While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) by Shana Galen

the bedchamber. My daughter won’t become another of your trophies.”
    Ethan rose to his full height, standing across the desk from the viscount. Brigham was not a small man, but Ethan still had several inches on him. He leaned forward, hands on the desk, mirroring Brigham’s posture. “And if I wanted her, do you think a man like you could stop me?”
    Brigham made no response, and the two stood silently appraising each other, tension building with every tick of the clock on the mantel. It began to chime four as the majordomo opened the library door.
    “You called, my lord.”
    “Lord Winterbourne was just leaving, Norton.” Brigham’s gaze never left Ethan’s. “Escort him out.”
    “Yes, my lord.” Norton stood aside, holding the library door open.
    The clock dinged for the second time, but Ethan waited until the clanging ceased and the muted tick-tock of its turning wheels and cogs filled the hushed room. Then he leaned slowly and deliberately forward until his face was inches from the viscount’s.
    “If anything happens to her, anything at all...” Ethan’s words pounded the silence with the sharp staccato of a hammer. The threat hung in the taut stillness between them.
    “Good day, sir,” Brigham said.
    Ethan turned and strode through the door into the entrance hall. His long strides quickly outpaced the flustered majordomo who ran behind him in a feeble attempt to keep pace.
    Somewhere in the background he heard Lady Brigham squeal, “Oh, Signore !”
    He didn’t slow. Outlandish mother. Indifferent father. He was well rid of them.
    “My lord? Oh, Lord Winterbourne! Arrivederci, Signore . Come again! Anytime! Per favore ?” Her voice faded.
    A footman entering the hall jumped aside. Ethan bore down on the door. The majordomo made a last rush, scampering to open the door before Ethan could tear it from its hinges.
    He stalked through the courtyard, careless of where he stepped and smashing several of the smaller plants. When he’d passed under the portico, he made for the stables and Destrehan. He didn’t know what angered him more—Brigham’s blasé approach to his daughter’s safety or his own preoccupation with her.
    He was behaving like a fool, and he knew it. His reaction to her was incomprehensible. Take those chocolate tarts the footman had brought with the tea. Ethan had found himself unreasonably angry that the girl’s mother wouldn’t allow her to have one. He had even begun to plan ways to distract the woman so that Francesca could swipe one. Ridiculous.
    Halfway to the stable, he’d forced his thoughts back to Skerrit’s murder and the smugglers by the stream. Amazing what a man could do if he put his mind to it. He congratulated himself on dismissing the girl so quickly. By the time he reached Grayson Park, she’d be a distant memory. She was already a distant memory.
    Until he saw her in the distance, striding up a short rise.
    He slowed down.
    Damn.
    Keep walking. Keep walking.
    She wasn’t wearing her mantle any longer, and even from this distance he saw the way her full breasts pushed against the fabric of her light blue gown. The way the material clung to the curve of her hips when the wind caught it, as the breeze did now, chasing up the folds of the cloth, molding the fabric against her shapely body, then moving to frolic in her long chocolate tresses, which had once again escaped their confinement. Her dark hair swirled about her milk-white face, reminding him of the beautiful enchantress from his nanny’s nursery tales. She used fairy magic to bewitch mere mortals.
    Damn. He sounded like a lovesick poet—the kind of inane fop he’d detested at Cambridge.
    He sped up again, closing the distance to the stable.
    The stocky boy with whom he’d left Destrehan saw him coming and rushed inside. “One minute, yer lordship. One minute.”
    While he waited, he couldn’t resist a last glance at Francesca.
    She was gone.
    He blinked once, certain his eyes were deceived. He