Chapter Six
Gwen retired to her bedchamber soon after the evening meal. Clara once again joined her, having brought with her fresh towels and a basin of steaming, fragrant water.
The maid proceeded to unpin and unravel Gwen’s long hair, which now boasted a subtle wave.
“Shall I plait it for you, ma’am?”
And destroy her new-found curls? “Heavens, no,” she exclaimed.
Clara gave Gwen an approving nod.
It occurred to her Clara assumed she wished to keep it loose for Gideon’s benefit. Her face throbbed with profound heat.
The young housemaid helped her from her gown, refusing to take no for an answer. Then Gwen learned why she’d brought the basin.
Gwen always washed as part of her evening ablutions.
She did not always have the luxury of petal-infused, herb-scented, steaming water, however, nor someone to scrub her back and neck.
As much as the extravagance appealed to her femininity, she couldn’t say if she felt more like a princess being readied for her prince or a horse being groomed for auction.
In any case, she could hardly eschew the sweet-smelling bath without sending a message to the staff that she did not wish to please their master.
When she heard sounds emanating from Gideon’s chamber, her nerves grew taut. Fearing he might knock with the girl still present, she shooed Clara away. Only then did she consider what on earth to wear for her late-night rendezvous.
“Hold yourself in hand, Gwendolyn Barnes,” she muttered sternly.
She was joining him in order to facilitate a private conversation, not to conduct an illicit liaison.
She reminded herself she’d been alone with a man, Reggie, in the dark of night a handful of times in order to share a bed in the manner of husband and wife.
The business had been terrible for both of them, and she had no wish to repeat the experience.
The first time had been her wedding night. As soon as she could get her mother alone, she demanded to know why she had not told her how awful a man and woman’s joining would be.
Her dear mother had looked at her with sympathy and a degree of amusement which Gwen had not appreciated in the least. “It will improve after the first,” she’d said. “Trust me.”
But it never had, and Gwen had never asked her mother about it again. The pain had lessened, of course. She had concluded that was what her mother meant by her cryptic assurance making love with one’s husband would improve after the first.
And why was she thinking about such matters? Neither she nor Gideon had lovemaking on their minds.
That still left her with a decision as to what she ought to wear. Surely not her night rail? But she also had no desire to re-don her chemise. She decided on one of her less fitted day dresses.
Slipping it over her head, she sat at her escritoire, turned up the nearby oil lamp, and resumed reading the most recent book chosen by the Ladies’ Literary Society of London, Belinda.
She had reached the intriguing part of the novel where the heroine, Belinda, in London visiting a family friend with the aim of entering high society, was beginning to perceive the superficiality, dysfunction, and self-interest of the upper class.
Though she found the novel engrossing and thought stimulating, the moment the clock in the corridor struck ten, she snapped the book closed.
She lowered the lamplight, snuffed the remaining burning candles, rose, and crossed to the adjoining door.
As she stood scrubbing her suddenly damp palms over her skirts prior to knocking, the door swung open.
Gideon, large and imposing, filled the doorframe. Near darkness engulfed the space beyond him, leaving the barest of light from the hearth to silhouette his impressive shape.
Her heartbeat skittered wildly and she had to work to steady her choppy breathing. Why? She did not fear the man. His writings and observations told her of the man’s stellar character.
Resisting the urge to scrub her palms again, she forced herself to speak. “I see you’ve turned down the lights. A good notion if we want the servants to have nothing to remark on.”
He stared at her, seemingly unblinking. She couldn’t be absolutely certain. The meager light from her antechamber did not provide enough illumination for her to read his expression.
“Always thinking, aren’t you, Gwen?” came his rumbling purr. He had a very nice voice. As for what he’d said, she could not decide if he meant the question as a compliment or a slur.
She may as well believe the former. “Thank you.”
He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Come in.” He stepped aside and she crossed the threshold. Glancing around the familiar chamber, she made for the sitting area by the hearth. Definitely, not the mammoth bed.
Turning her back to the fire, she clasped her hands behind her and waited. She would sit when he did. She would not find herself in the uncomfortable position of gazing up at him again as he loomed.
He did not immediately join her. Instead, he closed the door and leaned against it. “Your hair is…down.”
She touched a hand to her temple, instantly self-conscious. “Clara unpinned it for me, and I rather enjoyed the rarity of seeing it slightly curled.”
He said nothing, and she found herself prattling on. “It’s stick straight. Always has been. My mother could coax a wave out of it but I never could. Does it bother you? I could…” She gestured vaguely toward her chamber.
“No.” He started toward her, his stride long and languid.
The firelight revealed that he, too, had changed out of his evening attire, and like her, had opted against donning night clothes. He wore his shirtsleeves, unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of dark, loose-fitting trousers. No boots, no stockings.
Her gaze dipped to his bare feet. They appeared tanned in the shadowed room, and well-shaped with high arches. He kept his toenails neatly trimmed. She grinned, despite herself.
His toenails. Really. She did note the oddest things.
Apparently, she did think profusely.
She lifted her gaze to his face as he neared her, and there went her pulse again.
The man’s irises swirled with vibrancy, sparkling like a cache of jade and brass, and resonating with an innate intensity that seemingly sprang from deep within the man himself.
Suddenly, his eyelids dipped and his jaw went hard. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away from her to stalk to his antechamber.
She blinked. She had no notion what to say. Had her unbound hair offended him? Perhaps she should return to her chamber for her lacy night cap. But he’d already all-but accused her of overthinking, and the question of her hair had been asked and answered.
She strained her ears, listening for a clue as to what he was doing in the other room. She thought she detected rummaging noises, then the thin sound of glass on glass. A moment later he returned, two wine goblets in hand.
He’d merely fetched after-dinner drinks for them. It was a nice gesture, though he might’ve told her what he was about.
“Here,” he said gruffly, extending one of the crystal glasses toward her before dropping into the nearest armchair. “Please. Sit.” The request sounded suspiciously like a command.
“Of…course.” With some hesitation, she lowered onto the edge of the chair, rather than sinking into it.
Like his other furnishings, these satin-covered wingback chairs matched his large frame.
Meanwhile, they swallowed her whole. Though she had, on occasion, curled up like a cat in this very chair, she did not intend to do so now.
She sipped his fine Madeira as she had on multiple occasions, enjoying the rich and slightly sweet taste on her tongue.
She had never had Madeira prior to taking up residence here. So many new experiences. She truly had begun her life anew.
“Who are you, Gwendolyn Barnes?” he asked softly.
His question caught her off guard. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He shook his head and ran one hand through his thick, sun-washed hair. “I’m not sure what I mean, either, except I don’t believe I’ve ever met another person like you in all the world.”
“I see.” She sipped again. “Coming from you, who’s seen so much of the world, that’s saying something.”
He stared at her, his brows furrowed.
“That is, I assume you have, being a merchant.” In his current mood, she did not think it wise to mention having perused his journals, nor what she wished to do with them.
He eyed her, as if trying to work out a puzzle.
She cleared her throat. “Sir—Gideon, the hour grows late. Might I ask a few questions? I’ve been more than obliging with answering yours.”
“What would you like to know?” He leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs toward the fire, crossing his ankles.
His trousers appeared to be made of linen.
They tied at the waist, rather than buttoning up the front, and fit loosely, as if fashioned for lounging in just such a manner.
As he moved, the thin material revealed intriguing glimpses of powerful thigh muscles.
When next she spoke, her voice sounded as breathless as she felt—again.
“According to Mrs. Dove-Lyon you should have reached London three months ago at the latest, hence her assumption you’d died.
I accepted the story then, before I came to know…
” She broke off. “That is, before I considered the fact you are a merchant. Why should a delay indicate your demise? No, sir, I think it more likely she had a reason to suspect you had died or been killed.”
A thought occurred to her and she sat up taller on the edge of the seat. She aimed her snifter at him. “You’re a spy—is that it? It explains why the Home Office wished to speak with you. They wanted a full report.”
A look of awe covered his rugged face and he stared at her like he beheld a heretofore never seen creature. “Incredible.”
“Am I correct?”
“No.”
Her spirits dimmed. “Very well. But mark me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s supposition does involve the Home Office in some way. They were clearly watching the house for your arrival.”
His brow’s arched.
“I hadn’t thought of that ’til now,” she admitted, and stood, one hand gripping the wine stem, the other fisting on her hip. “If you are in some sort of tangle with the law which our supposed marriage nullifies, I really must insist you share the information with me.”
Before her eyes, his nostrils flared and his cheeks developed a slightly ruddy cast. His gaze drifted over her in a blatant, yet leisurely, study that sent her pulse racing in an erratic manner.
Or maybe it was the wine. She inspected the ruby liquid. Perhaps the Madeira was not agreeing with her tonight.
“I will tell you,” he said, voice clipped, “if you Sit. Down.” He glared at her.
Well. She started to tell him he had no cause to behave in such a boorish manner, when the truth dawned. “I think I know what’s bothering you, sir.” She made her way back to her armchair.
“Do you?” he gritted out.
“Yes.” She resumed her perch. “You, like me, do not enjoy being loomed over. I apologize.”
He gave an audible sigh, briefly dropping his head in one hand. “Thank you,” he said. He rose, stalked to his wardrobe, and flung open the door. Crouching, he unearthed a blanket then returned to his armchair, dropped into it, and tossed the spread over his lap.
“I can stoke the flames if you’ve caught a chill, sir,” she offered and half rose.
“No,” he said, sounding very sure.
“Very well.” She gave silent thanks. Any warmer and the chamber would be stifling.
“Two years ago, I founded a consortium,” he began. “I took on only four investors. My brother, my first captain, Dirk Kennedy, Mr. Brice Tyrell—a friend of mine and Ashwood’s from the schoolroom—and Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“An investment consortium? Investment in what, pray tell?”
“Baker rifles. A lot of them. Thanks to Tyrell’s connections, we obtained permission from the Home Office to sell the arms to Britain’s allies fighting on the Spanish front.”
“What exactly are Mr. Tyrell’s connections?”
His broad mouth kicked up at one corner. “You are very clever, are you not?”
She shrugged. “No more than the next person.”
He gave an indeterminate grunt, then went on. “Tyrell is an MP.”
“A member of parliament?” she clarified.
“Yes. He’s risen in the ranks in a relatively short span of time and serves on many committees, including the Committee on National Security Measures.”
“Well connected indeed,” she said.
“The consortium made two small shipments, testing out our convoy’s safety, which consisted of one cargo ship, and two privateer vessels. All went well. We doubled our load on the final shipment.”
“I take it, this time, all did not go well.”
“Correct.”
“What happened?”
His free hand fisted against his thigh, his grip so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Instead of sailing to Spain, the convoy turned into French waters. Evidently, a deal had been struck to sell the rifles to Napoleon instead.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
He slanted her a look. “Sorry, you say. What if I arranged the subterfuge, to pocket all the proceeds myself?”
She waved that off. “Please, sir, do not waste my time with inane gibberish. I wish to hear how any of this pertains to our marriage.”
“Our fake marriage,” he said.
“Of course.” She was impatient to know the rest now. “Go on, sir.”
He turned to stare into the flames. “I did not commit treason, but the end result is, what happened was my fault.”