Page 52 of To Love A Spy
But all of a sudden, she cared very much whether Lynsley thought her attractive.
Alluring.
Just this once, she wanted him to see her as a woman, not just one of his warriors.
Don’t be a fool. The irony of such girlish dreams was piercing as sharpened steel. No doubt he saw her as a useful weapon in the fight against England’s enemies, but the ability to lie, deceive, and murder did not paint a very pretty picture for a man to admire.
For gentlemen like Lynsley, the ideal female was a sweet, sheltered miss. A pattern card of polished manners and unsullied virtue.
An Innocent.Which she was decidedly not.
Valencia swallowed hard. Lord, she had lost her innocence long before meeting the marquess. The squalid streets, the grasping pimps, the hardscrabble struggle for food every day. For an orphan, life in the slums of London did not allow for much of a childhood. She couldn’t remember a day when she had ever been free of the wary watchfulness needed to survive.
A stab of sadness cut to her core. She very rarely thought about what life might have been . . .
The soft clink of crystal drew her eyes up. Through the swirl of the amber spirits, Lynsley was watching her with a quizzical look of concern.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No, nothing at all. I was simply reminded of something from long ago.”
His expression remained solemn, serious.
Valencia quickly made light of the matter. “But my past experiences do not make for anything nearly asentertaining as your stories. Indeed, most are rather forgettable.”
“Yes, enough of reminiscing,” murmured the marquess as he went back to his reading.
Despite the blazing coals, the room seemed a bit colder.
Right, she reminded herself. It was best never to lose sight of the fact that this was all about business. She found her place in the book of maps and resumed her study of the Paris streets.
Lynsley finished his cognac in a matter of minutes. “I think I will retire.” He rose. “Good night.”
Chapter Thirteen
“You need not feel compelled to rise with the sun. Ladies are supposed to sleep until noon.” Lynsley set aside the plate of rolls and refilled his coffee as Valencia entered the breakfast room the next morning.
“I am tired of sleeping. And shopping,” she said. “Lud, how do highborn ladies keep from expiring of boredom?”
“They feed on the gossip and cream cakes served up each day in the fancy drawing rooms of their friends,” he replied
“Pastries.” She gave a groan, and poured some tea for herself. “I swear, I shall soon be growing fat from all the rich food and lack of exercise.”
He eyed her willowy figure over the top of his newspaper. “It does not appear to me that you are in any danger of snapping your stays. Besides,” he added with a lift of his brow. “Frenchmen like their women voluptuous, so perhaps you ought to indulge in a few more custards.”
Her cheeks turned a bit pink. “I thought our plans did not yet call for serving me up on a silver platter. So if you don’t mind, I shall refrain from stuffing myself with croissants and crème caramels.”
Lynsley stilled his twitching lips. He had not meant to make light of the danger. It was just that he enjoyed provoking a flare of fire in her face. “Don’t worry, while you may present a feast for Rochambert’s eyes, I don’t intend to let you anywhere near his teeth,” he replied.
Her sigh swirled with the steam rising from her cup. “That is the trouble. I am unused to being swaddled in silks and satins and forced to act like a lady. I am much more comfortable when it comes to taking action.”
“You are doing your part, Valencia.” He sympathized with her simmering frustration. He, too, was feeling the strain of their charade. But the mission could not be rushed. One false move and a consummate professional like Rochambert would sense it.
And they wouldn’t get a second chance.
“We must be patient,” he went on, trying not to sound like a prig. “We must learn more about Rochambert’s habits and the lay of the land before we can think of making a move for the cipher.”
Valencia crumbled a bit of toast between her fingers. Judging by the pile on her plate, she hadn’t tasted a morsel of the baguette. “I understood your orders, sir,” she said, her voice brittle as the toasted crust. “I am not about to run off half-cocked.”
