbones, squared chin. It wasthe sinuous shape of his lips that softened the planes and kept him from looking too forbidding. Whether he knew it or not, the Marquess of Lynsley had a sinfully attractive smile.
“Indeed,” she finally replied, relieved to hear that her voice was not as fluttery as her insides. Embarrassed that he might have caught her staring, she slapped the clothing down on the work table. “These ought to be a decent fit. You can change in the pantry while I finish laying out the bread and cheese.”
He handed over the knife. “Thank you. I shall not be unhappy to shed this nightshirt. It itches like the devil.”
“No doubt you are used to wearing only the finest silk to bed.”
“Actually, I sleep in the nude.”
Valencia felt her face flame. “Touché, sir.”
His fingertips grazed lightly against her wrist. “I would rather we were not always at daggers drawn. God knows you have reason to be angry with me, but if we are to work together, you must try to set it aside for the duration of the mission.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“That was not an order, Valencia. It was a . . . suggestion.” He turned for the pantry. “I hope you will take it to heart.”
Bloody hell.She took a savage swipe at the loaf of bread. The marquess must now think she was an aging shrew as well as a woebegone warrior. She gave a small sniff, but the sting of salt on her lashes was like a slap in the face. Merlins didn’t cry, she chastised herself. If she was going to succumb to self-pity here in her own cottage, she might as well surrender her wings here and now.
Duty. Discipline.She had not yet forgotten the lessons drummed into her at the Academy. The marquess would find no further fault with her attitude.
“If that cheddar was Rochambert, he would have died a thousand deaths.” Lynsley looked almost boyish, dressedin simple fisherman’s clothes with his tousled brown hair curling around his ears. In the candlelight, the burnished gold highlights far outshone the strands of silver.
His body was still lean and lithe, she had noted earlier. And though he had developed a deliberate slouch over the years to disguise his true height and the breadth of his shoulders, she found it hard to believe that most people accepted his cover as a deskbound bureaucrat, a titled toff who did nothing more strenuous than push pens around on his blotter.
“I look forward to slicing his liver into foie gras,” she said lightly. “And serving it with a sauce of champagne and champignons.”
“You are making my mouth water.” He sat down on the stool next to her and dug into plate of the cold mutton and mint jelly. “It seems you have added cooking to your arsenal of skills. That is rosemary flavoring the roasted meat, is it not?”
“I learned out of necessity,” she answered, feeling absurdly pleased by the simple praise. “I have an herb garden out back, and a small orchard of apples and pears.”
“Mmmm.” He topped a slice of cheese with a dollop of her spiced chutney.
“Would you care for a glass of cognac?”
“Don’t tell me you also make wine?” he murmured.
“I assure you, this is far superior to any homemade brew, sir.” Valencia fetched a bottle from her stillroom and poured him a measure.
“This would put the cellars at White’s to blush,” he said after a small sip, “Smuggled?”
“Of course.” She nibbled at a morsel of bread. “Are you going to have me arrested?”
“No. I am going to have you refill my glass.”
Taking up her knife, Valencia pretended to eat while watching him out of the corner of her eye. There was an oddsort of domesticity to the scene. Against all reason, the marquess did not seem out of place in her tiny kitchen. The kettle was whistling softly on the stove, the lamp cast a mellow glow over the pine table. Anyone looking in through the mullioned window would take them for an old married couple . . .
“Ought we not be having a council of war, milord?” she demanded abruptly.
The spell was broken. He finished the last bite of mutton, then leaned back and sighed. “Yes, let us get down to business. First of all, we need transport to France.”
“I take it you have a rendezvous point in mind.”
He nodded. “St. Pierre Eglise.”
“Leave that to me,” said Valencia. “It will be easy to arrange. Then what?”
“The head of our operations in Normandy sent word that an American envoy from Washington is visiting relatives in Valognes before going on to Paris for talks on trade between the two countries.” Lynsley tugged at his cuff. “I do hope Tobias Tremaine and I are of the same size, as I will have to borrow his clothing as well as his persona.”
