The Scarlet Spy by Andrea Pickens Page A

to answer with an oath. Another kick grazed his horse’s flanks. The bay snorted and shied away, nearly unseating them both.
    “Bloody little bastard,” he growled, trying to control the ungrateful imp’s sharp elbows.
    In the tussle, the lad’s floppy cap came loose, revealing a tumble of raven tresses.
    “L-lady Sofia?” Osborne blinked, wondering whether he had taken complete leave of his senses. For unless he was crazy, it was the contessa in his arms, dressed as a boy in breeches and a moleskin jacket.
    “Yes, dammit. Now let me go,” she demanded.
    As he drew to a skittish halt, she wrenched free of his hold and dropped lightly to the turf. Turning without a word, she stalked away to snatch up the reins of her own mount.
    He slid down from the saddle and hurried after her. “Are you all right, milady?”
    “I am quite fine,” she snapped.
    “But …”
    “But what?” She whirled around, eyes ablaze, cheeks flushed, ringlets in wild disarray around her face.
    Osborne couldn’t tear his eyes away from her—and the curves set off by the snug buckskins.
    “Hell, you ride like a Hussar,” he said admiringly.
    “A fact I hope you will keep to yourself.” It was no longer merely anger but trepidation he saw on her face.
“Prego,
Lord Osborne,” she added after drawing a deep breath. “I beg you will not speak of this to anyone. I am aware that the rules governing a lady’s behavior are very strict here in England. Many people might consider me too … fast.”
    “Dangerously fast, Lady Sofia.” Osborne stepped closer. They were both still a bit breathless from the exertion, and he could feel the whisper of warmth cut through the damp mists swirling around them. Gentlemanly scruples demanded that he honor her request. But at the moment, a far more devilish desire seemed to overpower any notion of honor.
    “In our country, it is customary that one who asks a favor is willing to grant one in return.”
    Her eyes widened slightly. Whether it was shock or a spark of some other emotion was difficult to discern in the shifting shadows. “What sort of favor, Lord Osborne?”
    Despite the chill, her skin glistened with tiny beads of sweat, and the pulse at her throat mirrored the thud of his own racing heart. His lips lowered and covered the quivering spot.
    A moan resonated somewhere deep in her throat, but she didn’t push him away.
    Emboldened, Osborne skimmed a kiss along the line of her jaw, inhaling the sublime sweetness of her scent.
Heather and honey.
He couldn’t help himself—he simply
had
to have a deeper taste. Crushing his mouth to hers, he drew her lower lip between his teeth.
    Gently, gently.
But his body was not listening to his mind. His stubble scraped against her delicate flesh as he forced her head back. His hands threaded through her windblown hair; his tongue thrust deep inside her, drinking in her warmth.
    Dear God, he was drowning in pure, primal desire.
    What a spectacle he was making of himself. The debonair Deverill Osborne, desperate for a fleeting kiss.
    He didn’t care. His hands found the opening of her jacket, and then the swell of flesh beneath the scrunch of linen. Cupping her breasts, he stroked upward.
    Her response was fiercely feminine. The tips of her nipples hardened against his palms.
    “Please …” She twisted back and forth, rubbing the front of her breeches against his hardening cock. “Please, this really must stop.”
    Osborne’s simmering frustrations were on the verge of exploding. “If you are begging for release, you are going about it all wrong.”
    She stilled in his arms.
    “Why are you so warm to that preening peacock of a conte and so cold to me?” he demanded.
    “I … he …” she stammered. “Marco is an old friend.”
    “An old lover?”
    She looked away, her loosened hair falling across her face, a shimmering black curtain between them.
    “I’m sorry. That was unspeakably rude,” he said with a ragged sigh. “I don’t know what