Sebastian stared unseeing at the desiccated gardens for a beat before turning to Miss Vanreid. He tried not to notice how comely she was, even from the side. Outdoors, away from her aunt and the looming specter of her father, she outshone the sunshine. The purple of her gown heightened her creamy skin and the burnished coils of her thick hair. Everything about the gown, from its cinched waist to its lace trim, was designed to call attention to her impeccable figure and the sweet curve of her bosom. The dolman she’d donned to ward off the chill air did little to conceal her fine figure.
Damn it, he thought as he surveyed her profile, a wardrobe of dresses that buttoned to the throat wouldn’t be enough to tame her beauty or its effect upon him. Bloody hell. Maybe it would be unwise to see this assignment through.
But no. He had a duty. He’d sworn an oath. The lives of so many innocents were at peril.
“Miss Vanreid,” he bit out, displeased by the tumult she set off within him. “You seemed ill at ease back in the salon. What causes you such grief?”
She was silent, seemingly engrossed in a study of the dormant rose bushes. “I don’t wish to marry Lord Breckly, Your Grace.” Her voice was low, toneless. “Is it your intention to wed me?”
Wed her? Everything within him screamedno. Bed her? Everything within him screamedyes. His cock surged against his trousers and he shifted slightly to minimize the evidence of her extreme effect on him. She was an anomaly. Enigmatic, beautiful, seductive, but also quiet and imbued with a sadness he didn’t yet comprehend. He would learn her. Would learn every one of her secrets before he was through.
“It would be my honor, Miss Vanreid, to make you my wife,” he lied.
She turned to him finally, subjecting him to the full force of her undeniable beauty. “Have you ever hit a woman?”
Her question took the air from his lungs. What kind of a woman asked such a thing? The kind who had been abused, his instincts told him. The kind who sought to avoid entanglement in a situation similar to the one in which she already found herself.
“Of course not,” he answered past his shock, pausing a beat to read her expression. “Do you trust me?”
She pursed her lips together, taking her time to answer. “I know little of you, Your Grace, so to say that I trust you implicitly would make a liar of me.”
Ah, there was candor, he supposed, pointed as a dagger. “Such wisdom from one so young is a rarity.”
As the words left him, he realized how pompous he sounded. How ducal. He hadn’t meant to imply she wasn’t intelligent. Far from it—her intellect and her daring were the two traits that attracted him to her the most. Anyone could be beautiful. But not everyone could be bold and smart and fearless. The lady before him—duplicitous enemy of the Crown or no—was all of those things.
She was the sort of woman who, in different times, he would have been proud to call his duchess. Given the circumstances, the dubious cloud of her associations, and the fact that he’d been charged with viewing her as an enemy, his feelings for her in this moment could not be rooted in anything less rational than duty. For the spy, control was everything. Emotions had to be carefully excised, as infection from a wound, else the entire limb would require amputation.
Grim thought, that. But fitting.
She stiffened, oblivious to the unsettling bent of his thoughts, her chin tilting up in ravishing defiance. “Age is a fallacious indicator of intelligence, Your Grace.”
“So it can be,” he acknowledged, taking a step toward her. Her skirts billowed into his trousers. Her scent enveloped him. The morning was yet again unseasonably warm, yet still cold, and so he couldn’t be certain whether the scarcely discernible tremble that passed over her just then was from the chill or from something else. “You’re wise to withhold your trust until it’s earned. But know that I would never intentionally cause you harm.”
Was that even true? Hell, he didn’t know any longer. He would never hit her. Would never bring physical pain upon her. Anything else? He couldn’t promise. His time with her was as ephemeral as life itself.
Her wide, green eyes, vibrant in this sleeping garden of drab browns and withered moss, plumbed his. “You must know that I haven’t a choice, Your Grace. If you are a dishonest man, no pain you could visit upon me would surpass that which I’ve already endured. Forgive me for my honesty, but you are the lesser of all evils, as far as I can discern.”
Her gaze didn’t flinch from his, and he knew then that some of the enigma that was Daisy Vanreid had been revealed to him. An unfamiliar sensation, troubling and tense, rose within him as full realization settled. There was only one conclusion here that made sense.
Gently, he touched her elbow, not wishing to cause her further distress. “Has your father hit you, sweet?”
She looked away in a clear sign that he had guessed correctly. “Of course he hasn’t.”
“Miss Vanreid,” he pressed, catching her stubborn chin and guiding her face back to his. “Daisy. If I’m to help you, then you must be honest with me. Has your father inflicted violence upon you?”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes.” Shame steeped her tone.
There it was again, that coiled sensation in his chest. The tightening in his gut. A grim, raw fury lit within him. Her father had struck her. More than once. He’d caused her pain, done her violence. A primitive urge to defend her rose, battling to supremacy over every other emotion. Even over his work as a spy. He didn’t question it. Didn’t think twice.
“He will never raise a hand to you again once you’re my wife,” he vowed, his voice shaking with the furor trapped inside him. “This I swear. Nor will I ever abuse you in any fashion.”
These were promises he could make her.
Jesus, they were theonlypromises he could make her.
Miss Vanreid—the vibrant, flirtatious beauty who had never stepped down or batted a lash since he’d been watching her—trembled beneath his touch. The cynic in him reminded him that it could all be a ruse. Someone as bold andlaissez-fairewith her reputation as she was seemed at odds with the vulnerable, frightened woman before him now.
His training, however, led him to believe in her sincerity. Perhaps the true act was the Daisy Vanreid she showed the world, because inside she was terrified and desperate to escape her father’s clutches. So desperate she’d throw herself into the arms of any man who’d catch her.
