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Reclaiming the Spy

By Lorri Dudley

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Prologue:
Laurel House, Worcestershire, England 1807
Abigail Hartington Emerson’s new husband scooped her into his strong arms. Her petticoats flounced and her feet dangled in the air. Nicholas faltered a step and she shrieked, digging her nails into the thick wool of his overcoat. “I love you, Nicholas Emerson, but it’s bad portent to drop your new wife, especially before you cross the threshold.”
The glint in those mischievous hazel eyes revealed he was teasing her by pretending to trip. “I’m not going to let you fall. In fact, now that I’ve made you mine, my plan is to never let you out of my arms.”
She clung to his shoulders, buried her face in his neck, and breathed in his woodsy scent of newly cut cedar. The vibrations of Nick’s husky laughter tickled her nose. She lifted her head but didn’t relax her grip.
“Welcome to Laurel House, Mrs. Abigail Emerson.” Nicholas raised his gaze to the rustic two-story stone home that stretched along the bulrushes. Ivy climbed the exterior as if wrapping the house in a leafy embrace, and the primrose in full bloom burst with cheery color from each window box.
“Do you hear that?” He tilted his ear up.
Abby stilled but only heard a distant woodlark song.
“It’s the sound of our future children playing.”
“Truly?”
“I hear them as clearly as the clock tower.”
“I do hope you’re being prophetic and that I didn’t marry a man who’s as mad as a hatter.”
A crooked smile graced his lips.
His breath mingled with hers, tickling her mouth and cheeks.
“Either way, I don’t care. As long as you’re mine.” Public affection was considered improper, but on impulse she pressed her lips to his, savoring their velvety feel and his strong arms.
His mouth moved on hers with a slow, tantalizing kiss —just a taste of what the next forty or more years would hold.
The front door swung open.
Abby tore away with a gasp.
Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, stepped aside and held the door to allow the newlyweds passage.
Heat spread through Abby’s cheeks quicker than a house fire. When was she going to learn to control her whims? She avoided the woman’s gaze as Nicholas swept her across the entranceway into the open foyer.
The setting sun spilled its golden rays through the mullioned window, illuminating the large bouquet of red roses, most likely freshly cut from his mother’s rose garden, that graced the pedestal table.
Her new home. Her grip on the lapel of his coat tightened. The reality of this momentous day sank in. She was Laurel Manor’s new mistress.
Would she make a good wife? Would she please her new husband?
Nick’s eyes sparked. He held her gaze while he addressed Mrs. Smith, “You may attend to your duties.”
With a knowing smile, the woman bobbed a curtsy. The massive ring of keys at her hip jingled with her steps as she departed.
Nick held Abby tight and kicked the door shut with his heel. He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, “I love you, Abigail Emerson.”
She savored his possessive tone as much as she relished the sound of her new name. Her fingers slid over his collar and rubbed little circles along his neck.
A proud roar rumbled in his chest, and he mounted the stairs.
Abby tucked in her legs beneath her thick layers of petticoats. She laughed and squeezed him tight.
He stopped at the entrance of the bedchamber that adjoined his and slowly released her.
She melted down his body like a pat of butter on warm bread. When her slippers touched the floor, he crushed her to him.
He smelled heavenly—masculine and woodsy, comforting and breathtaking at the same time.
With a force of will, she disentangled her arms from around his neck.
“This will be your room.”
She turned and gasped at the chamber decorated beautifully in rich, creamy ivory and gold fabrics. “It’s lovely.”
Her eyes settled on the large canopy bed in the center—the marriage bed—and her stomach fluttered.
He pointed to the right. “Over there is the adjoining door to my chamber. I’ll give you ten minutes.”
He scooted her in the direction of her lady’s maid waiting in the corner. “Go and get yourself ready.”

***
Nicholas Emerson closed the door and strode into his stately room, loosening his cravat in front of the freestanding looking glass. By Jove, was this how Wellington felt after winning the Battle of Trafalgar? No longer would Nicholas be remembered as the crossed-eyed kid. His eye had straightened out as he’d grown. His clumsiness had faded, his investments in shipping had paid handsomely, and he’d just married his childhood friend—the loveliest lady in the Midlands. They'd discussed building a home, and he planned to build her a mansion to rival the grandest in all of Altonwood. He’d already spoken to his banker about purchasing land. The only thing he didn’t hold was a title, and he had a plan laid out to accomplish that feat too. Abby wouldn’t sacrifice her place in society by marrying him as his mother had when she married his father of a lower social class. By gaining a title, he’d ensure Abby walked among society where she belonged instead of merely reading about it in letters from her friends and family.
“May I help you with your dressing robe?” his valet asked.
Nick waved him off. “That will be all. I will dress myself this evening.”
“Master Emerson, an important missive arrived for you earlier.” His valet placed it in the silver tray on the bureau. “It has the king’s seal on it. I thought perhaps you’d want to read it straight away.”
“Splendid, Wesley. Good night.”
He glanced at the adjoining door. Had he told her ten minutes? He should have said five. Even then, it would be an arduous five minutes knowing Abby prepared herself for their wedding night in the next room. He itched to run his fingers through her glossy black hair, free it from its coiffure and see it frame her wholesome, heart-shaped face. He’d swim in those crystal blue eyes that glittered with laughter. It was her smile, however, that left him feeling like he could conquer the world. He’d often conned Stephen Hartington, her twin brother, for supper invitations just to watch Abby smile from across the table.
Nicholas picked up the envelope from the silver tray, needing a distraction, and turned it over. It indeed held the king’s emblem. He broke the wax seal with a quick swipe of his letter opener, pulled out the paper, and unfolded it. He scanned the contents, and stumbled back dropping onto the edge of the bed’s feather mattress. Gripping the page closer, he reread the entire letter carefully, hoping the second reading would reveal a different result.
In a daze, he neatly refolded the page and placed it back in the tray. Nicholas squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his temples.
Blast it all, he didn’t expect to receive a summons to report for military duty for another month or so. He hadn’t even been married a full day yet. What was he going to tell Abby? He’d been too rash that night he’d bought his commission, too distraught by the thought of losing her to a titled gentleman. She’d proved a thousand times over she didn’t care about such things, but that night, something within him had snapped. He’d made a desperate decision.
And now came the price.

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