“I cut myself,” she murmured in a husky voice.

“How? When?” he asked, slowly caressing her.

“I… I was twelve,” she said, and he decided he very much liked the breathless way she sounded. “I was digging in mud and unearthed a sharp stone that cut my hand.”

“Digging in mud? Fond of gardening, are you?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t planting when I was injured.”

“What were you doing? Hunting for buried treasure?”

“No. I was making a mud pie.”

Nathan pulled his gaze away from their hands to look into her eyes. “A mud pie?”

“Yes.”

“By mud pie you mean a pie made from mud?”

“I hardly mean a pie made from apples and honey.”

“And what would an earl’s daughter know about making mud pies?”

She lifted her chin. “Quite a lot actually, as I used to make them frequently. The dirt from the lower gardens at Wexhall Manor was far superior to that in the upper gardens. But the soil near the pond was the best of all.”

Nathan shook his head. “I simply cannot imagine you playing in the mud. Getting… dirty. Why did you do it?”

She hesitated, then said, “I loved the pies our cook made and I wanted to learn how to bake them. But Mother forbade me from spending time in the kitchens. Therefore I had to pretend.”

“You weren’t allowed in the kitchens but you were permitted to dig in the mud?”

“No. Mother would have flown into the boughs if she’d found out. Actually, the day I received the cut that left that scar was the day she found out. After I was properly bandaged, Mother treated me to an extremely long-winded lecture on the proper decorum of young ladies-one part of which is that they never, ever make mud pies.”

“And did you ever make another one?”

Her lips twitched and a whiff of mischief crept into her eyes. “Hmmm. I’m not certain I should answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“You might well be scandalized. Besides, I’d hate to dispel your exalted opinion of me as a hothouse-flower earl’s daughter who would never deign to dirty her hands in the mud.”

“After the things I’ve seen in my profession, I assure you, nothing could scandalize me. And as you’ve already managed to poke a number of holes in my perception of you, you might as well poke another.”

“Very well. Yes, I did make more mud pies. Many more. Mother never found out, and those hours I spent pretending to be the finest baker in all of England were amongst the happiest of my childhood.”

An image of her preparing her culinary mud delights popped into his mind, bringing with it a warm feeling he couldn’t put a name to. “Did you ever learn how to bake a real pie?”

She gave a short laugh. “No. It was merely a silly childhood wish.”

Nathan studied her for several seconds, then said, “Just when I think I’ve pinpointed the sort of person you are, I discover something else about you, such as a fondness for mud pies, that…” Enchants me. Bewitches and beguiles me. Intrigues and fascinates me. “… surprises me.”

“I could say the same about you-except for the mud pies, of course. Unless you were fond of them yourself?”

“I’m afraid not. Not that I didn’t relish getting dirty at every opportunity, but growing up near the sea, it was always sand castles for me.”

Her eyes sparkled with interest. “A castle made from sand? The sort of castle a princess would live in?”

“Good God, no. The sort fearless warriors resided in as they prepared for battle.” He looked up at the ceiling with an air of exaggerated manly exasperation. “Princesses. Heaven help us.”

“Well, if I were to build a castle from sand,” she said with a haughty sniff, “it would be for a princess.”

He couldn’t help but grin. “This does not surprise me, what with you being so very girlish.”

“I suppose I cannot help that, as, since it has apparently escaped your notice, I am a girl.” She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “For a spy, you really are shockingly unobservant.”

Her gaze dropped and he looked down, as she was, at their hands. His finger still brushed lightly over the faint scar. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to lift her hand and press his lips to that mark. Something strange happened to the area around his heart, a weak sensation that felt as if the moorings holding it in place in his chest shifted. Damn it, he’d noticed she was a girl. The instant he’d set eyes on her three years ago. Only now she was no longer a girl, but a woman. A beautiful, desirable woman. And every nerve and cell in his body was screamingly, achingly aware of that fact.

She cleared her throat, then gently slid her hand away from his to dip her quill tip in the ink. “You say you wish me to replicate your letter, Dr. Oliver, yet you’ve distracted me from doing so. I’d best return to the task.” She bent her head over her vellum.

He’d distracted her? Damn it, she was the distracting one. “Nathan,” he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

She looked up only with her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“You called me Dr. Oliver. I prefer simply Nathan.”

She nodded. “Very well. May I now return to this task which you set me upon?”

“Yes,” he said, feeling inexplicably annoyed. She applied herself to her writing, and Nathan forced himself to do the same, and pretended he didn’t know she was close enough to touch.

Eleven

As most gentlemen are fond of gambling, Today’s Modern Woman should take advantage of, or create, an opportunity to issue her gentleman a wager with a reward for the winner-but not money. No, a much more enticing prize is a kiss. Not only would both parties then win, but that kiss could lead to even more interesting rewards.


A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore


After rereading the note she’d written for a final time, and satisfied that she’d reproduced it verbatim, Victoria set down her quill and looked up to discover Nathan’s intense gaze resting upon her.

“I’ve finished,” she said, hating the breathless edge to her voice. She slid the vellum toward him. Reaching out, he turned the page so he could read it.

“How accurate do you think this is?” he asked, scanning the words.

“I’m confident it’s an exact duplicate. I read the original dozens of time last evening, examining each sentence closely. The wording was memorable to me because it was… unusual. Stilted. If I hadn’t known the letter was from my father, I never would have believed it. I’ve often helped him with his social correspondence, and nothing has ever read like that letter.” She frowned. “And the contents were so strange. Father has absolutely no interest in art, yet he goes on and on about a painting. If you give me another piece of vellum, I’ll try to duplicate the drawing that was sketched at the bottom of the note.”

His head snapped up. “Drawing?”

“Yes. Supposedly a rendition of the painting he wrote about. Based on the sketch he’d done, the painting is quite hideous.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“You didn’t ask me before.”

Muttering something under his breath that sounded less than complimentary, he pulled open a drawer in the desk, then pushed a new piece of vellum toward her.

“Thank you,” she said primly, then set to work. A half hour later, after much thought, concentration, and toil, she pushed the vellum back toward him. “There you are.”

He flipped the page around and scowled at it. “What the devil is that supposed to be?”

“I presume it is the landscape that he believed you might be interested in acquiring, although why on earth you would want such an ugly painting that consists of nothing more than a mass of untidy squiggles is beyond me.”

He looked up from the drawing and pinned her with his gaze. “This is exactly what it looked like? The same size, the same number of squiggles, all the same length?”

“As near as I can recall. I fear I’m not an artist.”

“An understatement if ever I’ve heard one.”

She shot him a potent glare. “Even if I were Da Vinci himself, I fear I did not pay as much attention to the drawing as I did to the body of the letter itself. Do you recognize the painting?”

“No, but that isn’t surprising. Clearly what your father drew, under the guise of a painting, was a map, one that would presumably contain the location of the jewels.”

“Really?” A sense of excitement trilled through her. “Are you merely guessing because hidden maps are the sort of things spies do, or do you know for certain?”

“Hidden maps are our forte, of course,” he said in a dry tone, “but I know for certain based on what I’ve decoded from your father’s letter.”

She leaned across the desk. “You’ve deciphered the note? So quickly? How did you figure it out? Will you show me how you did it? What does it say?”

His lips twitched at the barrage of questions. “Yes, I’ve deciphered it. I figured it out so quickly because not only was decoding my specialty, but I am unsurpassedly brilliant.”

“Hmmm. I don’t believe ‘unsurpassedly’ is a word, Dr. Brilliant.”

He waved his hand. “It should be. As for showing you how I did it, I fear I cannot, for it quite clearly states in the Official Spy Handbook that a spy cannot, under any circumstances, no matter how he might be coaxed or tortured or kissed, reveal any code used by the Crown.”

“Coaxed, tortured, or kissed?”

He heaved a heavy sigh. “It was all in the line of duty, I assure you. As for what the note said…” His voice trailed off and his expression sobered.

“What is it?” she asked, a fissure of dread snaking down her spine.