Chapter Five
Gwen sat dutifully on the stool before the vanity in the chamber she now occupied, while a humming Clara brushed her too-fine blonde hair ’til it gleamed.
She contemplated her surroundings without much enthusiasm.
The room adjoined with the master’s suite, and was clearly intended to accommodate the mistress of the house.
But it had none of the usual feminine frippery of a wife’s domain.
No pastel wallpaper, no painted furniture, no gold or silver gilding.
She knew from Mrs. Dove-Lyon that Gideon had lived here with his previous wife. Thus, she could only conclude he had stripped the chamber clean of her presence after she died. Had he so loved her that he could not bear any reminder of her?
“Turn your head, if you please ma’am.”
Gwen obliged as Clara completed weaving and pinning the length of her hair into an intricate pattern atop the crown of her head.
From the glimpses in the mirror Gwen had managed to steal, she gathered the young maid had a flair for the business, much more so than Gwen herself.
She could not recall the last time she’d bothered with styling her long, straight-as-a-pin hair beyond coiling it at her nape or restraining it in a plait.
“And now, for the finishing touch,” Clara said, unwrapping the curling papers from the tendrils that framed her face. Springy ringlets emerged. “Mr. Devereux will fall to his knees at the sight of you, ma’am. You’re a sight to behold, and that’s a fact.”
Mr. Devereux would do no such thing, but she refrained from saying so and thereby dimming the young maid’s delight.
At nine and twenty, and a widow at that, Gwen was hardly a diamond of the first water.
As for Gideon, he was handsome, but not jaw-droppingly so.
Still, he had that intangible something the heroes in Georgina’s romantic novels seemed to possess. Magnetism, she called it.
“There.” With an approving smile, Clara set Gwen’s silver brush on the vanity and swiped up the ornate silver-handled mirror that made up the other half of the pair. “Look and see.”
Gwen smiled her thanks, then chirped with excitement when she gazed at Clara’s handiwork in the small mirror. “You are a miracle worker, are you not? I do not believe my hair has ever looked better.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Now we must choose a gown for you.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t anything fancy,” she warned as they moved to the wardrobe.
Her clothes were well-made and tailored to her frame, of course. They were hardly what anyone would call in the first stare of fashion, however. Not even the second.
She could have replaced them all after she and her father moved back to his manor home following Reggie’s…untimely death. She had the money to do so.
Before her father took ill, he had urged her several times to refresh her wardrobe. In so many words, he made it clear he did not approve her dowdy gowns, nor did he understand why his once fashion-minded daughter had deigned to purchase them in the first place.
She had not had the heart to explain that she had not been the one to choose them.
He assumed, she supposed, she wore them in keeping with her long period of mourning.
Thus, when it became evident he would not recover from his illness, he had sworn her not to resume full mourning at his passing.
The closer death loomed, the more insistent he became that she should live her life to the full, leave Little Giddingford and not look back.
His vehemence made her wonder more than once if he’d known the truth about her marriage to Reggie—not that she could ever ask.
Well, Papa, my new life is far from boring. More like exciting and exhilarating in the way of leaning off a high cliff over a roiling sea. Her father would be so proud.
She picked through her dresses. Austere, all. Some brown, several fashioned in navy and gray, and two lavender gowns comprised the lot. She withdrew one of the lavender dresses.
Feeling unreasonably self-conscious thanks to Clara’s anxious hovering, she held it out for the girl’s inspection.
The gown had long sleeves and a high, demure neckline. It did boast some velvet trim.
Clara scowled.
“Oh dear,” Gwen murmured. “That bad, is it?”
The maid flushed. “No, ma’am. Only…would you mind if I took it to Mrs. Leach? She would know who among us has the best seamstress skills.”
“Seamstress?”
“For a few alterations,” Clara explained. She waited expectantly.
“Very well,” Gwen said. “If you think—”
Clara hugged Gwen’s dress to her and all but ran from the bedchamber, throwing a hasty, “I won’t be a moment,” over her shoulder.
Gideon entered the drawing room at seven twenty-eight in the evening. He had not seen Gwen since he’d returned, following his visit with his brother.
Upon entering the townhome, Higgins had handed him a folded and sealed sheet of parchment. “From Mrs. Devereux,” he said.
If the butler thought it odd Gideon’s new wife chose to communicate through the written word rather than talking, he made no comment.
The note, written in an elegant, somehow feminine script read, Dear Sir, I have vacated your chambers for the ones adjoining. Please feel free to resume sole use. She’d signed it, Yours, Gwen
Sole use, eh? That answered the question of where she intended to sleep.
“Kindly inform my wife her presence is requested in the drawing room at half past seven,” he’d said, before retreating to his chamber for a much-awaited soak in his copper tub, custom-crafted to accommodate his larger frame.
Now he wondered if she would arrive on time, or indeed, if she would grace him with her presence at all. He knew nothing for certain of the woman and her predilections. However, he rather suspected she would oblige him, and that she would be punctual.
He glanced at the tall clock. The second hand reached the six, marking thirty seconds prior to the requested meeting time of seven-thirty pm.
The sound of a throat, delicately cleared, reached his ears.
Punctual, as he’d surmised. He turned to see Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes hovering in the threshold, looking as anxious as a debutante at her first ball.
He took his time, digesting her appearance.
She wore a simple evening gown of lavender muslin that was a marked improvement over the navy linen day dress she’d had on this afternoon.
It had a demure, scooped neckline and capped sleeves, both trimmed in white lace.
Her hair had been fashioned in an intricate weave atop her head that somehow called attention to her wide set eyes and fine boned face.
She wore no jewelry. An argument could be made that she didn’t need any, thanks to her swan-like neck and creamy complexion.
In short, she looked quite fresh and lovely, even if she had not exactly dressed for the homecoming of her newly wed husband.
She also fairly radiated anxiety. He hoped that did not spell disaster for him in regard to his request they continue to enact this charade.
“Good evening, madam wife. Don’t be shy. I won’t bite—just yet.”
Already moving into the luxuriously appointed drawing room, she paused at his off-hand, decidedly flirtatious remark. Her face and décolletage bloomed scarlet.
A split second later, though still flushed with color, she gave him a chiding look and continued toward him. “Good evening, Gideon. I trust your appointment with the undersecretary went well.”
“It seemed to. Would you care for a sherry before dinner?”
“I would, yes.”
He strode toward a tall, inlayed table positioned near the sash window, where the sherry decanter and two wine goblets sat. He splashed a quantity of the pale-gold liquid into each glass, feeling her eyes upon him the whole while.
What did she think of his height and the olive skin and dark hair he owed to his mother, he wondered?
His appearance had always marked him as different in a country of pale-skinned men of average height.
He shrugged the too-contemplative thoughts off, likely spurred by his visit with the under secretary, and carried the wine glasses toward the sitting area near the glowing hearth.
“Come. Sit,” he urged. “I asked you to join me before the dinner hour to give us a chance to talk.”
He stopped before one large armchair, waiting to sit until she joined him.
She lowered onto the adjacent armchair and arranged her skirts before accepting the glass from him. “The staff is overjoyed at your return, sir.”
He sipped the sherry, enjoying the crisp, dry wine. He’d missed his private stock while away. “Are they? And what brings you to that conclusion, Gwen?” He rolled her name over his tongue. It suited her.
She gave a small start, but recovered quickly. “Because they insisted upon making your homecoming an event for celebration. I’m afraid I quite disappointed them.”
“What do you mean?”
She bit her lower lip. “They expected me to dress for the occasion. I’m afraid I haven’t anything nicer than what I’m wearing.
” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Indeed, Clara and Mrs. Leach insisted upon making my sad garment more presentable.” She laughed and the dimple he’d noted this afternoon made an appearance.
He used the excuse of her self-effacing statement to study her at length. The dress was indeed simple, as he’d noted immediately. Simple, but still becoming.
Then again, the woman would likely make a dress fashioned of potato sacks becoming. It was vexing how his gaze persisted in straying to her, like a piece of art in a gallery one could not take in with one viewing.
He swirled the wine in his glass, contemplating it rather than the woman beside him. “I gained the clear impression you were no pauper, madam. Was that a made-up story?”
She looked confused by the question. Then the light of understanding gleamed in her intelligent eyes. “Ah. My clothing. I’m aware fashions have changed.”
Gideon had a hard time believing the gown she wore had ever been in the height of fashion. “I’ve never been to Little Giddingford. I imagine it’s rather rural?”
“Not particularly. There are farms, of course, but I would say it is more remote than rural. The properties there tend to be large, opulent, and rather spread out.”
“I see. You said your husband passed. How long ago was that?” He glanced at the open doorway, checking for eavesdroppers.
“Three years, give or take.”
“How long were you married?”
“Roughly six years.”
A mere six years, and now she claimed she did not want a replacement husband? Then, again, he had been married less than one, and had come to the same decision.
“How old are you?”
“Nine and twenty.”
Closer to his own age of thirty-two than he would have guessed. Innocence, or something akin to it, lurked in those bottomless blue eyes to make her appear younger, he decided.
“I think we ought to move on to more pressing matters, sir.”
“Such as?” He stretched his legs out in front of him and watched her take note. Her gaze skimmed the length, from hip to boot, in a look that could only be interpreted as blatant fascination.
Nothing new there. Women had always found him sexually appealing, and told him so with coy glances, discreet innuendos, and sometimes shameless come-ons.
In Gwen’s case, he could almost swear she was not aware she’d revealed her apparent attraction. That was new for him, as was his reaction to her stare. His loins were tight and getting tighter.
She was not a potential paramour, he reminded himself with increasing irritation. He had one of those whom he intended to visit very soon.
She folded her hands in her lap, the epitome of a true bluestocking pursuing her studies. “I would like to know where you’ve been the past few months.”
“Why’s that?” he demanded, uncertain whether he felt more impressed by her pluck or annoyed by her audacity. Where had he been, indeed.
“I’ve been giving the matter some thought.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon claimed to believe you’d died because you had not arrived in London at your appointed time—you, a sea merchant.
In retrospect, the notion is utter poppycock.
I should have seen through it from the start.
I suspect she thought you’d died as a result of whatever happened during your absence.
Whatever that was, I believe, explains why you need me. ”
She’d worked all that out. Mrs. Barnes was sharp. He hoped that did not herald more trouble for him.
“Mr. Devereux, to be clear, I must know these details before making my decision concerning whether or not to proceed.” She met his gaze with a steady eye.
“Madam, so long as you are posing as my wife, I think you should, at least occasionally, refer to me as Gideon.” He softened his suggestion with a small smile.
Her cheeks tinged with pink. “Quite right. I meant to, I just…”
“I understand, Gwen,” he said.
She dimpled at the sound of her name, spoken with such deliberation. Her eyes warmed, and he found himself unable to resist smiling at her in return.
A moment later, he sobered to deliver his edict. “Regarding your specific concerns, I submit we will need another venue for the conversation.”
Her delicate brows furrowed.
“We shall meet in one of our chambers, later tonight.”
Her mouth fell open. She closed it with a snap, squared her shoulders, and sent him a severe frown.
He held out one palm in a staying gesture. “That is the only location where we can be assured of complete privacy.”
Her mouth firmed, and he could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she searched her mind for a viable counter his sound reasoning. By God, it was a wonder anyone had believed her lie concerning their so-called marriage. He could read her every thought, or nearly so.
He went on, making his final, incontrovertible point. “We are newlyweds, darling. If we do not at least stage a tryst in one of our bedchambers tonight, it will look very odd, indeed. If anyone has had any doubt as to the veracity of your claim…” He did not bother to finish the thought.
Her lush mouth curved downward. “Very well, Gideon,” she said, articulating his name.
He snorted.
She slanted him a disapproving glance, or tried to. Her lips quivered with tell-tale amusement. “You may expect my knock later tonight. Your chamber is larger than mine.”
This time, he laughed aloud.