Page 23 of To Love A Spy
A long soak steeped some of the tension from her muscles. Feeling somewhat better for no longer reeking of dead crabs and rotting seaweed, she stepped from the tub and slowly toweled the water from her skin.Discipline, she repeated to herself, avoiding a glance at the jagged scar cutting across her thigh. She was here to settle an old score with Rochambert, not carp at Lynsley.
Not even in the deepest depths of despair had she ever thought he had deliberately meant to hurt her.
That she had been fallible, fragile was her fault, not his.So why was it so bloody hard to forgive and forget the past?
“Pardon,mademoiselle, but I have finished the alterations on your gown.” A tentative voice sounded from the other side of the bathing screen. “Would you care to try it on now, in case there are any last-minute changes to make?”
Time to slip into her battledress, like a knight donning armor. Time to make herself impervious to pain.
“Yes, thank you.”
The rest of the hour passed in a flurry of activity. With Marie-Claire’s help, Valencia sorted through the rest of Mrs.Tremaine’s staggering assortment of clothing and chose a small trunkful of essentials. Lynsley had looked in just long enough to say that once they arrived in Paris, a more fitting selection of styles and colors could be ordered.
Whether he approved of the seagreen silk was impossible to discern—he did not seem to notice her change from trousers to skirts.
After seeing the luggage and temporary servants safely stowed in the baggage coach, Lynsley handed Valencia into the consul’s private barouche. Freshly shaved and attired in the American’s expensive clothes, he certainly looked like a distinguished diplomat, right down to the gold rimmed spectacles, which accentuated the patrician line of his nose.
“Bon voyage,” called Jalet as he signaled the coachman to spring the horses. “Andbonne chance.”
Valencia slumped against squabs, gingerly drawing the soft wool lap robe over her knees. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was until now. Since fishing the marquess out of the sea, she hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep . . .
“Is you leg hurting you?” asked Lynsley quietly as he took the seat opposite her.
She gave a small shrug. “It sometimes acts up after a bout of prolonged exercise, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. It won’t slow me down, if that’s what you mean.”
He shifted to the oposite seat, then suddenly reached down and took her foot in his hands.
“Sir!” she squeaked as he slid off her slipper and began to massage her toes.
“From now on, you must call me Thomas.” His fingers moved lightly against her flesh, kneading her sole with long, lithe strokes. “After all, we are supposed to be an old married couple.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back. Lud, it was a heavenly sensation. Heat prickled along the length of her leg as hedeepened his efforts. Slowly but surely, the throbbing pain in her thigh melted away under the sensual play of pressure. His well-tended hands were strong and capable.Hard and soft.Strangely enough, it did not feel like a contradiction.
Just a moment longer, she promised herself. Then she would tell him to stop.
A frisson of guilt tickled at her conscience—a whisper of warning that she should not be finding his touch so seductive. She shouldn’t allow such intimacy. The masquerade was just that—a sham, and she had best not get too comfortable with it.
“Mmmm.” Somehow her intended command came out as a drowsy purr. She gave a feline stretch and snuggled a bit deeper into the soft leather. Another turn of the carriage wheels, that was all. Then she would rouse from her naughty indulgence . . .
Valencia awoke some time later to find her head on Lynsley’s chest and his coat wrapped around her shoulders.
“Oh!” Flustered, she tried to pull away.
“I don’t bite,” murmured the marquess, keeping her snugged in the crook of his arm. “Or do I still have a whiff of dead flounder and fluke clinging to my person?”
She drew a breath for a tart reply, only to find herself distracted by the subtle spice of bay rum melded with a distinctly masculine scent, impossible to describe—save to say it wasHim.
“Mr. Tremaine’s cologne is actually quite pleasant,” she managed to reply. “No hint of fish or rotting cabbage. Apparently the Americans are not quite the primitive savages our newspapers describe.”
Lynsley chuckled, his breath stirring the strands of hair by her ear. “Civility does not make for front page copy. The public wants to read about murder, scandal and disasters. Not necessarily in that order.”
Her lips twitched. The marquess possessed just the dry sort of humor she liked. “I’m afraid I can’t argue with you on that.”
“That would be a first,” he murmured.
“Ididgive you a hard time during my school days, didn’t I,” she mused. “Though to be truthful, all of us girls were frightened of you . . .”
His brows shot up in surprise.
