Chapter Ten
Gwen had forgotten she still held the missive with the stakeholders’ latest stipulation—another caveat to her purchase which she feared did indeed owe to the rumors surrounding Gideon.
Thinking he might not react well to the news, she’d kept it from him, then proceeded to lose her focus when he appeared intent on scrutinizing her desktop.
His thick brows furrowed as he read the addendum aloud.
“In an effort to maintain the prestige and reputation of Bell & Company, the stakeholders deem this contract of purchase contingent upon the clauses agreed upon above and the following: Mr. and Mrs. Gideon Devereux will maintain a reputation of good standing as citizens of Great Britain for the duration of not less than three months’ time following the sale.
Any legal proceeding against either within the time frame stated shall render this agreement null and void. ”
He snapped the missive against his hard-looking thigh. “Of all the gall. I don’t suppose they intend to return your money should the Home Office decide to hang me?”
She gave him a look of stern rebuke. “Kindly do not joke about such a thing, Gideon. As for whether they would return my money should the sale fall through, the answer is yes. In the terms they first presented, any loss of ownership predicated on my not meeting one of their stipulations”—she ticked off examples with her fingers—“mismanaging the business, a low level of professional standards, would also have meant I forfeited my investment capital.”
Feeling very good about her negotiation skills, she twined her hands before her and twisted her torso, preening. “I refused to sign on those grounds. Eventually, they came ’round to my way of thinking. If I am forced to surrender the business for any reason, I leave with my collateral intact.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “Who decides what constitutes meeting these so-called professional standards? These priggish stakeholders?” He waggled the papers in the air.
She started for the opposite side of the room, gratified when she turned to see him trailing after her. “I am well abreast of the professional standards in my field, sir.”
He gave her an expression of doubt. “Gwen, you did have a solicitor go over the contract with you?”
“Of course.” She had welcomed Lady Harriet’s man-of-affairs advice the first go-round. Not precisely a solicitor, but a well-versed businessman. After that, she saw no need for the added expense. She had the necessary expertise to see to the matter herself.
“I could have my solicitor look at it.”
“Please, sir. Well-intentioned as it may be, I do not require your advice any more than you would mine concerning your shipping ventures.”
He looked as if he wished to argue. Then he glanced at the door. “As it happens, I must leave again for a short time. My father has requested my presence at his club.” His broad mouth twitched.
He had a very fine mouth. Beautifully shaped. Lips, full, but not overly so.
She held her outstretched hand, palm up. “If you please, sir.”
He returned the missive, albeit with obvious reluctance.
“Gideon, do you think this business with the Home Office is likely to become more problematic? Renewed rumors, circulating in such a broad manner, can’t be a good sign.”
His vibrant eyes took on a decidedly frosty cast. “Regretting tying your horse to my wagon?”
The accusation stung. “Not at all. My concern is for your welfare. It is a matter of life and death, after all.”
He rubbed a tanned hand over his square jaw. “I can only tell you, I returned home on the gamble our marriage would clear my name. When added to the duke’s timely arrival into town, the odds should swing in my favor.”
“I trust you are right.” She sent him her sunniest smile. “Take that, stakeholders.”
His vivid eyes danced with amusement, and he strode for the door. His hand on the lever, he turned. “Gwen,” he began, pressing his lips together as if contemplating how to phrase his next thought.
She squared her shoulders, anticipating warding off another appeal to avail herself of his solicitor.
“The duke’s arrival is no coincidence. He’s here, because we are here.”
“We? You mean you, surely?”
He sent her a bland smile. “We. He will wish to—will insist upon—meeting you. It will be a formal affair, at the Ashwood mansion.”
Dismay filled her. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t considered. I suppose there’s no way I can cry off?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I was afraid of that.” When he did not depart, she asked, “Is there something else?”
He winced. “You will need a suitable gown.”
She glanced down at herself wondering what Clara and Mrs. Leach could do with one of the gowns she owned.
“Do not even think about it,” he warned.
Her gaze snapped to his. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
Resolve tightened his face. He shifted to face her. “Far be it from me to advise you on matters of fashion, Gwen, but I will have to insist you refrain from wearing any more of these mourning gowns—”
“But, they’re not—”
“Whatever they are,” he interrupted. “Bond Street has a fair number of high-end modiste shops. Visit one. Visit several. If you are to act as my wife, you will have to dress accordingly, especially in social settings.”
She huffed.
When he spoke again, he annunciated each word, as if explaining a complex concept to a child. “Otherwise, no one will believe we are man and wife.”
She frowned at him, aware he made a valid point, but resistant, nevertheless. “I hadn’t planned on the expense, sir.”
She could well afford a shopping expedition. But it was the point of the thing. She did not wish to dress for others, like some sort of doll bent on attracting unnecessary attention.
He waved off her argument like so much lint, and opened the door. “Charge everything to me, and make haste. I’ve no doubt but that the duke and duchess intend for me to present you tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow?” She didn’t bother to hide her dismay.
His gaze snapped back to her. Impatience tightened the corners of his eyes. “My dear, they will request a meeting tonight.”
“But getting a new gown by tomorrow will be an impossible feat.”
“I highly doubt it. Throw enough money at a problem and most obstacles can be overcome, especially in this town. I can afford it, Gwen. I won’t have my wife meeting the Duke of Ashford dressed like an underpaid governess, and that is final.”
He stepped out into the corridor and closed the door very deliberately behind him.
Dismayed, she eyed the day dress she wore again. Reggie had called the style “modern” and “forward thinking” trying to appeal to her progressive ideals, no doubt. He hadn’t fooled her, of course. They both knew the gowns were ugly, exactly as he’d intended.
The old pain reasserted itself and the backs of her eyes stung.
Dearest Reggie. She had loved him, resented him, tried in vain to please him, but never had she guessed what he would eventually do.
To free her, he’d said. She did not think she could ever forgive him—or herself, for that matter.
Perhaps that was the real reason she’d clung to the dismal frocks.
She scrubbed her fists over her eyes. Gideon was right to demand this of her. Even the household staff looked on her wardrobe with disdain. It only made sense a man of his station would wish his supposed bride to dress the part, especially to meet his father.
Good God. The Duke of Ashford. Had she ever met a duke? She nibbled on her fingertip, recalling Gideon had also mentioned the duchess. The duchess who had no care for Gideon, even as a child. At least that was Gwen’s impression gleaned from his writings.
She would not bring added censure down upon his head, she vowed. But, she did not know the first thing about London fashions.
Luckily, she had friends now who did.
She hurried toward the table where she kept her writing implements. She would dash off a note asking for assistance. Her gaze fell on the journals scattered atop the polished wood, and she halted in her tracks.
She’d nearly forgotten about the disaster she’d averted by keeping Gideon from spotting the books. His books. His journals. She would have to make a clean breast of it and soon. So far, there simply hadn’t been time, or so she kept telling herself.
She pressed her lips together. Not enough time. Just like there was not time to write a letter and await a reply.
She pivoted toward the door. She would go directly to Lady Harriet’s and hope to find her in.
Gideon took his time climbing the steps to the entrance of White’s.
He eyed the fluted columns guarding the tall, understated door, painted in sedate, forest green, and braced himself for the coming inquisition.
He’d made up his mind to keep his fake marriage a secret, even from the duke.
It was for his own good, not that his father would likely see it that way.
The duchess most assuredly would. You must conduct yourself with the utmost decorum, Gideon. Your father risked his reputation, taking you in, claiming you publicly despite your birth. The least you can do is not embarrass him further.
He banged the polished knocker.
The door opened on silent hinges. A distinguished-looking doorman gestured him in. “Mr. Devereux, welcome. The duke awaits you on the second floor.”
“Thank you.” He handed off his coat, marveling at the liberties the duke took so unapologetically. No more than a handful of men in all of England could take as his due a doorman at White’s acting as his personal butler.
Gideon mounted the stairs in an unhurried pace, in keeping with the club’s distinguished atmosphere. He, himself, was not a member. He had opted for Arthur’s, a club less concerned with prominence and stature than relaxation and discretion.
Discretion, above all else.
He found the duke in his usual nook, in his usual armchair, reading a copy of The Times. A fire crackled cheerfully in the grate.
Gideon unbuttoned his jacket, already feeling the heat. “Good day to you, sir.”