Page 75 of The Traitor
Because she was wrapped in his arms, Milly felt the tension go out of him, though his tone still held some detachment.
“We will muddle on, then, though I wish you’d let me have my shirt back, despite how fetching you look in it. My grandmother made it for me, the last of her handiwork I have, and I wear it only on special occasions.”
Milly’s baron was wary, but also courageous. The occasion was special, indeed. She passed him his shirt and cast about for something to say that would reward his trust.
“I would have a promise from you, Sebastian.”
For a few moments, he hid in the process of putting his shirt on, but then he held out his wrist for her to fasten the cuffs.
“Vows weren’t enough? Making love with you here, despite the abuse to my knees isn’t enough? You must have promises too?”
“The vows were lovely, else I would not have recited them to you.” She slid the sleeve button through the hole and reached for his other hand, though she missed sorely the modesty his garment had provided her.
“What promise do you seek from me, Milly?” His tone said he’d put his wariness aside, but not out of reach.
“The next time we make love, you must not neglect my breasts. I will have your word on this.”
He gave her his word, his mouth, his hands, and enough pleasure that, for Milly, the walk back to the manor held rainbows, despite the shadows lengthening across the fields.
Thirteen
Lady Freddy stopped pretending to read the latest copy ofLaBelleAssemblée, which was an insipid publication, appropriate only for fidgety young girls.
“Do you suppose they’ll make a go of it?” she muttered.
The professor tapped a pencil against the blotter, though she doubted he’d been making any progress with his latest code—he hadn’t written a single digit or letter for twenty minutes.
“Theirs is a complicated undertaking.”
He was always honest with her. Their partnership thrived on such honesty, and yet, Freddy resented him mightily for it just then. “Sebastian is besotted.”
The professor had sometimes worn a beard as a younger man, when he’d wanted to appear Continental or hide his youth. Freddy could tell from the way he stroked his chin he might wear a beard as an older fellow too, and be all the handsomer for it.
“A romantic nature can make matters more difficult,” he said. “Miss Danforth—Millicent—hides a tender heart as well.”
More honesty. “I wish to hell I didn’t have such a tender damned heart.”
He rose from his escritoire and took a seat beside her, all uninvited. This was fortunate, because tenderhearted people were often too stubborn and self-reliant for their own good.
“The St. Clairs have never wanted for courage,” the professor observed. “That will serve Sebastian well in the coming days. And nights.”
He had such a lovely smile. The warmth started in his eyes, and sometimes, particularly when they were in public, it remained only there, a beauty Freddy alone was allowed to see. When they were private, though, that smile advanced like a sunrise, cascading down his physiognomy until the corners of his mouth tipped up and a subtle impishness suffused his features.
“Will you ever ask me to marry you again?”
Oh, where in perdition had that question come from? Getting old wreaked all manner of havoc with one’s dignity, and yet it created a sense of urgency too.
The smile became muted, as a sunrise becomes mere sunshine and unremarkable to most as a result. “Perhaps I shall, though I have a tender heart too, you know.”
Tender heart, tender hands. A lady of dignified years ought not to dwell on such things lest she make a fool of herself. Freddy picked up her magazine, which at least had pictures she could study. “I wish I knew what Arthur was up to.”
“Thus sayeth his duchess, frequently. The word is he’s off at Stratfield Saye, getting the place organized and making peace with her over household matters.”
This was part of the reason Freddy and her professor should not marry. An aging bachelor of Continental extraction who made his living as a gentleman of letters could linger over a pint in any tavern, stroll down any street, do business in any shop. The second husband of a widowed baroness was precluded from many behaviors useful for gathering information.
“Wellington has left peace on the home front very late in his agenda,” Freddy said, though his duchess was not the most scintillating exponent of Irish aristocracy. She had waited twelve years for her man while he kicked up his heels in India, nonetheless, and had produced his heir and spare as required, despite his conquests off the battlefield.
A woman, even a duchess, or, say, a baroness, did the best she could.
