It was the search for Stafford, of course. It caused him sleepless nights and hence his discipline to wither.
This morning, he’d also met with Rainham, and since there appeared to be no leaking of the list of informants, it was now being presumed that Stafford and the documents were no longer of this earth.
Winterbourne and himself had been assigned other tasks, but something stirred maggots in his brain. A niggling doubt.
Via Bluey, he’d discovered that Stafford had been involved with a woman whilst undercover in Paris. Had she persuaded him to become a turncoat? Betray his country? Was a woman his downfall?
Sighing, he clonked his head against the high-backed chair, exhaustion probably accounting for his bad humour.
God forbid, he’d even had to act contrite with Winterbourne, which had been akin to peeling his fingernails back. The marquess had behaved irksome, asking why Aideen wasn’t with him at the Rowe’s ball, and he’d vented his lack of sleep on the fellow who’d solely smirked and mumbled about cherry itches.
Of course, he should have extended the long-standing invite to his wife, but it was too soon.
He knew he couldn’t look at her without…needing.
Not that she was the reason he couldn’t sleep, obviously, but when he did manage a few hours, his dreams ranged from downright erotic to strangely deviant: Aideen tracing the D on his shoulder with her tongue whilst her slender fingers pleasured him; Aideen tied to the four-poster covered in cherries…
Lust alone could explain those dreams but the one about her modestly reading to him in bed was downright perverse.
If he kept away long enough, the lust would dissipate. One night ought to have been enough, surely.
A knock on the door and he bade them enter – probably Rawlins as he’d asked for some fruit, the only item edible in this house.
Briefly he speculated if his duchess had noted the cuisine. Now his mother was no longer head of the household, maybe Aideen would give that chef the heave-ho.
It wasn’t Rawlins.
His wife entered before closing the door behind her. April was a sparse month for fresh produce, but some stored apples filled the fruit bowl she held.
Had Eve come to tempt him?
“Duchess,” he acknowledged. Keep it formal and all would be well.
“Alexander.”
He swallowed. Did she have to call him that? Did she know what it did to him? He gulped brandy, drinking in her presence after successfully avoiding her for five days.
A sweet peach dress swathed her body, with a bronze-coloured shawl draped about her shoulders. That coal-black hair was fixed in a loose coil and a few ringlets framed her face and cascaded over her bosom. Pretty as a bloody picture.
Three years ago, a French spy aptly named The Red Temptress had tried to seduce him for information, but she’d left without success, complaining that he was a joyless, phlegmatic, bloodless, English stone and coincidently…not a spy.
The woman had been outstandingly beautiful and skilled in flirtation, but she had nothing on Aideen.
Beyond doubt, his wife could have him leaking secrets like a rusty bucket if he wasn’t careful.
With swinging hips, she placed the bowl on the table and twirled a ringlet. He slitted his eyes – what was the minx up to?
“I should like to attend the Miltons’ masquerade ball two nights hence.”
“No.”
That ball skirted the very edge of propriety. A fair few guests were Cyprians, and most could have been, they behaved so badly. The rest weren’t much better, even if they were from the scions of high nobility… And in addition, he himself was due to attend that ball in order to rendezvous with a certain Sir Phineas as he’d served in France with Stafford and might have information on this Frenchwoman.
Being a priggish duke and all that, it was not an event Rakecombe would normally grace with his presence, but needs must. Sir Phineas had wanted to meet somewhere he wouldn’t be recognised – where better than a masquerade?
“No?” his wife queried, black eyebrow raised in blatant haughtiness. That was his trick, but she did it very well.
“No. Rakecombe stock do not attend such scurrilous events. It’s not respectable, my little leprechaun.”
