Unwise but Not Dishonorable
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It won’t be a merry Christmas. Dorothea Darsington plans to show up uninvited at a house party, even if it infuriates her matchmaking mother and risks her virtue. How else can she steal back the St. George medallion her foolish brother gambled away?
Spies don’t get time off for Christmas. Cecil Hale follows the trail of the St. George medallion to a Christmas house party—and finds an unexpected guest, the daughter of his spymaster. She’s beautiful and desirable and very much in the way, and he’s honor bound to protect her. But Dorothea is in the mood to be unwise. Can Cecil win her heart and succeed in his mission, all without dishonor? |
Here's an excerpt from Unwise But Not Dishonorable
Dorothea put a candle in the pocket of her dressing gown and tiptoed down the dark passageway. She pushed Lord Restive’s door open, meeting more darkness save for the glow of the banked fire. She crept inside, closed the door, lit the candle with a spill, and went straight to the dressing room.
His jewelry case came first, but no medallion lay amongst his rings and cravat pins. She tried the drawers of the dressing table, which contained sundry items such as combs, knives, razors, a leather strop, soaps, handkerchiefs…and no medallion.
Hurriedly, she checked the pockets of three coats and then the shelves. Nothing. Maybe he had hidden it at the back or bottom of the clothes press—although he had no reason to hide it, for he had won it in fair play. On the other hand, given its reputation, locking it up would make sense.
She should try his bedchamber again. Perhaps she hadn’t been sufficiently thorough. What about the other keys in his bedside table? Had she missed a locked case or box in his room? Perhaps one belonged to a cabinet in the library, or a desk elsewhere in the house, or a strongbox.
She crept toward the door—and stopped.
Footsteps! She opened the door to the bedchamber, dithering. If someone was passing in the corridor, she must wait in one of these rooms. If someone was about to enter the bedchamber or dressing room, she must be elsewhere entirely.
Elsewhere beckoned, in the shape of disgusting Lord Wellough’s dressing room—one place she definitely didn’t want to be.
She opened the door and peeked in. Her candle revealed dark curtains covering the window, a few valises in one corner, and a dressing table, with clothing laid over a chair. Silence reigned; Lord Wellough, in the next room, must be fast asleep. She snuffed her candle and went through the door.
An arm of iron grabbed her, and a hard hand covered her mouth. She struggled frantically, and a voice said in her ear, “It’s I, Cecil Hale. I’ll remove my hand if you promise not to make a sound.”
She nodded, heart beating fit to burst her chest, and he drew his hand away, but still held her firmly against him. “I don’t know what in Hades you’re doing here,” he said in the barest whisper, “but it’s not safe. Stay perfectly still and don’t say a word.” His breath was hot on her ear.
She thought he would let go of her now, but he didn’t. With his free hand, he pulled the door almost closed. Then he stilled and did nothing but hold her and…wait.
For what? Was he spying on whoever was in there? Eavesdropping—as he’d done earlier on her and her mother. But she dared not ask; somehow, she felt compelled to obey. It must be, she thought, that I feel safe with him. That if it truly were dangerous to be here—which it wasn’t—he would protect her.
She relaxed into his embrace. Now that she had calmed a little, she began to be not only curious…but excited. She had never, ever been in such a close embrace with a man. She’d hugged her brothers and kissed Johnny Magee, but this was much different.
Cecil’s powerful arm encircled her just below her breasts, which rested upon those strong muscles and tingled as if they relished it. This was pleasant but a bit mortifying, for he wasn’t the least bit interested in her in a sexual way.
But there was no point in being mortified, so since she couldn’t move an inch or say a word, she let her body enjoy his embrace. Unexpected heat coursed through her. The tingling shimmered from her shameless breasts to her private parts. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensations.
Suddenly he moved her away from the door. “Shh.” She glanced about… Oh, no! There was a light in Lord Wellough’s chamber. The old gentleman mumbled something unintelligible, and footsteps sounded. What if he came into the dressing room?
Thank God Cecil was here, for he would protect her from that horrid old man—but he would then find himself in the awkward position of being obliged to marry her. The gentlemen’s code of honor was such a nuisance! She wouldn’t marry Cecil, of course, but for the sake of his reputation, they should leave immediately.
What a pity, for despite his lack of interest, she’d been having more fun than in simply ages. When she tried to turn, he shushed her again. His arm still around her, he backed her not towards the corridor, but to the windows. A second later, they were ensconced behind the heavy curtains.
Like lovers in an alcove. Every other gentleman who had tried to get her into such a situation had seemed a threat, but not Cecil. She should be aghast at the possible consequences. It was utter folly to enjoy this, but she couldn’t help it. She stifled a giggle.
“Hush!”
That made her laugh even more. She put her arms around him and muffled herself against his chest. Then the door to Lord Wellough’s bedchamber opened, and she did her best to stay still.
“He must have gone to that slut’s room by now,” the old man said. “Damn, but I’d like a piece of that!” To whom was he speaking? No one responded, and only one pair of feet padded into the room. He must be talking to himself. “But the young chit’s even better. Gad, that golden hair! Muff must be golden, too.”
That stilled her utterly. She wasn’t sure what that last comment meant, but she could guess. Cecil held her close. “You’re safe,” he breathed, so close that his mouth almost touched hers.
Which distracted her from Lord Wellough and his vile comments. Safe from other men, yes. Safe from herself? Definitely not. She wanted to kiss Cecil Hale.
Dorothea put a candle in the pocket of her dressing gown and tiptoed down the dark passageway. She pushed Lord Restive’s door open, meeting more darkness save for the glow of the banked fire. She crept inside, closed the door, lit the candle with a spill, and went straight to the dressing room.
His jewelry case came first, but no medallion lay amongst his rings and cravat pins. She tried the drawers of the dressing table, which contained sundry items such as combs, knives, razors, a leather strop, soaps, handkerchiefs…and no medallion.
Hurriedly, she checked the pockets of three coats and then the shelves. Nothing. Maybe he had hidden it at the back or bottom of the clothes press—although he had no reason to hide it, for he had won it in fair play. On the other hand, given its reputation, locking it up would make sense.
She should try his bedchamber again. Perhaps she hadn’t been sufficiently thorough. What about the other keys in his bedside table? Had she missed a locked case or box in his room? Perhaps one belonged to a cabinet in the library, or a desk elsewhere in the house, or a strongbox.
She crept toward the door—and stopped.
Footsteps! She opened the door to the bedchamber, dithering. If someone was passing in the corridor, she must wait in one of these rooms. If someone was about to enter the bedchamber or dressing room, she must be elsewhere entirely.
Elsewhere beckoned, in the shape of disgusting Lord Wellough’s dressing room—one place she definitely didn’t want to be.
She opened the door and peeked in. Her candle revealed dark curtains covering the window, a few valises in one corner, and a dressing table, with clothing laid over a chair. Silence reigned; Lord Wellough, in the next room, must be fast asleep. She snuffed her candle and went through the door.
An arm of iron grabbed her, and a hard hand covered her mouth. She struggled frantically, and a voice said in her ear, “It’s I, Cecil Hale. I’ll remove my hand if you promise not to make a sound.”
She nodded, heart beating fit to burst her chest, and he drew his hand away, but still held her firmly against him. “I don’t know what in Hades you’re doing here,” he said in the barest whisper, “but it’s not safe. Stay perfectly still and don’t say a word.” His breath was hot on her ear.
She thought he would let go of her now, but he didn’t. With his free hand, he pulled the door almost closed. Then he stilled and did nothing but hold her and…wait.
For what? Was he spying on whoever was in there? Eavesdropping—as he’d done earlier on her and her mother. But she dared not ask; somehow, she felt compelled to obey. It must be, she thought, that I feel safe with him. That if it truly were dangerous to be here—which it wasn’t—he would protect her.
She relaxed into his embrace. Now that she had calmed a little, she began to be not only curious…but excited. She had never, ever been in such a close embrace with a man. She’d hugged her brothers and kissed Johnny Magee, but this was much different.
Cecil’s powerful arm encircled her just below her breasts, which rested upon those strong muscles and tingled as if they relished it. This was pleasant but a bit mortifying, for he wasn’t the least bit interested in her in a sexual way.
But there was no point in being mortified, so since she couldn’t move an inch or say a word, she let her body enjoy his embrace. Unexpected heat coursed through her. The tingling shimmered from her shameless breasts to her private parts. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensations.
Suddenly he moved her away from the door. “Shh.” She glanced about… Oh, no! There was a light in Lord Wellough’s chamber. The old gentleman mumbled something unintelligible, and footsteps sounded. What if he came into the dressing room?
Thank God Cecil was here, for he would protect her from that horrid old man—but he would then find himself in the awkward position of being obliged to marry her. The gentlemen’s code of honor was such a nuisance! She wouldn’t marry Cecil, of course, but for the sake of his reputation, they should leave immediately.
What a pity, for despite his lack of interest, she’d been having more fun than in simply ages. When she tried to turn, he shushed her again. His arm still around her, he backed her not towards the corridor, but to the windows. A second later, they were ensconced behind the heavy curtains.
Like lovers in an alcove. Every other gentleman who had tried to get her into such a situation had seemed a threat, but not Cecil. She should be aghast at the possible consequences. It was utter folly to enjoy this, but she couldn’t help it. She stifled a giggle.
“Hush!”
That made her laugh even more. She put her arms around him and muffled herself against his chest. Then the door to Lord Wellough’s bedchamber opened, and she did her best to stay still.
“He must have gone to that slut’s room by now,” the old man said. “Damn, but I’d like a piece of that!” To whom was he speaking? No one responded, and only one pair of feet padded into the room. He must be talking to himself. “But the young chit’s even better. Gad, that golden hair! Muff must be golden, too.”
That stilled her utterly. She wasn’t sure what that last comment meant, but she could guess. Cecil held her close. “You’re safe,” he breathed, so close that his mouth almost touched hers.
Which distracted her from Lord Wellough and his vile comments. Safe from other men, yes. Safe from herself? Definitely not. She wanted to kiss Cecil Hale.
