Page 9 of The Spy Who Loved Her
“But there have been so many.”
“Yes,” she said. “One hundred and seven, to be precise. And I recall them all; every child who has passed through my doors. Every child who has stayed with me, however long their residence, has been loved. They areallmy favorites.” Her fingers fluttered in a tiny gesture toward the closed door. “Neil was the very first.”
Rafe had thought there had been something vaguely familiar about the man. But it had been damned near ten years since that night, and the child he and Chris had delivered to her had grown into a man in the intervening years. Probably the man had not recognized him—though he doubted it would present much of a problem if he had. Emma knew already that he and Chris shared some manner of acquaintanceship, even if he’d been vague on the details thereof. He said, “I thought he was a bit young for a butler.”
“He is,” she said. “Two and twenty, or thereabouts. But I doubt you could find finer in the whole of England.” She drained the last of her glass and gave a little shrug of her shoulders as she set it aside, as if embarrassed. “My apologies,” she said with a small, rueful smile. “I suppose I’ve quite forgotten what polite conversation is meant to be.”
“Don’t apologize. I’ve enjoyed listening.” He’d have enjoyed only the sound of her voice; sweet, clear, soft. Probably she’d acquired that tender tone through comforting countless children, patching up skinned knees and drying tears and perhaps even issuing gentle reprimands for mild infractions. But he had never been close enough to her to hear it before.
Emma lowered her gaze to her hands, which she had folded properly in her lap. “However, you did not come for conversation.”
Rather, it wasn’t conversation that she desired of him. And still, whatever scraps of honor to which he might have laid claim compelled him to once again offer her an easy escape: “You can still change your mind.”
That vibrant skein of hair bound in ribbon slid across her back as she shook her head. “No, I think—I think now it will not be quite so awkward as I expected. Thank you,” she said, in that same soft, gentle voice, “for being so very patient with me. I think Kitdidsend the right man, after all.”
Yes. And for that—and so many other things—Rafe had likely earned a spot right next to Chris in Hell.
Chapter Four
He had expected her to balk, Emma realized. Perhaps he was more perceptive than most gentleman of her acquaintance. Her grasp on her courage had faltered there, just briefly, when the reality of the situation had settled in.
It wasn’t that she didn’twantto do this; it was that the fantasy had been so much different than the reality. It had been an easy thing to want—physical touch, pleasure—when the man involved had been a nameless, faceless stranger. When it had been only a secret longing that had lived inside her chest, within her dreams.
But now he was made real, and sitting beside her on the couch.
His name was Rafe, and he smelled of cloves and cinnamon, like a rich blend of spices that reminded her of a good mulled wine enjoyed over Christmastide. Of settling before a fire in winter while wrapped in a thick blanket, and of watching the snowflakes dance on the breeze without the windows.
He studied her with dark, intense eyes, as if gauging the veracity of her words. “If you’re certain,” he said, finally, in a voice a few shades darker than the one he had used in that idle conversation that had come before. A voice as rich as the brandy they had shared, heady and intoxicating. “Turn your back. I want to unbutton your gown.”
“My gown? But should we not…I mean to say, my bedchamber—”
“Perhaps later.” That hand, which had dangled just above her shoulder, settled upon it at last, turning her to face away from him, gently but inexorably. Then the strange new sensation of her hair being gathered into careful hands and draped over her shoulder. “For now, I don’t want you there, in a room you shared with your late husband. There is no place for other memories in this.”
Oh. Emma felt her brows draw together at the odd insistence within the words. “We didn’t share a bedchamber,” she heard herself say, just as she felt a light tug upon the topmost button of her gown, felt it slip through itsclosure. “That is to say that Ambrose often kept irregular hours. It wouldn’t have been convenient.”
A rough, disdainful sound that tickled her ear. Close enough, vibrant enough to provoke a shiver. “A poor excuse, that. I would not allow something so trifling as convenienceto keep me from my wife’s bed.”
Emma’s spine stiffened with the stirrings of outrage at the tiniest suggestion that she might be poaching, however unknowingly, upon another woman’s territory. “Have you got one?”
A brief pause; his fingers stilling almost completely there between her shoulder blades. “No,” he said at last. “Nor I would be here, in these circumstances, if I did.”
Palpable relief swept over her. “I suppose your chosen profession would make maintaining a marriage a difficult endeavor,” she said awkwardly. “Of course, wives are meant not to notice such things. But I can’t imagine that there wouldn’t be at least somemeasure of jealousy.”
She felt the last button slip its mooring, felt the bodice of her gown loosen. A soft laugh, genuinely amused, stirred the hair near her ear. “And what is it, exactly, that you imagine I do to earn my living?”
“Well, I had assumed—” Her hand lifted in a general vague gesture, meant to encapsulate the both of them.
Warm fingers touched her back, splayed the material of her gown open, revealing the chemise beneath it. “I told you I was a friend of your brother,” he said.
“I assumed that was an obfuscation, or perhaps a euphemistic turn of phrase.”
“You assumed incorrectly.” His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck, tracing a delicate pattern there. Almost as if—as if to acquaint her with his touch, to soothe her from her flustered state. “I told you. He speaks of you often.”
“Highly, you said,” she corrected him. “Not often.” That, too, she had assumed was merely a polite lie, designed to set her at ease.
“He speaks of you often as well.” Those warm fingers pushed the sleeves of her gown off of her shoulders, taking those of her chemise with it. “Do you truly think he would send just anyone to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “In fact, I didn’t ask him to send anyone. I simply thought to prevail upon his connections for someone suitable.” And somehow, he’d found a gentleman—or at least someone who could pass for one. “If you’re not in Kit’s employ, then why did you come?”
