Freddie squeezed beneath the bed, whisking her skirts out of sight just as a man stepped into the room. His steps were muffled by the carpet next to the door. He was alone.

Freddie wiggled closer to the foot of the bed. Who was here? The shadows stretched across the room, blanketing the underside of the bed and shrouding her. She peeked beneath the drape of the bed skirt.

The man’s back was to her. He wore eveningwear entirely of black, from his polished boots to the jacket covering his wide shoulders. The dark color of his clothing brought out brown tints to his dark hair. When he sighed, running his hand through his hair, he gifted her with his profile.

Lord Tristan Graylocke.

“What a headache.”

In that, she couldn’t agree more. Her heart hammered in the base of her throat, a painful beat counting down the seconds until he found her in his room. She bit hard into her lower lip to keep from making a sound.

The clench of her teeth stifled her gasp a moment later when he swiftly undid the buttons of his tailcoat and shucked it, throwing it over the back of the armchair. He was undressing!

That, she most certainly did not want to be present to watch. And yet, some wild part of her wouldn’t let her look away. His cravat came next, the strip of cloth let fall to the floor mere feet away from her. When Lord Graylocke shifted, bending down to tug off his boots, Freddie held her breath and scurried farther beneath the bed.

She wasn’t here to gawk at his male form. She was here to find a book. Even that thought couldn’t spur her into movement. Fear paralyzed her.

Leaving his boots by the door, Lord Graylocke padded in his stocking-clad feet into the adjoining room, a dressing room. The moment he was out of the room, Freddie lurched into action. She rolled to the edge of the bed.

Wait. What if the book was hidden beneath here, after all? She gritted her teeth. Her fingernails made sharp crescents of pain in her palms as she warred with herself. Releasing an exasperated breath, she leaned beneath and ran her hand along the frame.

The search yielded nothing but wasted time. Her entire body tingled with the near certainty that Lord Graylocke would leave his dressing room in a moment and find her out. She needed to escape.

She darted across the room so quickly, she forgot about the boots he’d left tangled on the floor. She tripped over them and fell against the table by the door, jostling her hip and the candle. She dove for the candlestick, catching it but burning her hand with hot wax in the process. Hissing, she replaced the sputtering flame on the table.

When she looked up, her gaze locked upon the figure darkening the dressing room door. Lord Graylocke. Her mind blanked. She could think of nothing but escape. She lunged for the door. Her fingers slipped on the latch and she wrestled it open a moment too late. Lord Graylocke splayed his palm over the door and shoved it closed, leaning his full weight against it.

His heat bracketed her back. She turned, but she had nowhere to run. The wooden door was cool against the backs of her bare arms. She lifted her chin to meet Lord Graylocke’s fierce stare.

“So you are a spy, after all.”

Freddie’s lips parted, but she couldn’t find the words to speak.

He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t bother denying it. Not even you can concoct a persuasive argument as to what business you had in my room and why you were attempting to sneak out.”

Her gaze dipped to the bare hollow of his throat. The candlelight illuminated his skin, giving it a golden glow. The laces of his shirt were undone, spreading wide to show his collarbone and a hint of the crisp, black hair on his chest.

Freddie’s cheeks flushed. “Can we have this conversation while you’re dressed?”

He laughed, leaning a bit closer. “No. I like it better when you’re off-balance.”

Freddie swallowed. She lived most of her life tripping over her feet, not over her tongue. She didn’t like this tongue-tied feeling. She forced herself to focus on his chin, not his sharp gaze. The dark shadow of stubble covered his jaw.

She licked her lips, a nervous habit. “Are you going to kill me, Lord Graylocke?” Her heart rattled in her chest like it was trying to escape. What good would she do her mother and sister if she were dead?

“Tristan.”

His dark, intimate tone shocked her. She raised her gaze to his. The look in his eye was just as wicked.

“I…I beg your pardon?”

“If we’re going to speak frankly, in my room and while I’m half dressed, no less, you ought to at least call me by my Christian name.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, the sensual curve of his lips. “That isn’t proper.”

“None of this is. What do you say…Frederica?”

She made a face. “I prefer Freddie.”

When he took a step back, she suddenly found herself able to breathe freely again. She gulped for air. It froze on the way to her lungs when he bowed over her bare hand, lifting it to his lips.

“Lady Freddie.”

She was no Lady, and never would be. She clamped her lips together, refusing to play his game and point out the error, thereby admitting that she was lesser than him.

She was not. Rank didn’t amount to everything.

The moment his lips brushed her skin, tingles cascaded over her hand. She yanked it out of his grasp. “I’d like to leave.”

His face hardened as he straightened. “Not yet.”

She swallowed at his curt tone. She glanced toward the miniatures he kept at his bedside. Right now, there was no trace of that softhearted man. His every contour was filled with determination.

“Why are you doing this?”

Given his tone, no answer would be to his liking.

She raised her chin. “You wouldn’t understand.”

At that, his left eyebrow twitched higher. “Wouldn’t I? We’re both fighting for something.”

Again, her gaze turned to the small oval portraits of his family. “I have no idea what you’re fighting for.”

He no longer leaned against the door. She fumbled for the latch, hoping to yank the door open and escape before he caught her.

Then what? He already knew she was a spy. Perhaps he didn’t know for whom. Could she pretend to be on his side? Probably not convincingly, given the hawkish way he examined her.

“I don’t expect someone like you to understand. After all, I can’t fathom why you’ve aligned yourself with Harker.”

She notched up her chin an inch higher. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” Her voice was weak. Grouping herself with the likes of him left a bitter taste in her mouth. But she wasn’t only doing this for her sake and for Charlie’s. She was doing this for Britain. If their allegiances had been the other way around, she never would have agreed, not for love or money.

Tristan grunted, a noise of disbelief. “Even you don’t believe that.”

Drat! How could he tell?

“Are you being coerced?”

She pressed her lips together to keep from saying a word. She managed to twist her fingers around the latch and carefully draw it out. Almost there! Triumph swept through her.

Until Tristan laid his weight on the door once more. “Close-lipped are you, Miss Vale?” He leaned so close, his breath batted over her cheek. He smelled sweet and a bit spicy, like after-dinner port. “Maybe this will help.”

He canted his head and pressed his lips against hers.

Her breath hitched. Her knees weakened. Her fingers tightened over the door handle, the only solid thing keeping her standing. Her head whirled like she’d spun around too fast. All because of the warm weight of his mouth against hers. When he retreated and cooler air rushed in, her lips throbbed with awareness.

“You don’t have to work for Harker. We could use a woman like you.”

“Never.” The word left her lips, scarcely louder than her breath. Even so, when he leaned his head closer again, she couldn’t help but tip her chin up to meet him.

His kiss was different this time. Less cajoling and more demanding. She surrendered, transferring her hand from the door to his broad, firm shoulder. When he nipped at her lips, she gasped at the sensation. He deepened the kiss, pressing her against the door. His body was the only thing holding her upright.

Sensation swept her away. The feel of his muscular body against hers. The harsh sound of their breathing. His taste, sweet port with a slight bitter undertone of cheroot smoke. The hungry way he kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough.

Abruptly, he stepped away. She leaned against the door. Her legs trembled. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“You should leave.”

She didn’t understand why he was letting her go after catching her spying, but she didn’t question him. Her hand slipped as she fumbled the latch free. She stumbled into the hall, drawing the door shut behind her before she leaned her weight against it. She needed a moment to steady herself.

It was a moment she didn’t have. A woman’s heels clicked against the floor upon her approach. Lucy, it had to be. Freddie couldn’t be seen here. She darted for the other end of the hall, and the heavy tapestry shielding the hidden door. Her legs wobbled, threatening to give way. If Lucy found her outside Tristan’s door…

Heaven help Freddie. Lucy wouldn’t suggest she and Tristan marry, would she? The notion birthed a torrent of desperation. It lent her strength. With difficulty, she lifted the heavy tapestry and pried open the door behind her.

She shut it just in time. The click of the heels paused for a second, then resumed. A moment later, a door opened and shut. Freddie leaned against the cold stone wall, relieved.

It was only at that moment that she realized she didn’t have so much as a candle to light her way. She didn’t dare return to that corridor, so close to Tristan. Instead, she opted to fumble the rest of the way in the dark. A fitting end to the escapade, considering she felt the exact same way when it came to spying.

Her future was just as murky.