“Excellent.” Stalwood clapped his hands together. “Then it is settled. You’ll court her. It takes care of your problem with added attention and gets you closer to Danford and whatever secrets you haven’t yet ferreted out.”
“Wait,” Clairemont said, moving on his mentor. “You talked to me earlier about flirting, paying a bit of extra attention to Celia. That is a far flung thing from officially courting the woman.”
“I got word today that Eccelson was pulled from the field,” Stalwood said, turning from Clairemont, but not before he saw the earl’s deep worry. “He was close to some important information, but his identity was compromised.”
Clairemont blinked as shock rolled through him. He’d worked side by side with Eccelson on several cases over the years. The man was a true professional. “His identity was revealed?”
Stalwood nodded slowly. “He was working in Prussia, trying to undermine Napoleon’s influence there. Suddenly he was revealed as an agent and he barely escaped with his life. He’s injured and on his way back to England. I have hope he’ll make it back alive.”
“Shit,” Clairemont said, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Since Eccelson was mentioned by name in Clairemont’s papers, we must believe he shared that information before his death. God knows how many others are in dangerwithoutour knowing.”
The news hung in the room between them, heavy and damaging. Clairemont’s heart sank, his stomach turned.
“You’re saying the lives of our agents are worth more than the reputation of one young lady,” Clairemont said softly. The words were bitter, but he knew they were true. Life and death trumped foolish scandal every day.
And yet that didn’t mitigate his guilt. He had looked in Celia’s eyes and seen her hopes and dreams. He had felt her coiled passion, ready to be unleashed for the right man. What Stalwood was suggesting was to use that passion, to steal both it and her future.
Good work. This was supposed to be good work.
“This is for king and country, Dane,” Stalwood said, and Clairemont flinched at the use of his real name. The reminder of what he had vowed years ago. “The work may be many things, but it was never meant to be easy.”
“Itisn’teasy,” he said, turning away to pace the room restlessly. “If I court Celia Fitzgilbert and this investigation falls apart, she could be tainted forever, especially considering her recently broken engagement. She might be ruined.”
“Then you’ll have to succeed,” Stalwood said. “If you do so, then Clairemont will simply die at the end of our investigation. Miss Fitzgilbert will be left a tragic figure, but not a ruined one.”
“And if she truly comes to…to care for me?” he asked, picturing Celia’s upturned face on the terrace. She could love, that was clear.
“Then this is infinitely more tragic,” Stalwood admitted. When Clairemont glared at him, he raised his hands in surrender. “It is distasteful, I don’t disagree. Yet doing this could save untold lives, even save the country from losing this war. You cannot tell me those stakes don’t make the risk to this young woman worth it. If you could freely tell her the potential for lives saved and know that she would not betray you, I’m certain she would agree.”
Clairemont bent his head. He couldn’t disagree with that assessment. The stakes were too high for sentimentality or honesty or honor. Those things were best left to men who had nothing to lose or to fight for. They could afford them.
“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “I will seek to officially court her as soon as possible. But for now, I am tired and I’m going home.”
Stalwood nodded and said nothing as Clairemont passed by him and back out onto the drive for his waiting horse. He swung up onto its back and thundered out toward the ducal townhouse just a short distance away.
Of course, it was a home he didn’t belong in, ridden to on a horse he didn’t own, wearing clothing that wasn’t his. His entire life was stolen, even if it was in the name of the king. Perhaps it made sense that he would be just as mercenary when it came to courting a woman. Everything had its purpose in his tangled life.
But he still felt like utter shit about it.
Clairemont lay on the big, comfortable bed, staring at the fire as it burned down to nothing more than glowing embers. He had been trying to sleep for hours, but rest refused to come when he couldn’t stop reliving his distasteful conversation with Stalwood and the vow he’d made regarding Celia.
Celia. He also couldn’t forget his kiss with Celia.
With a grunt, he rolled to his back and stared up at the intricately carved ceiling instead of the dancing flames. The new position didn’t help his spinning, distracted mind one bit.
The man he was pretending to be liked the finer things in life, that was clear, even in his naughty bedroom décor. The plaster on the ceiling had been carved in a series of bawdy images. Men and women were laid out above him, entangled in pleasures, their faces twisted in ultimate release.
He stared at the faces, the positions, and swallowed hard as his errant mind took over. What would Celia look like in the same positions?
He blinked at that thought. She was alady—he shouldn’t lower her by thinking of her that way. He had no right. But when he was staring at an image of a man’s head buried between a woman’s legs while she arched in pleasure, it was difficult not to do just that.
Celia would be sweet if he tasted her in the same way, he was certain of that. And probably hesitant if he touched her, for most ladies were not told of such things.
But once he passed her resistance, once she relaxed into pleasure, as she had done when he kissed her on the terrace, he was certain she would be responsive to each and every brush of his hand. Each and every touch of his lips on her stomach, her hip, her thigh…her sex.
He groaned at the thought and threw the bedclothes off. He slept naked and his cock was already at full mast. Release would help, he knew it would, so he took himself in hand and began to stroke.
