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  PRAISE FOR

  The Smuggler Wore Silk

  “Alyssa Alexander captivates with a potently drawn Regency suspense that will keep you turning pages far into the night. With perfectly paired protagonists . . . Alexander delivers a lively, twisting romance with an undercurrent of gritty realism. With wicked dialogue and well-researched historical facts, Alexander is clearly an author we ought to watch and read.”

  —Jennifer McQuiston, author of Moonlight on My Mind

  “A thrilling, wild ride of a spy thriller that sizzles with passion . . . A maze of plot twists and turns. Like an intricate puzzle, Alexander has all the pieces of the ideal romance and arranges them in the perfect picture. She is a rising star you won’t want to miss.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Hot, suspenseful, and wildly romantic. A lushly told romance that takes you back to the fascinating Regency world of small village drama and international politics—all converging on the white-hot attraction between a sexy spy and a daredevil smuggler destined to trump fate.”

  —Kieran Kramer, author of Sweet Talk Me

  “Romantic suspense at its very best. Alyssa Alexander weaves a tantalizing tale of moral dilemma, political intrigue, and enough heart-thumping romance to keep you turning the pages.”

  —Tracy Brogan, author of The Best Medicine

  “Well-drawn characters, superb dialogue, and a decent plot will keep pages turning.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  BERKLEY SENSATION TITLES BY ALYSSA ALEXANDER

  THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK

  IN BED WITH A SPY

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  IN BED WITH A SPY

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Alyssa Marble.

  Excerpt from The Smuggler Wore Silk by Alyssa Alexander copyright © 2014 by Alyssa Marble.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63610-7

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / December 2014

  Cover art by Aleta Rafton.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Joe

  Because this one day,

  you met a crazy person,

  and she wanted to write romance novels.

  Then you married her.

  All my love.

  Always.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  An author lives in fear of leaving someone out of a dedication. This is one of those hazards of writing. I hope if I inadvertently forget anyone, they won’t hold it against me.

  The first people I must thank are readers. Thank you so much for loving Julian and Grace in The Smuggler Wore Silk and asking for Angel’s story! Without your support and enjoyment, this whole endeavor wouldn’t have meaning!

  To my agent at Holloway Literary Agency for her constant support and answering my silly questions. To my editor, Julie Mianecki, the copyeditor, art department and everyone at Berkley. Thank you for all you have done, and for believing in me and this book!

  To Kelsey, my sister, for reading this book in the early editing stages. The last hundred pages are different. Enjoy!

  To Jennifer McQuiston, Tracy Brogan and Kimberly Kincaid, my Three Cheekas who are Honey Badgers to the end and who teach me so much about life and writing every single day. Plus, we laugh every single day. Without you, well, this book would (1) have a bad ending, (2) have a bad beginning and (3) have a sagging middle. What would I do without you?

  Also, to J, The Closer. Thanks. Those last hundred pages are the best pages of the book. Plus, you gave me sunshine, and I heart you for it.

  To Kieran Kramer, for simply being there and saying the right thing when I needed you.

  And a special thank-you to Leslie L., for her advice on fencing; to the Beau Monde for historical advice (you ladies rock!); to Mid-Michigan RWA for their unending support; and to the baristas at Biggby Coffee. I wrote almost the entire first draft of this book at your coffee shop. I made new friends, saw some friends leave and always, always enjoyed my tall skim chai latte, extra hot.

  And then there’s the friends who aren’t writers and who find me baffling because of it, I’m sure. You have always supported me, and I cannot thank you enough! But there are two people I must thank particularly, Kimmie and Molly, who are my comrades in arms when it comes to the joys (also trials, tribulations and scary moments) of mothering. To Molly, for so many things that cannot be listed, not the least of which is a good margarita and some awesome skinny jeans. To Kimmie, just because. There is no one else in the world who gets that side of me better than you. And you know the side I’m talking about.

  To Brooke, Marty, Robin and Nancy, because I miss you. And to Bruce, the Best. Boss. Ever.

  And of course, to Mom, Dad, Kara and Kelsey. I don’t think there’s much to say here, except I love you!!! A special thank-you to Sharon, for all of your support!

  Finally, to Josh and Joe. Joshua, you are the brightest light of my life. Sometimes I wonder how I was so blessed to have a child whose every day is a miracle of discovery. I hope you never lose that thrill!

  And Joe . . . well. For every day. Whether I’m living in my head or in real life, on crazy-busy days and normal ones, crabby days where I didn’t get coffee and lovely days when I got sunshine. Nights where I sat at the computer and nights where we had a “date” on the couch in our jammies. Hysterical phone calls when I lost my wedding diamond and thrilling phone calls when I sold a book. Without you, my life would be boring.

  Contents

  Praise for The Smuggler Wore Silk

  Berkley Sensation titles by Alyssa Alexander

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13


  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Preview of The Smuggler Wore Silk

  Prologue

  June 18, 1815

  On a bloody field near Waterloo

  THE WOMAN SHOULDN’T have been in the thick of battle. But she rose out of the acrid smoke, perched high atop a chestnut horse and wearing the blue coat of a light cavalry officer.

  The Marquess of Angelstone staggered through rows of trampled corn, shock rippling through him as the woman’s sabre flashed. A shrill whistle sounded overhead. Instinctively, Angel ducked as cannon artillery pounded into the ranks, blasting into the earth and showering him with dirt and black powder.

  The woman on horseback didn’t flinch.

  He staggered forward, coughing, ears ringing, as soldiers around him fell or scattered. Pressing a hand to his jacket pocket, Angel fingered the square shape of the letter he carried there. He hadn’t known he’d have to fight his way to Wellington to deliver it.

  The horse turned a tight circle, one of the woman’s hands gripping the reins while the other brandished a cavalry sabre. Her grip on the blade was untrained, her movements awkward. But fury and hate blazed from her eyes and fueled her sabre as it sliced across the chest of a French soldier. The man collapsed, shrieking and clutching at welling blood.

  The woman turned away, already arcing her sabre toward another enemy soldier, and Angel lost sight of her.

  Reflex sent Angel’s bayonet plunging as a Frenchman reared up in front of him, face contorted by fear. When the man screamed, regret shot through Angel before he forced it away. It was kill or be killed. There was no time for regret.

  He surged forward with the ranks of foot soldiers, compelled to look for the woman. The muddied ground sucked at his feet, threatening to pull him beneath thundering hooves and panicked soldiers. Broken cornstalks slashed at his face. The sulfur smell of black powder burned his nose, mixing with the scent of men’s fear.

  He fought past a charging enemy soldier, spun away from another and saw her again.

  Soot streaked her grim face. She grinned at the enemy standing before her—and the smile was terrible. The man paled, but aimed his rifle at her. He was not fast enough to beat her sword.

  When that soldier, too, fell under her sabre, she looked up. Over the dead soldier and through the swirling gray smoke, Angel met her eyes. They were a chilling, pale blue and held only one thing.

  Vengeance.

  She pulled on the reins and her horse reared up, hooves pawing at the air. Angel planted his feet and braced for impact. But the hooves never struck. The woman kept her seat, her jaw clenched, and continued to hold his gaze.

  The battle faded away, booming cannons falling on his deaf ears. The gray, writhing smoke veiled every dying soldier, every hand-to-hand battle being waged around him.

  He only saw her merciless eyes. Blood roared in his ears and the beat of his pulse became as loud as the cannons. A high, powerful note sang through him.

  The woman’s horse whinnied as its hooves struck the earth again. Standing in the stirrups, she thrust her sword aloft and howled. The battle cry echoed over the field and carried with it the sting of rage and unfathomable grief. She wheeled the horse, spurred his sides and charged through battling soldiers, her blond hair streaming behind her.

  And she was gone, obscured by clouds of dark smoke and the chaos of battle.

  Chapter 1

  July 1817

  ALASTAIR WHITMORE, MARQUESS of Angelstone—code name Angel—coughed into his gloved hand in the hope of discreetly hiding his laugh. A man shouldn’t laugh when a fellow spy was being hunted by a woman.

  “Oh, my lord,” the brunette tittered. “Truly, you are a remarkable figure of a man.”

  The Earl of Langford—poor hunted bastard—lifted his annoyed gaze over the short matron and met Angel’s eyes. The woman leaned forward, her powdered cleavage pressing against Langford’s arm.

  Angel quirked his lips. The brunette’s fawning was highly amusing—since it wasn’t directed at himself.

  “If you will excuse me,” Langford said, “I must speak with Lord Angelstone about an urgent matter.”

  “Indeed?” Angel didn’t bother to conceal his merriment. “I wasn’t aware we needed to discuss an urgent matter.”

  “It has just come to my attention,” Langford ground out. He extricated his sleeve from the woman’s grasping fingers and eased away from her.

  “Must you go?” The brunette pouted rouged lips. Feathers trembled on her turbaned head as she sent a coy look toward Langford. “I truly feel we should further our acquaintance, my lord. You have been in the country for months.”

  “With my wife.”

  The brunette’s mouth fell open. “But, you are in London. She is not here this evening. I thought—”

  “My dear lady,” Angel said smoothly, sliding between the pair. He might as well stage a rescue mission. “As I’m sure you are aware, his lordship has many demands on his time. Not the least being his wife and new daughters.”

  “I see.” Without even a single remorseful glance, she turned her back on Langford. Sharp eyes flicked over Angel. Subtle as a stalking elephant. “Well. You are unmarried, Lord Angelstone.”

  “Indeed. But alas, I am otherwise engaged for the evening.” Angel raised the woman’s chubby fingers until they were just a breath away from his lips. “A pity, for you would have been a most enchanting diversion.” He wondered if his tongue would turn black after such lies.

  “Perhaps another day, Lord Angelstone.” She preened, patting her bosom as though to calm her racing heart. The cloying scent of eau de cologne drifted up, and Angel fought the urge to sneeze.

  “Perhaps.” Angel let her fingers slide out of his. He bowed. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  As the brunette waddled away, Langford sighed gustily beside him. “A female predator, that one.” He brushed at his coat sleeve. “She was getting powder everywhere.”

  Angel smothered a grin. “You’ve been married and ensconced in the country too long, my friend, if you’ve forgotten how our society ladies once adored you.”

  “Not as much as they currently adore you.”

  “True. A title does that. Now, did you truly have something to discuss?”

  “No.” Langford palmed his pocket watch and flipped the lid. He frowned at the small glass face. “But I do intend to make my escape. I’ve had enough weak punch, innuendos and pleasantries for one evening. And Grace is waiting at home.”

  “How is your countess?” With a wife such as Langford’s, he could understand the desire to hide in the countryside.

  The frown cleared and Langford grinned at Angel. “She is still tired from the birthing, but she shooed me out for an evening when she learned of my assignment.” The watch disappeared into a waistcoat pocket.

  “Ah. I wondered if you were here for business or pleasure.”

  “A little of each.” Langford’s shoulder jerked up in a half-hearted
shrug. His eyes roved the room. “You?”

  “The same.” In truth, it was always business. A spy never did anything simply for pleasure.

  Angel studied the ballroom. It was an impossible crush. Guests bumped up against one another as they laughed and flirted. Diamonds winked and painted fans fluttered as women entertained suitors and friends. Footmen threaded through the crowd carrying trays of gold champagne and rose-colored punch. Surrounding it all were the subtle notes of a string quartet and the scent of candle wax.

  Such was the glittering and dazzling world of the ton. But underneath the gleaming polish of society were passions and intrigue and secrets. It was his mission to seek them out. And beyond his government assignments, beyond the political intrigues, was the enemy who had assassinated a woman four years ago.

  His woman.

  Gemma.

  Cold anger turned him from the scene. “I believe I may follow your lead and make my escape as well.” He wanted his own hearth, a brandy and his violin. The constant din of voices grated, the endlessly changing pattern of dancers was visually dizzying. He scanned the room once more. A wave of people ebbed and flowed, came together and parted.

  And he saw her. No cavalry coat. No sabre. Only a gown of silver netting over white muslin and a painted fan fluttering languidly near her face. No howling battle cry now, only the sensual curving of her lips as she bent her head toward a military officer.

  Something clutched inside him as the battleground superimposed itself over the ballroom. Twirling women became French soldiers, stringed instruments became the whistle of a blade. The scent of gunpowder stung his nostrils and the pounding of artillery rang in the air. The scene swirled around the woman, though she was no longer on horseback.

  Two years since Waterloo. Two years since he’d seen a bright halo of hair and pitiless eyes full of retribution. He shook his head to will away those memories.

  But the woman remained. A bevy of men were gathered around her, jostling for position. Striped waistcoats of the dandies clashed with the brilliant red and dark blue of soldiers’ uniforms. Then, like an echo of his memories, the Duke of Wellington himself approached the woman. She smiled warmly as he bowed over her hand.