He still did, his cock a rigid reminder of just how much, a reminder that not even the cooling of his ardor could tame.
“Forgive me,” he said wryly at last. “I seem to have lost my head.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
Miss Vanreid remained oddly silent for a woman he knew to be quite forthright. The aunt sputtered, in fine dudgeon, demanding the situation be rectified. Carlisle did his part, offering grim comfort.
“There, there, Mrs. Stanley,” the duke said. “I’m sure the duke will make amends as swiftly as possible. Is that not so, Your Grace?”
Sebastian gave a stiff nod. “Please accept my sincere apologies for the insult I’ve paid your niece this night, Mrs. Stanley. Rest assured that I will call first thing in the morning to make a formal offer for Miss Vanreid’s hand.”
That appeared to take the wind right out of the aunt’s sails. “A formal offer?”
“Naturally,” he bit out. “My admiration for your niece is great. I would be honored to make her my wife. In the meantime, to blunt further scandal, you’ll need to take Miss Vanreid home.”
There. He’d said it. He done what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do, what he’d been uncertain he would allow on the carriage ride over. As sacrifices went, this was one of the ultimate, regardless of whether he was granted an annulment at the conclusion of the assignment as Carlisle promised. Marrying Daisy Vanreid was more than he’d wanted to give, but he had sworn an oath to protect his country. If he was willing to forfeit his life for the safety of his homeland, then he could damn well align himself with any woman in the world. Even if she was as lovely as she was deceptive. Even if he had reason to suspect she potentially possessed both the cunning and the deadliness of an asp.
By God, he would keep his distance. Tonight’s aberration aside, of course. This stunt had been necessary to ensure that Miss Vanreid’s father would agree to the marriage. There was something afoot between Vanreid and Lord Breckly, whose own mother hailed from Ireland. Some reason Vanreid was determined to wed his daughter off to an aging reprobate. Vanreid was aware he was under suspicion, and the League couldn’t be certain Vanreid would’ve accepted Sebastian’s suit, despite his being a duke.
But a ruining witnessed by the lady’s aunt would justify nothing less or risk bringing undue attention upon Vanreid and his murky dealings with the Fenians.
And so he had done all but raise Miss Vanreid’s skirts and take what he wanted: all of her.
What his body wanted, that was. For there was no denying the effect she had upon him. His mind, however, was different. He could govern his mind, and his mind could, in turn, rule his baser instincts. He would not touch Daisy Vanreid again. Not even if Carlisle told him that the safety of the Queen depended on Sebastian bedding the vixen.
Miss Vanreid finally broke her silence, interrupting the whirling tumult of his thoughts. “Aunt Caroline, I’m afraid my gown is… in disrepair.”
“Merciful saints.” The aunt actually gave a hiccup then, and he wondered just how far into her cups she’d already fallen this evening. “How will we manage to remove you without notice? Your father will be livid. You’re meant to marry Lord Breckly.”
Carlisle spoke up, ever the manipulator. “My dear Mrs. Stanley, fortunately, I am familiar with the grounds, having been a guest here on many occasions. I do believe there is a gate at the rear of the garden through which you and your niece may discreetly pass, with none of the other guests being aware.”
The aunt was so vehement in her appreciation that she nearly vibrated with gratitude. And another hiccup. “Your Grace, I am much indebted to you for your kindness this evening. Do I trust we can have your—hicc—complete discretion in this matter?”
“Naturally, Mrs. Stanley. As long as Trent is willing to make amends by marrying your niece as soon as possible, I will consider this entire event expunged from my memory forever,” Carlisle assured her.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His senior in command was being a tad too dramatic for his liking. He’d never felt more like a villain than he did then, filled with a combined shame for his intentional compromising of Miss Vanreid and his loss of control both. As a covert operative who’d spent the last twelve of his thirty years in service to the Crown’s most elite secret espionage branch the Special League, he had only needed to use women as pawns a handful of times, and he had disliked each time immensely. But he had never married any of them.
Nor had he ever wanted any of them the way he longed to slide home inside Miss Vanreid.
Sebastian shoved the unwelcome insight from his mind. “I will be more than happy to make Miss Vanreid my wife as quickly as can be arranged,” he forced himself to say. “But for the nonce, I recommend Mrs. Stanley and Miss Vanreid take their leave before we draw any further attention to the matter. In a crush of this magnitude, no one will be the wiser.”
“I do expect you tomorrow, young man,” said the tipsy aunt, capable of giving him a dressing down despite the champagne and wine she’d consumed that evening. “You have much to answer for.”
He wasn’t accustomed to being taken to task or to being called “young man” rather than “Your Grace.” “Of course, madam.” He took care to keep his tone contrite. It wouldn’t do to rile the aunt, who seemed to be holding herself together with remarkable aplomb thus far but who could lose her calm at any juncture thanks to her inebriated condition.
The aunt creating a scene was the last thing that any of them needed.
A wider audience would cause scandal and ruin to swirl about Miss Vanreid, but it also would impede his efforts as a spy in the process. The fewer who knew of their scandal, the better. The haste of their nuptials would be fodder enough.
But that was a matter for another day.
Tonight’s work had gone well, even if the doing had left him feeling oddly aroused and hollowed at the same time, as though his conscience were at war with his prick. He’d become adept at burying guilt and banishing emotion from his every action. No man could successfully keep secrets from everyone around him, lie to others, and kill for his country, without removing weak sentiment from his life like an infected limb.
Yet despite all that, despite a dozen years and missions that he’d imagined had hardened him as surely as a lump of coal being formed in the earth, he felt like a complete blighter as he faced Miss Vanreid again in the moonlight. She had remained unusually quiet but for her lone revelation of the state of her gown. He had done the tearing that ripped her sleeve, had done irreparable damage to her. To them both.
For a good cause.
But damn it if he still didn’t feel something dislodge inside his chest when he caught Miss Vanreid’s gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss. He bowed to her with drawing room formality. There was ample reason to distrust her, and nothing about the minx suggested innocence, but there was a small chance that she was not a part of her father’s diabolical schemes. That she had nothing to do with dynamite, Fenian plots, or anything more malevolent than being a horrid flirt.
