The Scarlet Spy by Andrea Pickens

aloud, smoothing the silk of his dressing gown against his bare skin. He had returned home over an hour ago, and yet here he was, acting like an adolescent schoolboy, mooning over a lady who could barely tolerate his presence. Was it the challenge that had him too restless to seek sleep? Her disdain was tantamount to a taunt.
    And he was vain enough to believe that his charm could disarm any female.
    Yet, so far, Sofia Constanza Bingham della Silveri had parried his pleasantries with ruthless ripostes. With cold steel.
    Damn.
The recollection of her kissing the Italian sent a frisson of fire through his limbs.
    Shrugging off the silk, Osborne stalked to the window and pressed his brow and palms to the leaded panes. The patter of a passing rain seeped through the glass, cool against his naked flesh and tensed muscles. If only it could drown the devils in his head.
    “I’m a bloody, bloody fool,” he cursed, hoping to counter the seductive demon whispers concerning the arch of her neck, the curve of her breasts.
    If anything, the voices grew louder. He stared balefully at his growing erection. The sinful words were like pitchforks to his prick.
    He swore again, his breath misting the glass. Air—he suddenly needed to escape the stifling confines of his room, of his own overheated imagination. Dressing quickly, he grabbed up his boots and hurried for the back stairs.
    It was barely light as he eased open the doors of the mews and rode out toward the Cumberland Gate of Hyde Park. The snorts of his stallion formed puffs of vapor with every step, ghostly white against the rain-gray dawn. Fog hung heavy over the cobblestones, muffling the sounds of the waking city. He passed a drowsy scullery maid struggling with a coal scuttle and a costermonger wheeling his barrow through the puddles.
    At this early hour, the bridle paths should be deserted, he mused. The perfect time for a hell-for-leather gallop. Though as he shifted in the saddle, Osborne realized that riding was perhaps not the best activity at the moment. The feel of his stallion’s flexing muscles and sleek hide against his legs was an uncomfortable reminder that his discontent was as much physical as mental.
    He needed to find another mistress, and fast. Someone sultry and sexy enough to cause his mind and body to forget all about Lady Sofia.
    Spurring to an easy canter, Osborne slowly relaxed into the rhythm of the ride. The question was, who among the available ladies might suit his fancy. No old flame could hold a candle to the contessa. It would have to be someone new, someone unexpected—
    Through the mists and shadows, he suddenly spotted a ripple of motion up ahead. An instant later, the blur took shape as a stallion galloping at breakneck speed between the trees. Amidst the flailing hooves and flying clods of earth, a slim figure was just visible, crouched low and clinging to the saddle.
    “Bloody hell.” Osborne watched in horror as a boot kicked loose from the stirrup, and the rider tumbled toward the ground. But by some miracle, both feet hit the earth, and the lucky devil managed to bounce back up and gain a tenuous grip on the wet pommel.
    Despite the timely acrobatics, the young groom had clearly lost control of the horse and was in danger of being trampled. Osborne urged his own mount forward, ducking the overhanging branches as they gathered speed and raced along the narrow bridle path.
    Thundering through a break in the trees, Osborne’s big bay gained enough ground to pull abreast of the runaway stallion. Fisting his reins in one hand, he angled in closer—a dangerous move, for one tiny slip could break both of their necks.
    Just another inch or two … Daring a low lunge, Osborne grasped the runaway rider around the waist and yanked him to safety. But instead of holding a tearful lad, limp with relief, he found himself fighting a twisting and tossing of tensed muscle.
    “For God’s sake, stop squirming like an eel.”
    The boy had the ballocks