The Scarlet Spy by Andrea Pickens Page B

comes over me when I am around you. My manners seem to go up in smoke.”
    “Please let me go, Lord Osborne.”
    He drew his hands away, but not before brushing an errant curl from her cheek. She flinched as if singed by his touch. And yet, for a fleeting moment, her mouth had been molten with desire. He had kissed enough women to know that without a doubt.
    “And now that you have taken your pleasure, sir, I trust I can count on your silence in return.”
    Stung by the scorn in her voice, he couldn’t keep from retorting in kind. “The pleasure was not all one-sided, Contessa. Admit it, you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”
    Her cheeks flushed red as her kiss-roughened lips. “Why, you arrogant ass.”
    “You haughty hellion.”
    They stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other through the tendrils of dawn mist. Much as he wished to turn his back on the lady and stalk away, Osborne felt held in thrall by some mysterious spell.
Black magic.
The breeze stirred her loosened hair, setting the raven strands to dancing along the line of her shapely shoulders. Her eyes, aswirl with anger, had an alchemy all their own. Emeralds on fire.
    He found it difficult to breathe.
    A dog barked, breaking the dark enchantment. Swearing softly, Sofia snatched up her hat and tucked her tresses out of view. Several quick strides brought her abreast of her stallion. Without waiting for any assistance, she caught up the reins and vaulted lightly into the saddle, her boot barely touching the stirrup.
    Whatever else her faults, the lady looked magnificent on her mount. Like Minerva, the ancient Roman goddess of war. A bellicose beauty.
    “Andiamo,
Jupiter,” she said.
    The horse whinnied, his hooves kicking up clods of the damp earth. A flick of her heels and they were gone.
     
    A close call.
    Sofia slumped back against the stall door and pressed her palms to her sweat-slicked brow. Another few inches and Osborne’s roving hands would have hit upon the small turn-off pocket pistol hidden in her waistband. He was already asking enough uncomfortable questions without wondering why she was carrying a firearm.
    She bit her lip—a definite mistake, as it was yet another reminder of how badly she had let her guard slip.
    Her tongue flicked over the raw flesh, tasting the lingering traces of his brandy and her own egregious folly. What madness had come over her? The man possessed a potent charm. And a sinful, sensuous smile. When his mouth had come close, hovering a hair’s breadth from hers in the morning mists, she had been powerless to resist.
    Passion.
While she grasped the intellectual concept, the Academy lectures had not quite prepared her for the full brunt of its physical force.
    She shivered at the memory of his probing caresses, his tongue sliding so smoothly through her defenses. Hard yet soft. Sweet yet spiced with a hot, masculine need. The effect had been intoxicating. She had surrendered to his demands without a fight.
    No wonder the devilish Deverill Osborne had seduced half the ladies of London.
    Her sigh sharpened to an oath. Forewarned was forearmed. She would
not
let the man beat her so easily again. He might be a master of sexual swordplay, but he would soon discover that he was not the only one who could wield a sliver of steel. Any future advances on his part would be parried with better skill, she resolved.
    She was no fledging chick—she was a Merlin. Woe to any man who got too close to her talons.
     
    Osborne marched down the corridors of Whitehall, outpacing the young lieutenant who had been assigned to show him the back stairwell that led to the marquess’s office.
    “Sir!” wheezed the officer. “I ought to announce your presence—”
    Ignoring the call, he barged past a startled copy clerk and entered the room.
    “Osborne.” Lynsley looked up over the gold-rimmed lenses of his reading glasses, his brows arching in inquiry.
    “Forgive the intrusion.” All of a sudden, he felt rather silly interrupting