Page 15 of After the Spy Seduces

“Loyalty is never a fault, general.” She pushed herself up to her full height, then reached for his glass. “Ask any of the men who served under you.”

“Perhaps not.” His gaze followed her as she crossed to his desk and the silver tray where he kept his favorite liquor, the bottles and decanters all lined up with perfect military precision. “Yet no matter how much he fails, you always defend him.”

She smiled as she refilled the glass. “Because I know the potential he possesses.” She replaced the stopper and set the bottle down, then extended the glass as she walked back to him. “Just as I know thatyoudeserved to be made field marshal.”

“Bah!” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand before taking the glass from her, but he couldn’t hide his expression of pride that her comment brought. “Wellesley was made field marshal, and look at what happened to him. The poor bastard was forced into politics.” He took a long swallow. “I’d rather have died quickly by bullet at Waterloo than from a slow death by political debate in Westminster.”

She smiled wryly at that. Knowing that answering would only mire her into another argument about how politics and the military should never mix, she put an end to the conversation by placing a kiss to his forehead. Then she poured a second glass of port for herself and settled into the chair opposite his. She’d never shied away from so-called men’s drinks and had earned more of her father’s respect because of it.

What haunted her, though, was that she’d disappointed him in so many other ways.

“You should be off to bed.”

She eyed him over the rim of the glass. “So should you.” Her gaze traveled to the memoir pages he’d been working over. Hoping to gain some insight into why the French wanted them, she asked nonchalantly, “How is your writing progressing?”

“Slowly.” He let out a deep sigh. “It’s taking me longer to write about the first offensive than it took to wage the entire Waterloo campaign.”

A prick of hope tingled inside her as warmly as the port trickling down her throat. Perhaps the general could provide information she could use to find Garrett…or at least to convince Carlisle not to turn her in as a traitor. “Is that what you’re working on now? Waterloo?”

“Nothing as exciting as that, I’m afraid. Only the meetings leading up to the campaign.” He shook his head. “Paxton thinks everyone will want to read about those, so he’s insisting that we go over that bit in detail.Lotsof details.” He grimaced. “Personally, I think he’s wrong to give the reading public credit for having an interest in such minutiae, but he’s not steered me wrong yet. Almost ten years now that he’s been my aid, do you realize that? He was only a green captain when I first met him. And you, sergeant, were nothing more than a tomboy in breeches.” His face shined with fatherly pride. “Now you’re a fine young lady, and he’s a major with solid prospects of becoming a general.”

And…they were right back to where they’d started, with her father hoping she’d accept the major’s suit.

She grimaced into her glass. There wasn’t enough port in Portugal for that.

“That’s what I was planning on doing tomorrow.” He kicked out his long legs as he settled back, his glass balanced on his stomach. He waved a hand toward the papers on his desk. “Going over the entries from my diaries and making notes.”

“About the time of Boney’s Hundred Days?” she pressed gently. Those were the pages that the French wanted—descriptions of the events leading up to the Waterloo campaign nearly ten years ago. God only knew why. “It must have been a very important time.”

“Wellington’s memoirs about that period are far more interesting than mine, I assure you. While he was developing battle strategy, I was in meetings. One after another…with the Prussians, the French, the other Allies…followed by endless discussions and even more meetings.” He grimaced. “Not the most thrilling of material to sell copies of a memoir.”

No. So why did the French ask for them? And why on earth did they refuse them once they’d been handed over?

Her heart sank. She had no new ideas on how to free her brother.Ifhe’d even been kidnapped at all. The night was ending in just as much swirling confusion as it had begun.

She bit back a groan. How had her life come to this, that the only thing saving her brother was a promise from a Carlisle?

The world had gone mad. Everything had been turned upside down, and she had absolutely no idea how to right it.

After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, Diana said good night to her father and left for her own room, only to pause in the hallway outside her door. Finally alone, safely hidden in the shadows of the silent house around her, she sank back against the wall and touched her lips.

Sweet mercy, they were still warm from Carlisle’s kiss, still tingling with the feel of his mouth capturing hers. And what a feeling it had been, too…that wonderful, heavenly sensation blossoming through her of utter femininity and physical awakening, making her feel beautiful and alive. How long had it been since a man made her experience those feelings, so intensely and deeply inside her that they were nearly overwhelming? Not just giddiness over a new attraction, not even just physical lust—

But the desire to lose herself completely in another.

That’s what she’d felt tonight. A longing to simply melt into him and float away until bliss claimed her. She’d not felt that in so very long. Not even with Robert, who had been the only man she’d let seriously court her since returning from India. That was one of the reasons why she wouldn’t marry him, although she’d never told him, not wanting to hurt his feelings. She knew the passions and joys that could come from being with a man, and despite his handsome looks, he’d not stirred those feelings inside her.

But God help her, Christopher Carlisle had. Even now the thought of it terrified her. Because for one desperate moment when she’d been in his arms, she’d wanted him to do so much more than just kiss her.

What a goose she was, to ruminate over Carlisle, of all men! Perhaps the world hadn’t gone mad. Butshecertainly had.

Pushing herself away from the wall, she hurried up the stairs to the second floor, where she quietly opened the door to the old nursery.

Diana paused just inside the large room where Meredith and her nanny spent most of their days. She’d painted the nursery herself last winter, to celebrate Meri’s leaving her crib for a real bed, creating a fairytale world of forest and flowers, with a blue sky and white fluffy clouds sailing overhead. She’d even glued tiny bits of colored glass and mirror to the ceiling so that, when the lamps were put out at night, the firelight would shimmer across them and make the mosaic sparkle like a field of stars. Toys filled the room, from the large rocking horse to the tiny table where Meri played at tea, along with dozens of dolls and shelves of picture books. On the end wall, where Diana had painted a castle so that Meri would feel like a princess when she was in the room, sat a little pink and white canopied bed.

She smiled. The little bump beneath the coverlet, nestled down among all the pillows, rose and fell with each slow and steady breath, deep in sleep.

Diana carefully sat on the edge of the bed so she wouldn’t wake Meri. She peered down at the round face with its long eyelashes lowered against the tops of her cheeks and pouty pink lips parted slightly in sleep. An angel. Slowly, she reached to brush her hand through the silky chestnut curls lying across the small pillow—