Chapter 12
Gideon gazed at the letter on his desk. It was written in an elegant, educated hand. The paper boasted a quiet luxury, as did the ink. No address adorned the envelope—only his name. Not even his title.
It was hand-delivered. Bearing only the name Aaron Tarnley, it would never have arrived by the postal service.
Whoever plagues me has been to this house…
“When was it delivered?” Gideon asked, finally.
McKay glanced at it, his usually stoic facade faltering briefly. “Last night, Your Grace. A rap at the door and that letter left outside. Most unusual.”
“Greatly… Did Catherine leave the house at all when I was away?”
“Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.”
A woman steps into my life with knowledge of my brother, and so soon after I began receiving these damnable blackmail letters. Coincidence?
“Is the letter an issue, Your Grace?” the butler queried.
Gideon folded it sharply and pressed it into his pocket. He knew what it said.
I know of your past that you try to keep hidden. The truth will see the light yet.
“Not at all,” Gideon said, donning a wry smile. “Did the Duchess imbibe the draught I asked you to bring her?”
“Not while I was present, Your Grace. She refused adamantly. But later, when I returned, the glass was empty.”
“That will be all then.”
Upon being dismissed, McKay marched from the room, closing the door behind him.
Aaron thought back to the letter in his pocket and its companion, locked in his bureau.
Both said the same thing, both claimed knowledge.
No threats or ultimatums. At least not directly.
Just a reminder that someone knew more than he wished them to.
“Weakness,” his brother whispered in his ear, a ghostly chuckle.
Gideon stood, straightening his coat and patting the pocket in which this particular letter resided.
He would not confront Catherine with it directly but would instead try to gauge her reaction.
He strode through the house, resolved on this new course of action.
Catherine had thrust herself into his life.
Had she known that he would behave so chivalrously?
It was not a question he could answer—he did not know his brother’s reputation well enough.
Did she know I would rescue her? Did she plan it?
As he entered the Gallery, a long corridor lined with windows that looked out over the lawn, he glimpsed her. She had a croquet mallet in hand and was chuckling to herself as she sent a ball careening across the short grass to disappear into a rose bush.
Gideon paused, watching her. She was dressed in cream, green, and bronze. A simple dress, but stout. It did not do her justice. Her hair had a sheen in the sunlight that put any fine thread to shame. Her skin’s pale delicacy rendered any white fabric put next to it a smoke-tainted grey.
She was slender yet possessed the suggestive curves of femininity, visible even when the inexpertly made gown failed to cling to her hips and bosom as it ought. Nevertheless, there was a luminescence about her.
She glanced up suddenly as she lined up her next shot, looking directly at the window where he stood. Squarely at him, as though she’d felt his gaze.
Gideon stepped back slightly, allowing the curtain to hide him.
Why do I hide in my own house? If I choose to look upon her, it is my right!
She looked away, forehead creasing in concentration. Her lower lip caught between her teeth—an expression that struck him as both disarming and unbearably endearing. His hand traced down the satin curtain, but in his mind it followed the elegant curve of her waist, the flare of her hip.
As she took another appalling shot, she tilted her head to follow the ball, and he studied the graceful line of her neck. Never had any part of a woman been more enticing, more yearning for a kiss.
What manner of witch are you to enchant me like this?
He immediately recognized the footsteps of Gough, his valet, and turned to watch the young man approach with a tray of letters.
“Mr. McKay asked me to bring these to you for after breakfast, Your Grace.”
“Ah, Gough. You must have known of me before you came into my employ,” Gideon quickly said, confident in the utter loyalty of his staff. “How many women does it seem I have hosted in this house, Gough?”
“Women, Your Grace? A few, I should guess. No more than...”
Gideon waved a hand. “Ignore the question, chap. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Have the letters taken out to the table where Her Grace is breakfasting.”
He turned back to the window and found himself looking into Catherine’s eyes. Her latest wild shot had brought her closer to the window, and they stood separated by a depth of a few dozen feet and a pane of glass.
“Are you joining me?” she asked, hands gesturing wildly, voice muffled.
Gideon opened the window. Birdsong and the buzzing of insects reached him as well as the heady scent of blossom and petals.
“Are you joining me?” Catherine shouted again, moving a few hesitant steps closer.
“Am I still invited, or have you already finished breakfast?” Gideon called out.
“I have not started, and you are still invited. I saw the croquet set and thought I might give it a try.” She lifted the mallet wildly.
“You have not played before.”
“How could you tell?”
“Because I have just spotted the ball beneath that rhododendron over there. There is no hoop there, last I played anyway!”
Catherine blushed, glimpsing the ball and going over to retrieve it.
“I have never played, but it looked fun! Will you show me?”
“Simple to learn, difficult to master. It is a diversion, I suppose. All sports are diverting, that is why I like most of them.”
“That is certainly a change. But perhaps many boys find an interest in games when they become men!”
Gideon saw the trap coming—it stood out in their conversation like a barely concealed snare.
A change. So, Aaron was not a sporting boy when she knew him. Father would not have tolerated that when it was just the two of us.
Gideon’s face went stony. Was the question a shrewdly set attempt to force him to say something that might reveal his secret?
“Will you?” Catherine repeated, louder over the vastness of the lawn.
She held the mallet in one hand, turning the handle absently as she glanced up at Gideon through her lashes. When their eyes lingered together a moment too long, her gaze fluttered away and a delicate blush bloomed across her cheeks.
I should refuse. Claim the demands of work. It would be sensible to protect myself from future potential traps.
“Yes,” Gideon heard himself instead saying, “it may be useful for you to be able to play. Particularly when we dine with the Threnthorpes. They do seem to like the accessories of the upper classes.”
He did not know why he had agreed. Could think of no rational reason other than it would mean spending more time in company with Catherine. He found himself watching her pretty, happy smile as she turned away.
“I shall await you then,” Catherine said, retrieving the other wayward balls.
Gideon could not look away. Her beauty was sublime, made more so by the aura of innocence she seemed to possess. He watched her slim figure, admiring the motion of her body as she ambled, swinging the mallet indolently.
He turned from the window, each step away feeling like a small deprivation. As he descended the stairs, he marshaled his resolve. He would be aloof. Unmoved. Deny her any concession.
That particular resolution lasted right up until he reached the lawn.
Catherine was lining up another shot, her stance all wrong, her grip on the mallet an absolute crime against the sport. Before he could announce himself, she swung.
He ducked.
The ball whistled through the space where his head had occupied.
There came a crash as it bounced through the breakfast things before thumping to the grass.
“Hold!” Gideon called out, “I value my head and my housekeeper values my crockery!”
Catherine dropped the mallet, mouth falling open. She ran to Gideon’s side.
“Oh, Aaron! I am so sorry! Did I hit you?”
Gideon straightened, patting down the creases in his ivory shirt. “No, though I felt the wind of your cannonball’s passage.”
She looked so stricken that Gideon grinned, trying to put her at ease.
“You did not quite remove my head from my shoulders, though we may need a new teapot. Perhaps I should acquire a learners’ croquet set made with knitted balls?”
Catherine’s face went pale still, and she stared at him with wide eyes before a bubble of laughter escaped her.
“Perhaps that would be safer for everyone concerned!” she replied with a lilt.
“Here, let me show you,” Gideon coaxed.
He led the way to where the hoops were set up and picked up the mallet she had dropped. He handed it to her, and she took it as though it were a loaded rifle. Gideon guided her with hands about her waist to stand in front of a ball.
He placed his hands over hers, adjusting her grip on the long wooden handle.
“Feet just over shoulder width apart,” he instructed.
Catherine’s hips shifted as she adjusted her stance.
Gideon stood mere inches behind her and felt every delicious movement.
His eyes were transfixed on the back of her neck.
She wore her hair pinned up, displaying the pale perfection of her throat.
Except... a small mole at her nape, which might ordinarily be hidden by her hair.
That tiny imperfection was the single most erotic sight Gideon had ever glimpsed. It took her beauty, which had been ascending in his regard to almost Olympian proportions, and brought it down to earth.